by Gus Frazer
General Stephens nodded wearily.
‘Well, we can keep making life hell for the Chinese, just like they did to us then,’ Fletcher said. ‘We just have to stay resolute. We will win in the end.’
‘I know what you’re saying, Fletch,’ said Stephens. ‘The trouble is that there’s no halfway point in this strategy. We have to commit fully to this line of warfare if it is to succeed and, like it or not, we will be bringing the Australian people into the frontline — just like in Iraq and Namibia.’
After Sarah and Fletcher had left, General Stephens sat back in his chair reflecting on their options. Deep in thought, Stephens didn’t register the phone ringing at first. On the third ring he came out of his reverie and answered languidly.
‘This is General Stephens.’
‘General, surveillance has identified three Chinese aircraft moving at hypersonic speed down the east coast towards Sydney.’
‘Jesus.’ General Stephens’ eyes widened.
There was a knock at the door and two security officers walked in. ‘Sir, you’re required in the conference room immediately. Please come with us.’
‘Yes, of course,’ replied General Stephens.
The two security agents led the general down the corridor and into the lift, which dropped quickly. Once through the security protocols, General Stephens walked into the dimly-lit conference room. Looking up at the main screen showing real-time satellite images of the three jets, he found himself marvelling for a second that the image was so clear, given how fast the jets were travelling. The images were so detailed they could make out the pilots and see their arms reaching to press buttons in their cockpits.
‘Time to reach Sydney?’ asked General Stephens.
‘Two minutes, sir,’ said the young operations officer seated at the other end of the long table.
Sarah and Fletcher walked in, mouths dropping as they took in the image of the fighters on the screen.
‘Have all the appropriate services been alerted — fire, ambulance, hospitals, police?’ demanded the general.
‘Yes, all services have been alerted according to protocols,’ replied Sarah.
‘Fletch. Likely targets?’
‘We’re really not sure. Could be the nuclear power facilities, could be Garden Island naval base, or Port Botany. They’re our likely targets.’
‘Have they been warned?’
‘Yes, Marty. We’ve done everything we can. A fighter squadron has been launched from Picton, but at this rate they are still five minutes away.’
General Stephens looked up at the screen again. The image of the jets pulled back to show the coastline as they tore past a populated area.
‘That was Newcastle, sir,’ announced the imaging operator.
Then the jets slowed as Sydney came into view.
‘Sir, they’ve reduced speed to Mach 0.9.’
General Stephens and the others sat, mesmerised by the image on the screen as the jets, still in formation, turned sharply down the harbour.
‘It’s got to be Garden Island,’ said Fletcher, staring at the screen, horrified.
The recently installed Garden Island missile defence battery located on the waterfront at the naval base had struggled to achieve a radar-lock, given the low altitude of the jets. Inside their crowded control room, it was pandemonium. As the jets passed Palm Beach on the Northern Beaches, the Garden Island radars locked on, a shrill alarm was emitted in the control room and the head operator immediately slammed the fire button. Over 100 missiles erupted from the large square missile battery. Shooting out to meet the jets, they left a cloud of smoke lingering above the water. Individual guidance computers, constantly calculating the expected point of contact with the Chinese warplanes, controlled each missile. They worked both individually and as a network by splaying themselves to create the widest possible line of defence. With three seconds to calculated impact, the missiles disintegrated, firing thousands of pieces of shrapnel forward and creating a huge curtain of destruction through which the fighter planes could never fly unscathed.
The moment the missiles had launched, the state-of-the-art Chinese fighters detected the threat and automatically released counter-measures, taking evasive action. The computers took over the planes, as human reaction speeds could never compete — there were only microseconds to evade the missile defence. When the missiles exploded, creating their defence curtain, the Chinese jets were already well away and were stabilising and returning to their flight path.
The jets screamed through the heads of Sydney Harbour at low altitude — low enough to clip a mast if a yacht got in their way. The noise was deafening. It was 11 am in Sydney and people were going about their daily lives. The war in the desert was everywhere in the media, but still so far away. Most of the people who were quick enough to see the jets thought it was a display by the RAAF.
Three seconds after turning into the harbour, the jets had their target locked and they let loose a total of six TOM-TOMs (Tailored Ordinance Munitions). These missiles were individually programmed to provide precise detonation to deliver the maximum destruction to their target.
The missiles tore ahead of the jets with a trail of fire, smoke and a screaming roar. The three lead missiles, broke away from the formation, shooting high into the sky until they were directly above the bridge before angling down into the bridge. The TOM-TOMs were so accurately guided that they weaved in between the huge spans of the bridge so as to hit the preordained point of contact. All six TOM-TOMs ploughed into the Sydney Harbour Bridge in concert, erupting into a series of fireballs that engulfed the structure.
The jets screamed above the bridge, banking steeply before circling around and heading out the way they had come.
In the conference room of the SOF, they saw it all happen in high-definition.
‘Christ, they’ve hit the bridge,’ muttered Fletcher in shock.
General Stephens stood and stared, teeth bared.
‘Can we estimate how many people were on the bridge?’ he asked, not taking his eyes off the screen.
‘Could be a few hundred,’ said Sarah, stunned.
