‘Jesus Christ,’ Murray muttered, reaching for the red phone to the State Crisis Centre.
‘Davis.’
‘Murray Black, Tony, Harbour Control. Get your cameras on the tugs. They’re both armed with. 50 calibre machine guns in the bows and I’ve counted four stinger missile teams, two on each tug. Montgomery is maintaining a westerly course behind the Jerusalem Bay but the Wavell is altering course towards the northern side of the harbour and is heading towards the Ocean Venturer.’
‘Thanks, keep me posted,’ Davis replied evenly, as he reached for the direct line to the Special Forces Headquarters.
The orange sensor light flashed urgently on the instrument panel in front of the pilots in Blackhawk 02 and an alarm shrieked in their headphones.
‘Missile inbound! Bearing 1800!’ the co-pilot yelled and instinctively the young captain at the controls of the Blackhawk hauled on the collective and banked the aircraft in a sharp turn, turning the heat of the engine cowlings away from the missile. The warning and the manoeuvre had been carried out quickly and calmly by one of the world’s best trained pilots but it was too late. Travelling at over 1500 kilometres an hour, the deadly missile slammed into the side of the helicopter’s engine cowling.
Murray Black watched in horror as the Blackhawk disintegrated in an explosion of flame and smoke. As if in slow motion, the giant blades separated from the aircraft, lifting into the air before falling into the sea, narrowly missing one of the RHIBs escorting the Ocean Venturer. The tail rotor flew across the harbour, disappearing into a luxury penthouse not far from the Prime Minister’s residence. The fuselage broke into three jagged pieces. The bodies of the commandos and the pilots fell into the harbour as first one RHIB and then the other broke from their escort positions. From the decks of the Montgomery and the Wavell, cheers of celebration and defiance could be heard across the harbour, accompanied by shouts of ‘ Allahu Akbar! God is great!’
The nose on Blackhawk 03 tilted forward sharply as the pilot powered forward in search of cover. As the aircraft banked and disappeared from view behind one of the northern pylons of the bridge, the missile warning alarm on the instrument panel lit up. Suddenly deprived of the heat signature of the helicopter the guidance system on the stinger automatically searched for another target. Having given priority to the harbour tunnels, more police were now racing to close the bridge and although they’d successfully shut down the myriad of lanes from the city side, traffic was still coming on to the bridge from the north. Murray Black watched helplessly from the control tower high above the harbour. The deadly smoke trail left by the missile’s rocket motors was surreally graceful. The missile curved to the south as its guidance systems locked on to the exhaust of a 30-ton semi-trailer. The guidance computer onboard the missile wasn’t about to make any subtle distinctions over heat signatures and the huge truck exploded in a flash of flame and smoke. A bus and several cars travelling either side of the semi collided and veered across four lanes of the Bridge.
‘Harbour Control, this is the pilot on board Ocean Venturer, a Blackhawk has just exploded on the port side!’ Not sure what was happening, both the pilot and the captain of the Ocean Venturer were acutely aware that they were standing on over 60,000 tonnes of light crude.
‘Romeo, Ocean Venturer, ’ Murray replied calmly. ‘The harbour is under terrorist attack. As yet we’re not sure what the main target is but maintain your present course.’
Ibn Khashoggi again felt for the cold steel of his Beretta.
Abdul Azzam judged that there might just be enough room to get past the front of the police car and he floored the accelerator. Veering around the slowing traffic, he raced for the gap between the police car and the tunnel wall, aiming at the policeman waving frantically for him to stop. Abdul said a silent prayer to Allah as the policeman standing in the middle of the gap stopped waving and drew his pistol. Sixty metres, 40 metres – his jaw was set as the truck gathered speed down the ramp. Two bullets whistled past the truck and then the left side of the windscreen shattered as one of the policeman’s bullets found its mark. Two more shots ricocheted off the top of the cabin roof as Azzam held his nerve, the detonator in his right hand. The policeman was desperately loading another magazine and the side window of Abdul’s truck shattered as his partner opened fire, but in an instant the speeding truck was on them both. The heavy bumper struck the front fender of the police car, spinning it in a grinding crunch and a shower of sparks, killing one of the policemen instantly. The truck was now up on two wheels and Azzam fought desperately to bring it under control. He braked, bounced off the wall and fishtailed down the long ramp towards the bottom of the harbour tunnel and the heavy traffic ahead. Coming the other way in the western tunnel, the driver of the other truck was closing on his detonation point.
