O n board the Destiny Jamal was monitoring the police channel and commercial radio. The traffic on the M5 was heavy, although moving freely, but the lead item on the 10 a.m. news bulletin was a sign of things to come. ‘In breaking news there have been reports of an explosion outside the Chinese Consulate in Dunblane Street near Sydney University. As yet there is no information on casualties but police and ambulances are on the way and police are advising motorists to avoid the area around Church Street and Parramatta Road.’ Allah be praised, Jamal thought. Hopefully the casualties would be heavy.
The driver of the second eastbound Hino checked his odometer as he entered the short tunnel that dipped down and then flattened out underneath the Cooks River. He was confident that the truck in front had already passed through on the way to the airport. It was precisely 300 metres to the point where the tunnel crossed under the middle of the river and as the number ‘3’ tumbled into position on the odometer, the driver heard the muffled roar of an explosion in the westbound tunnel next to him. Slamming on the brakes and oblivious to the small car that rammed into the rear of his truck, he raised his fist in defiance, and shouted ‘ Allahu Akbar! God is Great!’. In his last act on Earth he pressed the button on the firing mechanism. Two tonnes of ANFO exploded in a deafening roar of flame and smoke. Most of the ferocious blast was directed upward towards the roof of the tunnel, breaching it and sending a plume of debris through the river above. In both of the tunnels the desperate screams of the injured and dying, many with limbs torn from their bodies, could be heard above the roar of water pouring in. Near the exits of the tunnels, drivers and their passengers were abandoning their cars and struggling to escape the rising waters. Many of the victims didn’t make it, pushing against the concrete of the tunnel roof in a desperate search for air.
In the State Crisis Centre, Brigadier Davis, Curtis and Kate watched in dismay as the cameras switched from the shattered Chinese Consulate to the devastation in the flooded tunnels under the Cooks River, then just as quickly, the left-hand screen switched to the short tunnel under the main runway. It was engulfed in flames, flying debris and billowing clouds of black smoke.
The explosion under the runway tunnel rocked the control tower but Mick Hammond’s years of training only took a fraction of a second to kick in.
‘Qantas 12, Sydney Tower, Abort! Abort!’ but his commands came too late. The 747 had settled its nose wheel onto the runway and the Captain had already applied reverse thrust.
‘What the-’ The Captain of Qantas 12 stared in disbelief as the main runway erupted in front of him. He increased the big engines to full emergency reverse thrust and the passengers were thrown forward as the 400-ton aircraft hurtled towards the clouds of smoke. Concrete and shards of steel-reinforcing rods were raining down on the runway.
‘Jesus Christ!’ The Captain swore as a lump of concrete bounced off the hardened windscreen, cracking it from top to bottom.
‘120.’ ‘110.’ The co-pilot kept calling the speed but it was not dropping fast enough and in a moment they disappeared into the boiling black inferno that had engulfed the airstrip from below. The hole in the runway sheared off the bogies under the port wing in an instant and as the Captain felt the big aircraft slew to the left, he instinctively applied opposite rudder and eased the reverse thrust on the port engines, but to no avail. The port wing hit the ground, tearing off the port outer engine and puncturing the wing tanks. The 747, with 458 passengers and crew, careered across the grass verge of the main runway slamming into the Singapore Airlines 747 bound for Heathrow. It was fully laden with fuel.
Kate held her hand to her mouth as she watched the two 747s explode in a ball of fire, the distinctive white kangaroo on the red tailfin protruding from the inferno. A short while later, passengers with their clothes on fire could be seen jumping from one of the rear doors that was over 6 metres above the ground.
Assistant Commissioner Paul Mackey was on the phone to the Police Operations Centre. ‘Close all tunnels in the Sydney metropolitan area,’ he ordered quietly.
Brigadier Davis was on another phone talking to General Howard, the Commander of Special Forces whose command post did not have the images from the RTA cameras. The Minister’s advisor tapped the Brigadier on the shoulder.
‘The Minister wants those helicopters in the air – now!’