‘They didn’t even bother with the fucking military targets,’ said Stephens, trying to make sense of it.
The entire centre section of Sydney’s famous landmark and major transport link was engulfed in a cloud of thick black smoke, flames rolling out. The intense heat generated by the explosions quickly melted the steel. Then, with a sickening jolt, one side of the bridge dropped and broke away from the northern end. Vehicles and train carriages slid down into the boiling harbour waters. Then the southern side let go. With a horrifying groan, the entire mid-section of the bridge collapsed, crashing into the harbour, sending fountains of water and steam into the air.
The enormous smoke cloud hung around the bridge like a veil.
‘Dear God, what have they done?’ whispered General Stephens. He ordered Fletcher to get a chopper organised. ‘I want to be there in 30 minutes.’
‘Marty, that is not a good idea. They may … ’
‘I’m not asking. Do it,’ said General Stephens, staring at Fletcher.
Fletcher got up and left to organise the helicopter and fighter escort.
Sarah, responded to her MiLA’s ring, listened for a few seconds, then hung up. ‘General, Chairman Yun wishes to speak to you.’
General Stephens was flustered. He needed to compose himself and he knew it. ‘Okay, set up the link in here, but don’t open the link until I say. Understood?’
‘Yes, General,’ said Sarah, immediately turning to the young operations officer and gesturing for him to leave the room with her.
General Stephens rested his elbows on the table and put his head in his hands. Sitting back in his seat, he took two deep breaths and leaned forward to open the up-link. Chairman Yun’s image came up on the massive screen in crystal-clear high-definition.
Struggling to maintain his composure, General Stephens started. ‘Yun, you have purposely attacked a maj
or city, killing hundreds of civilians. What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘General Stephens, I am deeply sorry for your loss of civilian life,’ the chairman said calmly. ‘I am most regretful that it has come to this. However, it was necessary to demonstrate that you will not go unpunished for your continued actions against our supply lines and infrastructure. I learnt yesterday of your attack on a rail bridge near Mount Isa in Queensland. I decided that if you destroy one of my bridges, I will destroy one of yours.’
‘Yun, that is absurd! There is no comparison between a rail bridge in the desert and the Sydney Harbour Bridge!’ Stephens’ eyes blazed with righteous fury.
‘I have no intention of repaying like-for-like, General. If you continue to attack our infrastructure, we will continue to destroy yours,’ the chairman responded, unflappable, ‘and I assure you, General, our targets will be far more destructive to Australia than yours are to China.’
General Stephens leaned forward, thrusting a finger at the screen. ‘I think you underestimate the Australian people, Yun. We’re a bit tougher than to worry about a bridge or any other piece of property, for that matter.’
‘Do I really underestimate, General? I guess we shall test public resolve then if you persist with your terrorist activities. From what I have seen, General, your public does not have the stomach for war. I am already looking forward to seeing the news headlines this week.’
‘You will not get away with this, Yun,’ spat General Stephens, reaching forward and ending the call.
Pushing back on his chair, General Stephens stood and paced with his arms crossed, cradling his jaw with his hand. Gnawing in the back of his mind, he couldn’t help but think that perhaps Yun was right. Would the Australian public stand for this attack? And what about the many more attacks that they may suffer if he continued with this strategy? How long down this path before Sydney looked like Basra or, God forbid, Tehran?
There was a brisk knock at the door, and Fletcher appeared. ‘Marty, the chopper is ready and we have diverted the fighters from Picton to escort us. Ready when you are.’
‘All right. Thanks, Fletch,’ said General Stephens in a softer tone.
‘How was Yun?’
‘Oh, he’s very sorry for our civilian losses,’ started General Stephens, sarcastically, ‘but advised us to get used to these sorts of attacks if we continue with ours.’
‘Christ, talk about a disproportionate response,’ replied Fletcher.
‘This is what scares me, Fletch. How far are we willing to go? How much are the Australian people willing to sacrifice in the face of this sort of enemy? It was fine to support a war that was being fought between soldiers in the desert — but this, this is too close to home,’ Stephens said, pointing to the screen now showing aerial footage of the bridge with its twin plumes of smoke rising from the sandstone pylons at each end.
‘You’re right. The public may not have the stomach for this, Marty,’ said Fletcher, awed by the footage.
‘I may not have the stomach for this either,’ replied the general, staring at the screen. How many people had been on the bridge? What were they doing — going to a meeting, going for a walk, sightseeing? The horror of all those people being obliterated sunk into his bones with sickening finality.
The helicopter landed at Kirribilli House. Stepping onto the lawn, General Stephens looked up at the twisted wreckage of what was once the famous Sydney Harbour Bridge — an engineering marvel of its time. The entire middle section had dropped into the harbour. Because the harbour was only 11 metres deep below the bridge, the top of the arch span was still above the surface. The two huge Australian flags on the east and west sides of the bridge lay burnt and limp on their white poles. Near the pylons on each side, two huge black plumes of smoke continued to pour up into the still sky. The harbour was already packed with boats being held back by police vessels with flashing lights. The fire-fighting tugs sat beneath the bridge spraying thousands of litres of water on the smouldering, warped remains.
