‘There it is, Khadafi! The Museum of Natural History!’
‘I see it,’ Khadafi rasped, and he swung the truck across the road as the lights turned red, collecting the side of a taxi turning in the opposite direction. Khadafi didn’t stop, and almost immediately, a siren sounded behind him. Khadafi checked the rear-vision mirror. The white car with blue NYPD stripes and red lights flashing on the roof was unmistakable. The male driver and his female colleague were in hot pursuit.
‘Get ready!’ Khadafi shouted and he gunned the truck through the tunnel. One hundred metres later the police car, siren blaring, loomed up beside him.
‘Now!’ he yelled.
‘Allahu Akbar!’ Aysha screamed, spitting at the police.
They were the last words she uttered and the last words Khadafi or the two police officers ever heard.
Nearly two tons of ammonium nitrate, nitromethane and Tovex went up in a thunderous roar of orange flame and thick black smoke. Dozens of New Yorkers and tourists in the park were killed instantly along with many more in the surrounds, some of whom were now lying dead and injured on the sidewalks of Fifth Avenue and Central Park West. Windows were blown out for blocks either side of the park. The frontages of expensive apartments were shattered into the street below, including that of the stylish gabled ‘Dakota’ apartments, home to celebrities over the years like Lauren Bacall, Leonard Bernstein, Rosemary Clooney, and scores of others including John Lennon who was shot on the pavement outside.
Once again, as happened further to the south on 9/11, the air was filled with siren after siren, as the well-drilled New York emergency services swung into action. In downtown Brooklyn, officers streamed into the city’s Emergency Operations Center as the size of the blast became apparent and a high alert was activated.
Further north, Atef was already on the road, but even on the New Jersey side of the Hudson, he heard the blast clearly.
‘Alhamdulillah! Allah be praised,’ he whispered to himself. He exited the Interstate 80 and pulled up outside the first bar he could find, the 101 Pub in Bogota. Atef ordered a lemon squash and sat at a table, pretending to watch the gridiron on one of the many big television screens above the bar. Suddenly, one after another, the scheduled programs were interrupted. The bar wasn’t busy, but he still had to move closer to a screen so he could hear the broadcast.
‘This is Olivia Goward, and we interrupt this sports broadcast to bring you some breaking news. There has been a massive explosion in Central Park, and we cross to our reporter, Ben Dirksen, who is on the scene. Ben, what can you tell us?’
‘Yes, Olivia – I’m standing outside the New York Historical Society building on Central Park West, about 300 metres from where the blast took place. The police have cordoned off the entire area, including Fifth Avenue on the far side, so no traffic is permitted down any of the streets bordering the park. That’s to allow the ambulances, fire and police vehicles to get through.’ With a background of an ever-increasing cacophony of sirens, the vision cut to fire engines, ambulances and police cars converging on Central Park.
‘And how much damage has been done, Ben, do we know?’
‘Olivia, as you can probably see behind me, the damage can only be described as horrific. For whatever reason, the terrorists – and although police have yet to confirm it, one can assume this is a terrorist attack – the terrorists have chosen to detonate the bomb in the open. But despite that, the force of the explosion has been so great that windows have been shattered for blocks and even as I speak, the casualties are mounting.’ Again the vision cut away from the reporter to an ambulance crew, frantically pushing a gurney with a seriously injured patient, her face covered in blood.
The bar had gone silent and every patron was staring at one of the television screens above the bar. Atef was confident no one was taking the slightest notice of him, but he feigned a shocked look as he secretly delighted in the carnage that was unfolding. The bomb had performed even better than he’d expected. By now, unbeknown to the Infidel, most of the radioactive cloud containing the fine particles of strontium-90 would be drifting south-east, toward the Infidel’s famed Fifth Avenue, across the zoo and Carnegie Hall, across Times Square and into the Midtown area of Manhattan, but the sheer force of the blast would have also taken the cloud into the areas surrounding the park. The tiny deadly particles would be settling over Strawberry Fields, a shady little area containing a black-and-white tile mosaic entitled ‘Imagine’. The New York authorities had constructed it in honour of John Lennon. The Geiger counters would be still be going berserk as far south as the Waldorf Astoria and the United Nations headquarters on the banks of the East River. But Atef knew that the real panic would set in when it became known the city was radioactive. He was confident it would bring New York to its knees. As if to answer his thoughts, the news anchor’s voice took on a more pressing tone.
