‘Yun, that is absurd! There is no comparison between a rail bridge in the desert and the Sydney Harbour Bridge!’ Stephens’ eyes blazed with righteous fury.
‘I have no intention of repaying like-for-like, General. If you continue to attack our infrastructure, we will continue to destroy yours,’ the chairman responded, unflappable, ‘and I assure you, General, our targets will be far more destructive to Australia than yours are to China.’
General Stephens leaned forward, thrusting a finger at the screen. ‘I think you underestimate the Australian people, Yun. We’re a bit tougher than to worry about a bridge or any other piece of property, for that matter.’
‘Do I really underestimate, General? I guess we shall test public resolve then if you persist with your terrorist activities. From what I have seen, General, your public does not have the stomach for war. I am already looking forward to seeing the news headlines this week.’
‘You will not get away with this, Yun,’ spat General Stephens, reaching forward and ending the call.
Pushing back on his chair, General Stephens stood and paced with his arms crossed, cradling his jaw with his hand. Gnawing in the back of his mind, he couldn’t help but think that perhaps Yun was right. Would the Australian public stand for this attack? And what about the many more attacks that they may suffer if he continued with this strategy? How long down this path before Sydney looked like Basra or, God forbid, Tehran?
There was a brisk knock at the door, and Fletcher appeared. ‘Marty, the chopper is ready and we have diverted the fighters from Picton to escort us. Ready when you are.’
‘All right. Thanks, Fletch,’ said General Stephens in a softer tone.
‘How was Yun?’
‘Oh, he’s very sorry for our civilian losses,’ started General Stephens, sarcastically, ‘but advised us to get used to these sorts of attacks if we continue with ours.’
‘Christ, talk about a disproportionate response,’ replied Fletcher.
‘This is what scares me, Fletch. How far are we willing to go? How much are the Australian people willing to sacrifice in the face of this sort of enemy? It was fine to support a war that was being fought between soldiers in the desert — but this, this is too close to home,’ Stephens said, pointing to the screen now showing aerial footage of the bridge with its twin plumes of smoke rising from the sandstone pylons at each end.
‘You’re right. The public may not have the stomach for this, Marty,’ said Fletcher, awed by the footage.
‘I may not have the stomach for this either,’ replied the general, staring at the screen. How many people had been on the bridge? What were they doing — going to a meeting, going for a walk, sightseeing? The horror of all those people being obliterated sunk into his bones with sickening finality.
The helicopter landed at Kirribilli House. Stepping onto the lawn, General Stephens looked up at the twisted wreckage of what was once the famous Sydney Harbour Bridge — an engineering marvel of its time. The entire middle section had dropped into the harbour. Because the harbour was only 11 metres deep below the bridge, the top of the arch span was still above the surface. The two huge Australian flags on the east and west sides of the bridge lay burnt and limp on their white poles. Near the pylons on each side, two huge black plumes of smoke continued to pour up into the still sky. The harbour was already packed with boats being held back by police vessels with flashing lights. The fire-fighting tugs sat beneath the bridge spraying thousands of litres of water on the smouldering, warped remains.
The air was still and, from Kirribilli House, the harbour seemed silent and frozen, broken only by the sound of distant sirens and helicopters circling overhead.
Thousands of people lined the shores of the harbour to witness the sickening wreckage.
‘Let’s get down to the ops centre. I want to talk to whoever is in charge,’ ordered General Stephens.
Fletcher talked into his lapel microphone and ordered the general’s car to be brought around.
The motorcade left Kirribilli House for the ops centre at the park in Milsons Point. After a short drive, the traffic congestion near the bridge was too much and the general jumped out and walked to the array of mobile military buildings that had been set up. He was waved through security and directed to one of the buildings already on site.
‘Who’s in charge here?’ asked General Stephens, stepping into the room.
‘Attention! Officer,’ yelled a young private, immediately standing from his chair. The rest of the soldiers did the same, saluting the general.
‘Yes, yes. Now who is in charge?’ demanded the general impatiently.
‘That would be Colonel Bremner, sir,’ replied the young private.
‘Well, where is he, son?’
‘Outside, sir. Down near the waterfront, I believe.’
General Stephens, wasting no time, turned and left. Walking down the hill to the waterfront he, like everyone else, was transfixed by the smoking remains. It defied belief to see the vast mid-section simply gone, the once-mighty Sydney Harbour Bridge replaced by chaos and destruction.
Spotting a group of officers standing with a large mapscreen opened between them, he walked over.
‘Colonel Bremner?’
One of the men turned, letting go of the mapscreen when he realised who it was. ‘General, pleasure to meet you. Wish it could be under different circumstances,’ he said, saluting the general.
‘Likewise,’ replied Stephens. ‘So where are you at?’
‘Well, sir. The bridge was hit by six TOM-TOMs, laser-guided to hit the precise points that would cause a catastrophic failure of the design… ’
‘Yes, Colonel, I know all that. What about the people?’
‘Based on the footage from the traffic cameras just before the attack, we estimate around 340 people were on the bridge at the time the missiles hit. We’re estimating around 300 of those people will be fatalities, sir. It’s going to take a while to accurately tally the deaths here. We need to recover all the vehicles and bodies down there, ASAP.’
General Stephens looked across the harbour at the wreckage and down to the water, where hundreds of civilian victims now laid. ‘Thank you, Colonel. Here’s my direct number,’ he said, handing him a card. ‘Anything you need, you call.’
Colonel Bremner saluted. ‘Thank you, sir. Appreciate you coming here.’
Chapter 16
Slowly opening his eyes, the first thing Finn saw was a white ceiling with an intricate plaster of Paris design. He gradually began to come to his senses — he was in a bed, it was warm and he felt comfortable. The light in the room was dim, but the sun was cutting through the blinds in dusty motes, so it must have been daytime.
Sitting up too quickly, Finn felt a searing pain in his left shoulder, then his head started pounding and darkness squeezed in on his vision. Lying back down, he held his head, trying to make the pain go away. Gradually, the thumping eased and the pain turned into a dull ache. Slowly he looked around the room, trying not to move too much. It was a big room with old-fashioned furnishings. To his left was a large set of glass doors that seemed to open out to a veranda. The doors were flanked by large windows with curtains drawn across them. A light, warm breeze played with the curtains, lifting them in a hypnotic dance. There was no sound apart from the birds outside. Finn felt safe. He had no idea where he was, but it felt a lot better than the dirt floor of an old tin shed.