extent of this attack. What have we got moving at the moment?’
‘The Ocean Venturer is abeam Fort Denison en route to Gore Cove,’ Murray said. ‘A big tanker can’t be stopped so we’ll have to let her berth. The remaining traffic is the Jerusalem Bay, a small container vessel already in the Eastern Channel and two tugs, the Montgomery and the Wavell, just astern of her. I can turn the tugs around easily enough but at best I can only hold the Jerusalem Bay where she is.’
‘Thanks, get her to stop and let me know if there’s a problem.’
‘Understood, Paul. I’ll get her to drop anchor in the channel.’ Murray Black put down the phone and brought Bob Muscat up to date.
As he reached for the Channel 13 mike, Murray Black could see first one, then another RHIB tear out of HMAS Waterhen just to the west of the Harbour Bridge. Commandos armed with light calibre weapons, including a MAG- 58 machine gun mounted in the bows, clung grimly to the safety ropes. The boats were powered by twin Mercury 250 outboard motors, reaching well over 50 knots; their blunt bows rose off the choppy harbour before crashing back on to the surface, foaming spray exploding either side.
‘All Ships. All Ships. All Ships. This is Sydney Harbour Control. Port Jackson from the Parramatta River in the west to Line Zulu in the east is closed until further notice. There is to be no, repeat no maritime movement of any description without the express authority of Harbour Control. Ocean Venturer you’re exempt. Proceed to Gore Cove, acknowledge.’
Captain Svenson and the pilot on the bridge of the Ocean Venturer exchanged glances.
‘Very odd,’ the captain said, looking back towards the Jerusalem Bay and the two big tugs following her. ‘I wonder why they’re closing the harbour?’
‘Not sure,’ the pilot replied, ‘but we should be thankful they don’t want us to try and stop.’ The distance required to stop a fully laden tanker of this size at full speed was measured in nautical miles, and even at slow speeds, she couldn’t be stopped quickly.
Captain Svenson nodded to the First Mate, who reached for the radio mike and transmitted the response.
‘This is the Ocean Venturer, received and will comply.’
The only other person on the bridge was the helmsman, Mussaid ibn Khashoggi, who maintained his inscrutable expression as he looked towards Kirribilli Point. When they were abeam of the Prime Minister’s residence coming up on the starboard side, he would act. Keeping one hand on the helm, he felt for the. 380 Beretta pistol in the pocket of his dark blue overalls.
‘Romeo, Ocean Venturer, out to you,’ Murray replied. ‘ Jerusalem Bay, you’re to go astern immediately and drop anchor in your present position, acknowledge.’
Murray Black lifted his binoculars and focused them on the bridge of the Jerusalem Bay as he waited impatiently for an answer. The cargo deck was packed to capacity with 10-tonne containers.
‘Might be fairer to hold the tugs off Balmoral?’ Bob ventured. ‘It’s still bloody rough outside the Heads.’
Murray Black nodded, his attention still on the Jerusalem Bay. The container vessel was now abeam of Clarke Island.
‘ Jerusalem Bay, this is Harbour Control, acknowledge my last transmission.’
Murray Black’s eyes narrowed; something was not right. The Jerusalem Bay was silent and she kept coming.
Bob Muscat raised his binoculars to the west. A fishing boat, the Destiny, was powering past Darling Harbour towards the bridge.
‘ Jerusalem Bay. Jerusalem Bay! This is Sydney Ports. You’re to go astern and drop anchor where you are and await further instructions. Acknowledge!’ Murray Black’s voice held a note of urgency as he let go of the transmit button.
‘Don’t stand on the seat, sweetheart. People have to sit there,’ Anthea Black said to her daughter as the 9.47 from Strathfield arrived at Town Hall station in the city.
‘Harbour Control, this is the Jerusalem Bay, can you read me, over?’
‘About bloody time,’ Murray Black muttered as he pressed the transmit button on his radio mike.