The earlier attacks were being covered live on the Hino’s radio, but suddenly the broadcast was interrupted. ‘This is a message from the Sydney Harbour Tunnel Authority. We are closing both tunnels. All vehicles are to clear the tunnels as soon as possible.’
Azzam once again put his hand on the detonator as he approached the southern end. ‘You are too late, far too late,’ he said, and as his brothers had done before him, he raised his fist in defiance.
‘ Allahu Akbar! God is great!’ he screamed. Ten kilograms of plastic explosive detonated nearly 2 tonnes of ammonium nitrate and the heavy steel casing directed the massive blast towards the roof of the tunnel.
In the control tower Murray Black and Bob Muscat were watching the tugs and the Jerusalem Bay and neither noticed the stubby plume of dirty seawater, carrying rocks, concrete and steel, rise only a metre or so above the harbour; nor did they notice a second plume moments later. The twin plumes of boiling water subsided, leaving two widening circles of oily foam on the surface of the rain-lashed harbour, belying the death and devastation below. Thousands of tons of water were pouring through the holes torn in the tunnel casings. As black smoke was forced out of the ends of both tunnels, the fires in the burning vehicles, along with the screams of the dying were slowly extinguished, replaced with the sound of the sea splashing eerily against the tunnel walls.
As the Ocean Venturer reached abeam the Prime Minister’s residence on the end of Kirribilli Point, Mussaid ibn Khashoggi kept one hand on the helm and took out his Beretta with the other.
The blast was deafening. The pilot collapsed onto the steel deck, blood spurting from his neck. Khashoggi fired again and the First Mate collapsed beside the pilot. The Saudi helmsman calmly turned his pistol on the Captain and fired twice more. Captain Arne Svenson was dead before he hit the deck, a look of chilling understanding in his eyes.
Khashoggi moved the big throttles forward to full ahead. The engine on the Ocean Venturer was the size of a small building and weighed over 2000 tonnes. She only had ten cylinders but each of them was the size of a household water tank and the chief engineer looked up in alarm as the electronic telegraph suddenly registered maximum revolutions. He reached for the microphone dangling above him in the control room.
‘Bridge, this is the engine room.’
Locking the rear access bulkhead, Khashoggi ignored the call from the engine room and the increasingly urgent calls from the tug captain of the Wilberforce. With override activated and control of the engines transferred to the bridge, 90,000 horsepower turned the massive 304 tonne crankshaft ever more quickly. Deep below the surface the Ocean Venturer’s huge propeller thumped in ever-increasing revolutions. Khashoggi swung the small, stainless steel helm hard to port, transmitting 10 tonnes of hydraulic pressure to the big rudder. For a while, nothing happened, then degree by degree, the bow began to turn towards the city and the pylons on the southern shoreline. Mussaid ibn Khashoggi raised his fist. ‘ Allahu Akbar! God is great! God is great!’
‘Where are we, Mummy?’ Louise asked.
‘Wynyard, sweetheart. We get out at the next stop which is Milsons Point and guess what?’ Anthea said, adjusting the yellow hat that had slipped o
ver Matthew’s eyes. ‘We get to go over the big bridge!’
The twins’ eyes widened as they looked at each other in delight, big smiles on their little faces.
General Howard weighed up his options. To use the lightly armed Blackhawk behind the pylon against the tugboats armed with stingers would be the modern equivalent of the Charge of the Light Brigade, but it was looking more and more as if the Jerusalem Bay was part of the plan. If Major Gould and his men were to have any chance of getting onboard, the tugs would have to be distracted. Whoever was behind this was a brilliant military planner, Howard thought grudgingly. If only he’d had the Tigers on line they could have engaged the tugs with missiles and heavy cannon. ‘Fucking Minister. Fucking minders,’ the General muttered as he prepared to issue fresh orders to the commandos in the powerful boats searching for life among the debris of the downed Blackhawk. General Howard reached for the radio handset.
‘Team Charlie, this is Eagle, over.’
