Chapter 1: Do I Have Your Attention Yet?

Day One/Hour Zero

"Welcome Back to 'Good Morning Sydney'. It's just gone 8.33am and the big story of the day is the shock resignation of the Treasurer. Over to you Mal."

"Why thank you Damian. And it is nice to see you in today even with that torrential thunderstorm that swept through Central and Eastern Suburbs of Sydney early this morning causing massive disruption. So you managed to drive in from Rose Bay even with the water all over the roads out that way?"

"Well actually it's Vaucluse Damian mate, but thank you for your concern. It was certainly a huge storm all right. Trees down all over our street. But I made it in. What is it they say about news reporters, neither rain nor sleet —"

"Ahh, Damian, I think you'll find that is the US Postal Service but it certainly was a torrential storm. I only just made it across the Bridge this morning before they shut down part of the approaches due to localised flooding."

"Good morning Chantelle. You look especially lovely this morning. But back to the big news of the morning. Federal Treasurer, Phillip Tanspire, announced his resignation late last night, citing family reasons. This has shocked most political commentators considering there is a critical general election with its Double Dissolution for the Global Warming legislation that thrice failed passage through both houses. And on top, we also have the State Parliament sitting the last time today before it recesses and an election must be called within the next three months."

"Yes Damian, politics has not been a picnic for either party of late but even so it doesn't usually get this messy so close to two critical elections. Any hint yet as to what might be the real reason for Tanspire's shock resignation?"

Gareth normally couldn't stand the prattle that went on between the partnered male and female talking heads for 'Good Morning Sydney', along with the inane so-called commentary of Mal Stromberg concerning all things political. But today was by no means 'normal'. Gareth's heart was pounding strongly. He had planned for this day meticulously. Every conceivable eventuality had been evaluated. Every possible variation fed into Gareth's computer like mind. The result was a plan and execution that Gareth thought was as solid as such things could be that rely on human variable and therefore are prone to failure.

Gareth, not for the first time, wondered why he put himself through such tests, considering he told himself with monotonous regularity that he did not have the nerves for such schemes. However, his schemes had never failed. This one was just a teeny bit bigger than those that had come before.

Sure that his heart would burst soon, Gareth started to think that something had gone horribly wrong. That moron Guido who was in charge of the crew on the Gladesville Bridge or the psychopathic thug, Thomas, who had a crew in the Harbour Tunnel, could either or both have stuffed up.

Mohammad, at least, he could count on to get things right. He had been put in charge of the technically most complex operation but with his fundamentalist views, Gareth had no doubts he would perform flawlessly. Not that he considered a fundamentalist to make a decent terrorist. Far from it. Anyone willing to blow themselves up really needed to be watched as far as Gareth was concerned. Mohammad could be trusted because not only was he a fundamentalist but because his training had been extensive. Gareth had made sure he was so thoroughly drilled in his tasks that the only way a mistake could occur was if Mohammad had suffered some bizarrely rare condition such as a stroke or something else that physically stopped him from operating.

Gareth at least knew that he was protected by several levels of separation from these men. The men had their uses although Gareth could not help considering they really had no right to inhabit the same planet as he did, let alone the same city or to talk to him as if they were equals when they most certainly were not.

Gareth was a worrier. He planned meticulously because if he didn't, the stress would probably kill him, or so he would tell himself. However, even with the most meticulous plans, he still worried constantly to the point where he would be physically sick when a plan actually went into operation. And this one involved 36 men, 3 women, and over $2 million dollars of Gareth's own money.

It was 8.34am for God's Sakes! "Christ Almighty!" thought Gareth, "Why had nothing came on yet?" And with that, Gareth swiftly leaned over his chair, watching his twelve banked computer screens, until the last second when he gave into to the violent queasiness in his stomach. He retched mightily into the lined waste paper bin. He had purposely had a large breakfast from McDonalds this morning just so he had something to bring up. Two sausage and egg McMuffins, two bacon and egg McMuffins and an egg wrap.