‘Ben, we’re going to cross now to the New York Emergency Center, where we understand the mayor of New York is going to address the people of the city. Ben, you need to get out of there – fast!’ Olivia’s mike was still open, and her urgent warning to her colleague was inadvertently broadcast live.
‘What was that about?’ the patron next to Atef gasped.
Atef didn’t engage. He made as if not to hear and kept staring at the television.
The vision switched to the Emergency Center in Brooklyn where the mayor of New York City was preparing to make an announcement. Mitchell Burr, his face pale, was flanked by the chief of police on one side and the commissioner of the fire department on the other.
‘My fellow New Yorkers,’ he began, ‘at the outset, let me assure you we have things under control, and the perpetrators of this outrageous attack will be caught and brought to justice. But I’m also here with you, to advise – and I would stress the need to avoid any panic – to advise you that I’ve just been told that the bomb that exploded in Central Park a short while ago may have contained radioactive material.
‘As a precaution,’ the Mayor continued, ‘and I stress it’s only a precaution until we can confirm the extent of the cloud and precisely what was in the bomb, I have issued orders for the city to be evacuated. But I would again urge – and I can’t stress this enough – that people should not panic.’ The police commissioner was nodding gravely, but the mayor’s words were already falling on deaf ears. Patrons around Atef grabbed their bags and fled, and they’d been sitting in a bar in New Jersey, north of the Hudson River, upwind of an explosion that had occurred nearly 7 miles to the south. Atef left quietly, but for an entirely different reason. As word of the radioactivity spread, he knew Interstate 80 leading back to Chicago would soon be jammed with cars, buses and trucks. Atef joined the Interstate and quietly headed west to Chicago. General Waheeb would be pleased, but more importantly, so would Allah.
Ten thousand miles away, the ISIS cell in Sydney was preparing for a far different delivery.
Habib Rushdi and Akram Mukhtar left early for Bankstown Airport with their deadly sports bag in the boot of the Holden Barina Rushdi had hired. Rushdi turned out of Sixth Avenue, and keeping below the speed limit, he drove the short distance along Marion Street before turning into Airport Avenue. At seven in the morning, the airport was not yet busy and Rushdi was able to park close to the small passenger terminal. Together, they waved to the duty staff and made their way out to where the Cessna 182 was parked. Rushdi casually looked around. The flight line was deserted. He opened the starboard door and secured the sports bag on the co-pilot’s seat with the seatbelt. That done, he taped the detonator assembly to the right fork of the pilot’s joystick, ran the cord into the sports bag, secured the detonator cartridge in the Semtex and zipped the bag shut.
‘This will bring the Infidel, including your chief pilot, to their knees, Akram. Just remember, if Air Traffic Control challenges you on the final run in, ignore them.’ Rushdi had viewed an urgent NOTAM the previous evening. The Notice To Airmen had imposed a restricted airspace above the city
and Rushdi knew that Mukhtar would have to breach it, but he didn’t want to unnerve his pilot at the last minute. Given the 6 minutes flying time from Sydney Heads to the CBD, he was confident the Infidel would not have time to react.
Mukhtar had broken out in a sweat, but the look on his face was one of grim determination. ‘Insha’Allah!’
‘I shall join you soon, my friend.’ With that, Rushdi closed the co-pilot’s door and made his way back to the passenger terminal.
‘Not flying today, Habib?’ the on-duty security guard asked.
‘I was, but a bad curry last night. Very bad,’ said Akram, flashing the guard a smile and holding his tummy as he headed toward the gents.
Mukhtar, his hands shaking, held his checklist and ran through them one by one:
Flight Instruments Set, Q N H, 1029;
Flight controls, free;
Throttle, 1700 rpm;
Carburettor heat . . .
Temps and pressures in the green . . .
Mukhtar set the radio to 132.8 and listened to the traffic to determine how many other aircraft were in the vicinity. The traffic was still light, and he called the tower.
‘Bankstown Ground, Papa Foxtrot Lima, request taxi.’
‘Papa Foxtrot Lima, you are cleared to taxi, holding point Bravo 6 for Two Nine Charlie.’