‘Sunray Charlie, over.’
‘This isn’t going to be a picnic but I want you to distract those tugs and cover Team Delta for their assault on to the container ship, over.’
‘Sunray Charlie, Roger, over.’
‘Sunray Delta, copied, H-Hour in two, over.’ Major Gould and his men on Blackhawk 01 were making final preparations for a fast rope assault, hovering behind the sails of the Opera House just above the water in Sydney Cove.
‘Eagle, good luck, out.’
The General let out a deep breath. There was only one thing he hated more than not being in the middle of the action and that was sending his troops in to do a task that they weren’t properly equipped for.
Captain Jeffery was in command of the two RHIBs and he didn’t hesitate. He was angered by the loss of his mates in the Blackhawk and he’d hoped to find some of them alive, but the mission came first and he knew the dead and dying in the water would have it no other way. The Jerusalem Bay had just passed Fort Denison and in another few minutes she would reach the Opera House. Jeffery scanned the harbour with his binoculars. The rain was still coming down but beyond the Naval Base he could make out the dark shapes of the big tugs charging towards them. Jefferey called his second-in-command in the other RHIB.
‘Charlie 2, this is Charlie 1, I’ll take the tug on the right, you take the one on the left,’
‘Charlie 2, Roger, over.’
‘Charlie 1, Go Go Go!’
The RHIBs were capable of a staggering 60 knots and with the outboards screaming, the bow gunners hung on and opened fire on the tugs with their 7.62mm MAG-58 machine guns. They might as well have been firing at two charging elephants with a pop-gun.
Dozens of terrified residents in apartments in Kirribilli took cover on their floors as the bow gunners onboard the Montgomery and the Wavell returned fire. The sound of the heavier and far more stable . 50 calibre machine guns was unmistakable, but Malik and his terrorists had an even bigger shock in store for the commandos. White-faced security guards at the Prime Minister’s and the Governor-General’s residences on Kirribilli Point crouched behind the biggest trees they could find. Dealing with unarmed protestors climbing onto roofs with banners was one thing; their training had not equipped them for this.
With the tugs distracted Major Gould didn’t wait any longer.
‘Go, go, go!’
The pilot powered Blackhawk 01 out from behind the Opera House, skimming the water and keeping the Jerusalem Bay between him and the tugs. At the last moment the commandos were crunched into their seats as the pilot shot the aircraft skywards over the container ship’s bow, flaring and coming to a hover above the containers behind the foremast.
Major Gould grabbed the m-biter on his fast rope and leapt out of the helicopter, leading the rest of the commandos onto the containers nearly 6 metres below. The terrorists on the Jerusalem Bay opened fire from the bridge and two commandos fell from their ropes, their bodies bouncing off the containers into the harbour. The commandos who made it to the top of the containers raced forward, returning fire with Heckler and Koch 9mm sub-machine guns.
‘What the fuck…’ The captain of the Wilberforce swore as the massive tanker veered to port, away from the westerly course that would take them clear of the gunfire on the harbour and to Gore Cove.
‘Pilot aboard the Ocean Venturer, this is Wilberforce, over.
‘Pilot, this is Wilberforce, do your read me, over?’ the captain of the Wilberforce asked urgently. There’d been no response to his query about gunfire on the bridge and if the tanker continued to turn it would eventually ground on the southern shore. For a tug captain to take over the pilot’s control of a vessel in the harbour was unprecedented and it could cost him his ticket, but Captain ‘Blue’ Gilchrist had spent over twenty years on tugs and he’d never been involved in anything like this. He didn’t hesitate.
‘ Woolwich, Waverton, Werombi, this is Wilberforce, am assuming command from the pilot,’ Blue said calmly. He eased the throttles forward slowly to avoid ramming the big tyres on the tug’s bow into the side of the turning tanker. The rain was heavier now, sheeting against the tug’s windscreen and hissing onto the wind-whipped water. Blue Gilchrist applied maximum power and the twin 2500 hp Daihatsu diesels responded immediately.
‘Give me full reverse on the starboard quarter, Waverton,’ Gilchrist said.