‘She’s speeding up,’ Muscat observed, as he watched the container ship through his binoculars, the Destiny momentarily forgotten.
‘My apologies, Harbour Control, we’ve been having trouble with our radios. Could you say again?’
The captain of the Jerusalem Bay had a thick, Middle Eastern accent, something that would not normally have bothered Murray except that his gut feeling that something was amiss on the Jerusalem Bay was getting stronger. As he focused his binoculars past the ship’s stern he realised that Bob Muscat was right. The wake turbulence behind the container ship was increasing alarmingly and she was now headed for Fort Denison. If she passed the fort Murray knew that it would be impossible to anchor her before she reached the bridge.
‘The port is now closed to all traffic. You are to go astern immediately, drop anchor and await further instructions. Acknowledge and comply.’
‘The two tugs have speeded up as well,’ Bob said, still sweeping the harbour with his binoculars, ‘and there’s a fishing vessel approaching the bridge from the west,’ he added. The Destiny was moving out from the entrance to Darling Harbour. ‘She’s got to be doing about 12 knots as well. What the bloody hell’s going on, Murray?’ Harbour speed limits were strictly enforced and when they were exceeded the culprits were almost always pleasure craft operators. Commercial operators were well aware of the heavy penalties and breaches by them were very rare.
‘I’ve got a nasty feeling about this, Bob,’ Murray said, glancing at the images of the blazing 747s before refocusing on the bridge of the Jerusalem Bay.
‘Harbour Control, this is the Jerusalem Bay, we have a very sick crewman on board with acute appendicitis. Request permission to continue on course.’
Murray Black shook his head. ‘I’m not buying that, Bob. Their radio was working perfectly in the approach to the Heads. If he’s that sick they would have radioed ahead hours ago.’
Muscat nodded grimly. ‘I agree, the police will need to board her.’
‘It’ll have to be the military, she’s too high for the police to board while she’s underway.’ Murray Black reached for the direct line to the State Crisis Centre.
At the Army’s big military base at Holsworthy, 40 kilometres to the west of the city, the commandos were working furiously to try and reverse a readiness state that had allowed them leeway to train on the ranges adjacent to the base. Without any warning, ‘four hours notice to move’ had suddenly dropped to ‘move now!’. Normal activities had been cancelled and with the professionalism for which they were renowned they had managed to assemble their personnel, issue live ammunition and get three of their big Blackhawk helicopters airborne, each carrying ten commandos. Over at Luscombe Field the aviation mechanics were working as fast as safety would allow to get the two Tiger armed reconnaissance helicopters they’d been maintaining back on line, and the soldiers were racing against time to configure the gun turrets with 30mm rounds and 68mm rockets.
The pilot of the lead Blackhawk scanned the harbour ahead as the three aircraft powered towards the city. They were staying low, just above the water, and at 190 knots the airspeed indicator was nudging into the red. The co-pilot turned back towards Major Gould, the commander of Team Delta, who was still finalising his plans and speaking on another frequency to the section commanders in the other two aircraft.
‘Eagle is trying to contact you on Channel 3,’ the co-pilot said.
Gould acknowledged the message with a double squelch on the internal mike and he switched channels.
‘Sunray Delta over.’
‘Good morning, this is Eagle.’ Major Gould didn’t need the General’s call sign. He would have recognised the deep modulated tones of his commander anywhere, not to mention the eccentricity of General Howard’s radio procedures. No matter what the crisis, General Howard always managed to sound as if he was contemplating a Sunday afternoon stroll in the park.
‘In addition to escorting the Ocean Venturer to her berth at Gore Cove we have another small problem.’
Major Gould grinned. General Howard’s definition of small problems invariably meant you were about to be issued with a very large shit sandwich.
‘There’s been a slight change of plans. The Jerusalem Bay is being difficult. She’s refusing to comply with the Port Authority’s orders to drop anchor and is still heading up the harbour, just reported passing Clarke Island. Board her and, short of garroting the captain and his miserable crew, persuade the little pricks to comply. They’re claiming