‘Taxi holding point Bravo 6 for Two Nine Charlie, Papa Foxtrot Lima.’
Mukhtar eased the parking brake off, and taxied out to holding point Bravo 6 just short of the piano keys of Bankstown’s centre runway where a Piper Warrior was on short finals. The light plane landed hard, puffs of smoke issuing from the landing gear.
‘Papa Foxtrot Lima, cleared for take-off Two Nine Charlie, maintain 1000 feet until clear of the three-mile limit, then make right turn.’
‘Cleared for take-off maintain 1000 to three mile – right turn. Papa Foxtrot Lima.’
Mukhtar pushed the throttle forward and held the aircraft on brakes while he checked the oil pressure and other instruments. Satisfied, he released the footbrake. The Cessna surged forward, and with his hand gripping the throttle, a determined Mukhtar felt the exhilaration pulsing through his body. The chief pilot and the others who had taunted him would soon be out of a job, because Sydney’s Kingsford Smith International would be closed for a very long time, and it would take years before any tourists went anywhere near the place.
Mukhtar levelled out at 1000 feet then, passing the three-mile limit, he climbed to 2500 feet and switched to the area frequency, mindful that Bankstown was surrounded by Class C airspace that would require a clearance. To stray into it would, he knew, bring him to the attention of Air Traffic Control in Sydney. He consulted his aeronautical chart and looked out to the east. He could see the Holsworthy Army Base, and he stayed well to the west. The R555 alpha and bravo areas were also restricted. Clear of those, Mukhtar turned on a flight heading of 090 and headed toward the coast and the Royal National Park.
Mukhtar looked to the north. The iconic ‘coathanger’ Harbour Bridge that spanned one of the world’s great harbours was clearly visible. He reflected on how many times he’d flown in and out of Sydney’s Kingsford Smith, sitting in the right-hand seat of a 737. Would he rather be back there, he wondered. His anger rose to the surface again at the memory of the ‘towelhead’ taunts. He looked to the south, and in the near distance he could see the Infidel’s nuclear reactor at Lucas Heights. Soon their scientists would have their hands full, he thought, and he began his descent to 500 feet. By the time he turned north across Botany Bay, he needed to be under the commercial traffic approaching and departing Kingsford Smith.
Mukhtar identified Jibbon Point on the edge of the Royal National Park, and he switched to 120.8.
‘Traffic Victor One, this is Cessna 182 Papa Foxtrot Lima, Jibbon Point, northbound, 500 feet, Victor One.’
‘Papa Foxtrot Lima, this is Piper Warrior Quebec Yankee Alpha, I’m abeam Bondi Beach tracking south, 700 feet. Will report when I have your visual.’
Mukhtar strained to see into the heat haze rising off the Pacific Ocean. For safety, he veered further east and a short time later, the Piper Warrior roared past on his port side. To the east and above him, he could see a huge Qantas A380, flaps fully extended, seemingly suspended in the air as it came in to land on Mascot’s 34L. Mukhtar braced himself for the wake turbulence, but the Cessna just rocked gently as he powered north toward his turning point. To the west he could see the huge white storage tanks of the Port Botany fuel depot, and for a fleeting moment, he imagined the carnage if he dived toward them, but Habib’s words rang in his ears. ‘On no account are you to deviate from your assigned target, no matter how attractive the Infidel’s other targets might look. A building in the CBD might seem pretty ordinary, but we’ve done a lot of work on this, Akram, and you can be assured that this is the very best place to strike.’
Mukhtar continued up the coast, until he had passed the Infidel’s Bondi Beach. He could see the waves breaking, and the tiny figures on the beach. No doubt the women were wearing those disgusting bikinis. No wonder they got raped. Allah never meant it to be this way, he fumed. Perhaps this strike would mean Sharia law would be introduced and the women would have to cover their bodies, the way Allah had directed.
The Macquarie Lighthouse was ahead on the port side. A brilliant white, the sentinel was clearly visible. In his research of the route, Mukhtar had discovered it was the oldest lighthouse site in the country and a lighthouse had been there since Governor Macquarie had ordered one built in 1816 to warn the sailing ships. In 1883, a new one had been built and it was still working. The light could be seen 25 miles out to sea.