‘One more word, Jensen, and I’ll fucking deck you,’ Davis replied, a cold anger in his blue eyes. ‘Not you, Sir,’ he said calmly, resuming his conversation with the Special Forces Commander. ‘From what I’ve got on the monitors here, they’ve attacked the east- and west-bound M5 tunnels under the Cooks River and under the main airport runway. A 747 was landing at the time and it’s collided with another one on the ground. The police are closing all tunnels in the metropolitan area but their greatest concerns are the tunnels under the harbour. You should also be aware that an 80,000-tonne oil tanker is in the harbour en route to Gore Cove. You’ll get a message down the command chain from the Minister to scramble whatever you’ve got.’
‘Thanks to the fucking Minister’s office, not much, and I doubt we can get our hands on more than three or four Blackhawks,’ General Howard replied bluntly. ‘The Tigers are doing some minor maintenance but I’ll put a cracker up their arse and see what we can get airborne. I’m also scrambling two RHIBs out of Waterhen,’ the General said, ‘so between us and the NSW Police, the harbour will be as safe as we can make it, although I’d like a lot more firepower and those Tigers might have been handy.’
Both General Howard and Brigadier Davis knew that the Blackhawk helicopters were only lightly armed with 7.62mm machine guns, and the RHIBs – the sinister, black Rigid Hull Inflatable Boats – each carrying ten Special Forces troops were also lightly armed. Hopefully it would be enough, but the attack seemed to be thoroughly planned. Without the Tigers they might be in trouble, Davis thought, as he watched the images of the two burning 747s on one screen and the ambulances and fire engines struggling to get through the traffic chaos around the eastern and western entrances to the tunnels, on the other.
‘I think we should close the harbour,’ Assistant Commissioner Mackey said to the Police Minister after the Brigadier had briefed them both.
The Minister looked uncertain.
‘And cancel the ferry services?’ the Minister’s advisor asked.
‘We don’t know the extent of this attack yet,’ Mackey replied, and ‘if the bridge is also a target the ferries might be an unnecessary complication,’ he said, giving the ministerial advisor the benefit of a steely glare.
On board the Destiny, Jamal’s monitoring of the police and Harbour Control channels was interrupted. He nodded in satisfaction as another series of beeps on his mobile phone announced that the two remaining trucks were on their way to their detonation points.
Earlier in the day, Anthea Black had stood in front of the mirror on the back of her wardrobe door. She was tall and slim, her jeans fitted snugly and she’d put on the white cotton shirt Murray liked. ‘Not bad for an old girl,’ she said to herself. She had turned thirty-four a month ago. Anthea had looked up the City Rail timetable on the internet and the 9.47 out of Strathfield would get them to Milsons Point just after 10 a.m. From the train station, it was a short walk down to Luna Park and hopefully the kids would’ve had nearly enough by the time Murray joined them for lunch. Anthea shook her head and smiled. Who am I kidding? she thought. She’d already suggested to Louise that they postpone Luna Park to another day because of the rain. ‘The weatherman said the showers will ease later in the day,’ Louise had said. Eight going on forty-eight, Anthea had thought.
‘Come on, birthday girl, are you nearly ready?’
‘Coming, Mummy, I’m just doing my hair the way Daddy likes it.’
‘The boys, dressed in their yellow raincoats and hats, pulled faces in the direction of their sister’s room.
Bob Muscat and Murray Black stared at the scenes shot from outside the Chinese Consulate that were being relayed to the Harbour Control Tower. Firemen were desperately trying to bring the blazing building under control but a burst gas main was fuelling the fire, while ambulances were rushing the wounded and dying to the Royal Prince Alfred Hospital a short distance away. There, as at other hospitals around the city, the medical staff were on full alert. A second camera was relaying images of the carnage at the airport. The intense heat from the burning aviation fuel was preventing the fire trucks from getting as close as they wanted to, and despite massive amounts of foam being sprayed over the burning wreckage, the fire was still out of control. Murray Black’s thoughts for those still inside the aircraft were interrupted by the ring of the red phone that connected the Harbour Control Tower with the State Crisis Centre.
‘Paul Mackey here, Murray; the harbour is to be closed to all shipping until we get a better handle on the