‘ Waverton, romeo.’ The young captain on the Waverton had only been certified the week before, and he was rattled by the downing of the Blackhawk and the carnage on the Bridge. As he pulled the steering joystick to the rear, the young captain pushed the Waverton’s twin throttle levers too far forward. The engines responded instantly and beneath the big tug, the propellers that were surrounded by thick bronze casings spun through 180 degrees in an instant. The Waverton surged away from the tanker and the young captain realised his mistake. With a breaking strain of over 170 tonnes, the state-of-the-art nylon hawser was twice as thick as a man’s arm but as the momentum of the powerful tug met the immoveable momentum of the massive tanker turning in the opposite direction, the hawser snapped like a piece of cotton and whipped back with the force of an artillery shell leaving the barrel of a gun. The crewman on the foredeck had no chance. He was decapitated, his head making a ghastly bloodstained arc over the Waverton’s bridge. The 80,000-ton tanker, its engines approaching full revolutions, kept turning towards the southern shore.
As the 9.47 from Strathfield climbed out of the subway under Sydney, the train driver could see a red light just past the tunnel exit. The track ahead looked clear. Still angry over his supervisor’s stinging rebuke, the driver slowed the train but he continued across the Bridge towards Milsons Point on the far side.
‘Shall we call Daddy and wave to him?’ Anthea asked. Louise’s and the boys’ eyes lit up. Surprised to find four messages waiting for her Anthea pressed the speed dial for Murray.
‘Where are you?’ Murray demanded.
‘On the train, darling, what’s wrong?’
‘Where’s the train!’
‘Just coming out of the tunnel on to the Bridge, why?’ Anthea asked, bewildered by the tone of her normally calm husband.
‘Can we speak to Daddy? Can we speak to Daddy!’ the twins demanded.
Murray looked across to the Bridge, horrified by the sight of train carriages coming slowly out of the tunnel. al-Falid’s man standing above the Jeffrey Street Wharf had checked and double-checked the compass bearing until he could picture the imaginary line in his sleep. The Western Tunnel had been laid on a bearing of 178 degrees magnetic, and the ‘line’ ran through the right-hand corner of a bus shelter near the harbour’s edge and across to a point on the Cahill Expressway, near where the expressway turned towards the Conservatorium of Music. The man waited until the centre of the turning tanker crossed his imaginary line and he pressed the green call button on his mobile. The mobile phone strapped to the pier beneath the Jeffrey Street Wharf at the bottom of the hill rang just once. The detonators ignited the detonation cord that
ran across the bottom of the harbour towards the lethal cylinders on top of the tunnels.
Seconds later, all ten cylinders exploded in a muffled roar and a plume of foaming water shot up the starboard side of the tanker, like an anti-submarine depth charge. Only five of the cylinders were directly underneath the turning tanker’s keel but the clearance was less than a metre, and it was enough. The blast ripped a jagged hole in the Ocean Venturer’s outer hull.
Had it not been for a warning light flashing on the console in front of him, Khashoggi would not have even noticed the blast. ‘Allah be praised,’ he muttered. Several of the compartments that were designed to protect the environment from an oil spill were being flooded with seawater. With a full cargo of crude on board, this flooding would be enough to ground the tanker under the bridge, sealing the harbour like a cork in a bottle.
Curtis O’Connor and Brigadier Davis exchanged glances as the camera on the roof of one of the city’s tallest buildings showed a wide shot of the harbour. At the top left of the screen, the tanker was still turning, the bow passing under the bridge at an oblique angle. At the bottom right of the screen, the Jerusalem Bay was almost abeam the Opera House, and there were several small black figures running across the top of the containers on the foredeck. In the middle of the screen, a fishing boat had just left Fort Denison where she appeared to have been sheltering from the firing. The Destiny was now heading west towards the tanker at full speed.
Davis reached again for the direct line to General Howard’s Special Forces Headquarters a short distance away.
‘I know you’ve got your hands full at present, General,’ he said, ‘but a large fishing boat’s just broken out from behind Fort Denison and she’s headed straight for the tanker.’
‘Not exactly a good news day,’ Howard grunted as he hung up the phone and reached for the radio.
‘Tiger 01, this is Eagle, are you airborne yet, over?’
‘Tiger 01, negative, loading ammunition, over.’
‘As soon as you are, contact me on this frequency, out.’
The Beijing conspiracy Page 29