oil spewing from the side of the tanker. Willing the Destiny to go even faster, he aimed the heavy boat towards the breach in the tanker’s hull.
With a cry of ‘ Allahu Akbar!’ and confident of his place in heaven, Jamal calmly pressed the detonator moments before the bow of the Destiny slammed into the side of the stricken tanker. The shaped charge penetrated deep into the bowels of the Ocean Venturer and exploded in a deafening roar. Thick, black smoke and fuel-fired flames shot 70 metres into the air, engulfing the roadway above and the emergency crews who were working desperately to save those who’d been hit in the earlier missile strike. As the intense heat from the oil fire softened the asphalt on the roadway, people ran from the Bridge, fleeing from what had turned into a blazing car park. The fire generated temperatures in excess of 1000 degrees and the steel walls separating the amidships tank compartment from the others on the Ocean Venturer began to twist and buckle.
‘Anthea, you’re to pull the emergency brake now. Don’t ask questions sweetheart, just do it,’ Murray said quietly.
‘But…’
‘DO IT!’
Anthea found the yellow emergency handle near the doors. Above it was a warning of severe fines and imprisonment for improper use but Anthea trusted Murray with her life. With the distant gunfire on the harbour faintly audible, she pulled the handle and the train slid to a halt on the greasy tracks.
‘What the-’ The driver reacted angrily as he lost control of his train.
The captain of the Jerusalem Bay fingered the detonator in his right hand as he crouched below the shattered windows of his bridge.
‘Cover me!!’ Major Gould broke cover and fired several bursts from his MP-5 as he stormed forward towards the foot of the companionway that led to the bridge above him.
As he peered above the shattered port side glass, the Sydney Opera House was so close the captain could see the bars and entertainment areas inside. Reluctantly he realised that he would not be able to get his ship as far as the ferry terminals in Sydney Cove, but it was better to detonate now than not at all.
‘ Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! God is Great! God is-
The detonator tumbled from the captain’s hand as Major Gould burst in through the bridge’s rear bulkhead, his MP-5 blazing.
Kate Braithwaite stared numbly at the plasma screen in the State Crisis Centre showing the fiercely blazing tanker.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Curtis said softly, as he put his arm around Kate’s shoulder.
On the bridge of the Montgomery, Malik al-Falid tightened his seat belt as the Montgomery and the Wavell charged towards the Heads and the safety of the Pacific Ocean beyond.
‘Keep a sharp lookout,’ he ordered. ‘The infidel will try to mobilise his forces.’
Onboard the Melbourne Keke Newbold steadied himself in his captain’s chair on the starboard side of the bridge. As soon as he’d received word of the attack on Sydney, he’d turned the powerful frigate around and headed north back towards the Heads, demanding from his Marine Engineering Officer every last horsepower out of the Melbourne’s big gas turbines. Her huge prop was throwing a 3-metre high rooster’s tail of white water behind the stern. The phone beside him rang as the Melbourne’s Principal Warfare Officer called from the operations room two decks below.
‘Captain, this is the PWO, we’ve got an update on the situation here, Sir. You’d better come down and have a look.’
‘On my way,’ he replied brusquely, leaving the ship in the hands of the officer of the watch.
The operations room was lit with a green glow from the radar and fire control screens and as soon as he entered through the bulkhead Captain Newbold put his headphones on and took a call from General Howard.
‘ Melbourne, over.’
There was more than a touch of restrained anger in General Howard’s voice. ‘The two tugs are running for the Heads and they’re presently west of Line Zulu. All commercial shipping’s been suspended and you are cleared to destroy them, over.’
Keke glanced at the two blips on the radar operator’s screen.
‘PWO, sound action stations,’ Keke said calmly.
‘Hands to action stations, hands to action stations.’
‘PWO,’ Captain Newbold commanded, ‘these are harpoon targets, let me know when we’re in range.’
‘Captain, Sir, harpoon targets 2412 and 2413 confirmed, ready to engage.’
‘Engage,’ Keke said without emotion.
‘Birds away.’
Captain Newbold and his PWO watched while first one missile and then another left a track of phosphorescent blips across the ship’s radar screens.
On the bridge above, Lieutenant Campbell focused his binoculars on the tugs that were now clear of Sydney Heads.
‘Bastards,’ he exclaimed, as he watched the Montgomery and then the Wavell explode into separate balls of flame.
Even among the chaos it had taken Murray Black barely 15 minutes to get across to Observatory Hill, a short distance from the train tracks. As he ran towards Anthea and the children the tears streamed down his face.
CHAPTER 71
C NN’s television images of the tanker fire and the burned out fuselages of the two 747s faded in front of a packed media conference in Canberra. The Prime Minister of Australia was visibly shocked as he addressed the nation. Flanked by a confused-looking Defence Minister and a grim-faced Chief of the Defence Force, the Prime Minister brought his speech to a close.
‘These terrorists are murderous barbarians who have no respect for human life and human dignity, and my government will leave no stone unturned to bring the perpetrators to justice.’
The Prime Minister faced a flurry of questions about the ability of hospitals to cope, what might happen to Sydney and how people who were still employed might get to work. Michelle Gillard, the journalist who had covered Professor Imran Sayed’s opening address at the bioterrorism conference, ignored the tabloid newspaper approach as to how the attack might affect the average worker in the street. She was asking the deeper questions about why this had happened.
‘Prime Minister, we’ve all seen the declassified reports in which no fewer than sixteen intelligence agencies in the United States have concluded that the war in Iraq was a very big mistake. Those reports claim that the war is providing a training ground for terrorists and is attracting more and more young Muslim suicide bombers to the fundamentalists’ cause. Will you finally concede that we’re now a bigger target because of our unqualified support for the United States war machine and that as a result of our policies in the Middle East, the Muslim fundamentalists are gaining strength around the world?’
The Prime Minister looked rattled. He responded angrily. ‘Now is not the time to be cutting and running from the war on terror. Now is the time to be redoubling our efforts to bring these terrorists to justice.’
‘We’ve heard reports, Defence Minister,’ another journalist asked, ‘that you and your advisors blocked the military’s decision to reduce their notice to move. I’ve heard claims that, had the military been authorised to move earlier, this attack might have been prevented. Can you comment on that?’
The Defence Minister blinked several times and looked even more confused. ‘Those sorts of questions are best answered by the military,’ he responded, looking at the Defence Chief.
The Chief of the Defence Force’s left eyebrow rose quizically. It was one of those classic media moments and another flash lit the room as one of the Herald’s most experienced photographers caught it for posterity. The relationship between the Defence Chief and his egotistical minister had just reached a new low and every journalist in the room knew it.