The air was still and, from Kirribilli House, the harbour seemed silent and frozen, broken only by the sound of distant sirens and helicopters circling overhead.
Thousands of people lined the shores of the harbour to witness the sickening wreckage.
‘Let’s get down to the ops centre. I want to talk to whoever is in charge,’ ordered General Stephens.
Fletcher talked into his lapel microphone and ordered the general’s car to be brought around.
The motorcade left Kirribilli House for the ops centre at the park in Milsons Point. After a short drive, the traffic congestion near the bridge was too much and the general jumped out and walked to the array of mobile military buildings that had been set up. He was waved through security and directed to one of the buildings already on site.
‘Who’s in charge here?’ asked General Stephens, stepping into the room.
‘Attention! Officer,’ yelled a young private, immediately standing from his chair. The rest of the soldiers did the same, saluting the general.
‘Yes, yes. Now who is in charge?’ demanded the general impatiently.
‘That would be Colonel Bremner, sir,’ replied the young private.
‘Well, where is he, son?’
‘Outside, sir. Down near the waterfront, I believe.’
General Stephens, wasting no time, turned and left. Walking down the hill to the waterfront he, like everyone else, was transfixed by the smoking remains. It defied belief to see the vast mid-section simply gone, the once-mighty Sydney Harbour Bridge replaced by chaos and destruction.
Spotting a group of officers standing with a large mapscreen opened between them, he walked over.
‘Colonel Bremner?’
One of the men turned, letting go of the mapscreen when he realised who it was. ‘General, pleasure to meet you. Wish it could be under different circumstances,’ he said, saluting the general.
‘Likewise,’ replied Stephens. ‘So where are you at?’
‘Well, sir. The bridge was hit by six TOM-TOMs, laser-guided to hit the precise points that would cause a catastrophic failure of the design … ’
‘Yes, Colonel, I know all that. What about the people?’
‘Based on the footage from the traffic cameras just before the attack, we estimate around 340 people were on the bridge at the time the missiles hit. We’re estimating around 300 of those people will be fatalities, sir. It’s going to take a while to accurately tally the deaths here. We need to recover all the vehicles and bodies down there, ASAP.’
General Stephens looked across the harbour at the wreckage and down to the water, where hundreds of civilian victims now laid. ‘Thank you, Colonel. Here’s my direct number,’ he said, handing him a card. ‘Anything you need, you call.’
Colonel Bremner saluted. ‘Thank you, sir. Appreciate you coming here.’
Chapter 16
Slowly opening his eyes, the first thing Finn saw was a white ceiling with an intricate plaster of Paris design. He gradually began to come to his senses — he was in a bed, it was warm and he felt comfortable. The light in the room was dim, but the sun was cutting through the blinds in dusty motes, so it must have been daytime.
Sitting up too quickly, Finn felt a searing pain in his left shoulder, then his head started pounding and darkness squeezed in on his vision. Lying back down, he held his head, trying to make the pain go away. Gradually, the thumping eased and the pain turned into a dull ache. Slowly he looked around the room, trying not to move too much. It was a big room with old-fashioned furnishings. To his left was a large set of glass doors that seemed to open out to a veranda. The doors were flanked by large windows with curtains drawn across them. A light, warm breeze played with the curtains, lifting them in a hypnotic dance. There was no sound apart from the birds outside. Finn felt safe. He had no idea where he was, but it felt a lot better than the dirt floor of an old tin shed.
Feeling darkness tugging at him again, Finn let himself drift back into a
deep, dreamless sleep, his body and mind still exhausted from the ordeal of the last few days.
He woke to the sound of people talking. Finn had no sense of time or place. He was just thankful to be alive and comfortable, despite the pain in his shoulder. Keeping still, opening his eyes only a crack, Finn wanted to listen and see the people first, before they knew he was awake. From what he could tell, there was a woman around his age and an older man on the other side of the room, talking in hushed tones.
Blinking, Finn focussed on their conversation. Slowly and quietly he pushed himself upright, careful not to make any sudden movements.
Though they were whispering, Finn could see they were in heated debate, still unaware that Finn was conscious.
Finn cleared his throat. The conversation stopped immediately. The couple turned their heads, staring at Finn.
‘Ah, hello,’ said the woman, smiling broadly at Finn while shooting the man a look that said ‘this isn’t over,’ as she walked over to the bed. ‘My name is Jess, and this is my father, John. I found you out in the desert two days ago. You were in a pretty bad state. You’ve been shot in the arm.’
Still feeling groggy and a little delirious, Finn started shakily. ‘Thank you, thank you very much. My name is Finn Hunt. I’m in the army. I was captured by the Chinese but managed to escape. I need to get back to a town or city.’
Finn squinted into her face, noticing her dark brown hair and tanned olive skin. She was looking sympathetically at him with large, soft brown eyes, which contrasted almost incongruously with her strong, defined cheekbones.
The old man, John, came over to the bed. His voice was rough like gravel, with a strong Australian twang. ‘You need to rest, young man. Besides, we can’t go anywhere right now. The Chinese have got patrols out everywhere and if they find you, we’re all in hot water.’