Unseen, and high above him, two Royal Australian Air Force F/A-18F Super Hornets flown by Squadron Leader Guy Moxley and Flight Lieutenant Rod Eveille were on combat air patrol over the city and their rules of engagement were clear. Any aircraft violating the restricted airspace over the CBD was to receive three warnings. If those warnings were ignored, Special Operations Command in conjunction with the New South Wales State Emergency Operations Centre would order engagement.
Mukhtar’s pulse quickened. The lighthouse was his turning point and he pushed the throttle forward for maximum power. Ignoring the requirement to maintain a height of 500 feet, he began to climb. The 50-storey round concrete tower in Australia Square was 550 feet tall, and Mukhtar wanted to hit it at speed in a shallow dive. To cause the maximum number of casualties in the building, he planned to plough into the revolving restaurant and the viewing deck on the 47th and the 48th floors, where it was likely the greatest number of people would be congregated. At 1000 feet, and abeam the lighthouse, his pulse now racing, he banked the aircraft too savagely and began to lose altitude. Stay calm! Stay calm! he told himself, and he brought the aircraft into a more gentle bank until he had the airplane on a heading of 238 degrees. The harbourside mansions of Vaucluse disappeared beneath him and he gunned the Cessna along a heading across Shark Island. The white sails of the Opera House and the grey steel of the Harbour Bridge were now clearly visible to the north of his target. To the left of the Opera House, he could see the clump of skyscrapers in the northern area of the CBD, and further to the south, he could also see the tall, thin Sydney Tower with its cupcake top.
Suddenly, Sydney Air Traffic Control broke in.
‘Unidentified aircraft heading west across Sydney Harbour vicinity Shark Island, this is Sydney Tower, you are entering restricted airspace, identify yourself and turn north then east back onto Victor One over.’
Major General Bill Rolfe, the special operations commander, exchanged glances with the New South Wales commissioner of police. It was a big call, but the rules of engagement had been approved at the highest level in the National Security Committee of Cabinet, and given the recent attacks in France and Spain, even the loss of an innocent civilian pilot accidentally straying into restricted airspace was preferable to the consequences of a terrorist attack on the city. Rolfe nodded to the RAAF operations officer.
‘Amber Zero Three, Amber Zero Four, this is Alligator, prepare to engage Cessna heading into restricted airspace vicinity Shark Island, 238 degrees, altitude 1000 feet, over.’
‘Amber Zero Three, copied, we have him identified.’
‘Amber Zero Four.’
Mukhtar smiled grimly. The transponder was off, and all the controllers would see in their tower at Kingsford Smith would be a radar blip.
‘Unidentified aircraft over Sydney Harbour!’ The tone was more urgent now. ‘You are to identify yourself immediately, turn north then east back onto Victor One, east of the coast, over!’
‘Calm! Calm!’ Mukhtar remonstrated with himself. His heart raced as he roared toward his target with the throttle fully forward. Soon, Insha’Allah, the Infidel’s city would be unusable. Alhamdulillah! Allah be praised!
‘Unidentified aircraft heading west across Sydney Harbour, this is Sydney Tower, you are now in restricted airspace, identify yourself and turn north then east back onto Victor One. This is your final warning, over.’
After five seconds of silence, General Rolfe gave the order to engage.
‘Amber Zero Three, Amber Zero Four, this is Alligator, you are cleared to engage, over.’
‘Amber Zero Three, engaging.’
‘Amber Zero Four.’
Squadron Leader Moxley rolled into the attack, followed by his wingman, Flight Lieutenant Eveille, in case the first missile missed. Moxley acquired the Cessna, abeam the Botanical Gardens. The three-metre long, 90-kilogram AIM-132 missile with a ten-kilogram blast and fragmentation warhead left its pod under Moxley’s port wing in a burst of flame and smoke and immediately locked on to the target. Flight Lieutenant Eveille rolled in behind, but Moxley didn’t miss. Travelling at Mach 3, or nearly 4000 kilometres an hour, seconds later the missile blew the Cessna apart. Shocked tourists in the Botanical Gardens and further afield watched in horror as Farm Cove erupted. Pieces of flaming wreckage fell into the water and onto the surrounding foreshore.
The Russian Affair Page 30