Thomas looked at the swirl of bright colours the vomit now covering the bottom of the lining and wondered not for the first time if the yellow of the eggs was natural or the result of dyes. Certainly, the smell of his own sick that permeated the room or the look of the copious vomit did nothing to cause Gareth to be sicker, although it probably would have caused anyone else to have less than a fully settled stomach had anyone been there. However, as was customary for Gareth during these operations, he was utterly alone, sealed in his control centre.

Just when Gareth considered pulling the plug on the whole thing and washing his hands of the $600,000 already spent in the operation, the TV screen on the on the monitor just to the right of his 26" main screen suddenly came up in volume as it had programmed to do when certain key words were used. The image automatically switched to the centre monitor.

"My Goodness! Brandon in our traffic chopper has just reported a massive explosion on the Gladesville Bridge. A tanker or something large has just exploded on the northern approach..."

"Thank you Chantelle, yes Brandon Thomas reporting from our eye in the sky. What you should be seeing now is the huge smoke plume rising from the northern approach to the Gladesville Bridge. We have had to move out of the way somewhat because of the enormous updraft and intensity of the fire shooting up from the Bridge itself ... I ... I cannot believe that, according to our pilot, the highly experienced West Macklin, we were mere metres away from being incinerated in the blast plume. The helicopter has sustained some damage but is still flyable and whilst this story is unfolding we intend to stay in the air and report it to you, live and on the spot!"

"Brandon, it is very brave of you to stay there at risk but please do not put yourself in unnecessary peril to do so. You be careful."

Real concern was evident in Chantelle's voice. She may not have had all that many brain cells but she was super hot in bed and Brandon was rather fond of her, as clueless as she really was. It really wasn't an act. She really was a ditz. But Brandon's tolerance of her habits because of her phenomenal ability to do the most amazing acts in bed and on the kitchen table or over the balcony or pretty much anywhere else for that matter, meant that Chantelle mistook Brandon's desire not to fuck up a good thing as true love.

Gareth was aware of none of this, nor would he have cared. He cared little for the relations of mere humans that were pawns in his games. What he cared for was that Stage C had started. He waited anxiously for the helicopter to turn back around and show the extent of the damage to the bridge. He had only seconds to wait. He couldn't then help it. He let out a gasp of excitement. It had done far more than he had dreamed. The entire northern structure of the bridge was history. There was nothing but a huge plume of smoke and bluish orange flame and a gaping hole where until only a minute or two before there had been one of the major arterial bridges of the Sydney metro area.

"Fuck, Brian. What in the hell has happened? Do we even know what caused it or how many dead or dying? What about ambulances? Hospitals? What do we need?"

Mark Brining was the duty Superintendent currently in charge of Police Operations. He was watching a bank of TV screens while glancing at the many CCTV camera displays showing the approaches to the Sydney Harbour Bridge, the Harbour Tunnel, and the Gladesville Bridge amongst other traffic areas.

"What's the next bridge west, Clive? The Hornsby-Strathfield main line isn't it? Get the trains stopped NOW!"

Probationary Constable Scott rather reluctantly spoke up, "Actually Sir I think the Ryde Road Bridge comes first then the rail bridge is a little further west.

"Oh Christ, another bloody road bridge. Get the Highway Patrol or local patrols out there right now. Block it off from both sides back at least 500 metres from the river. Do it now!"

Just as Brining was giving the order a CCTV camera on the rail bridge went black and then whited out. Another news helicopter, the Channel Seven copter had been flying from the Penrith area and was filming along the river panning towards the huge plume from the Gladesville Bridge when a spectacular jet of water shot out next to the rail bridge. An Interurban was approaching the bridge at the maximum speed for that track of 70 km/h when Channel Seven started showing the bridge.

It thus far looked to be intact. Some unidentified section of something had fallen from beneath it though and something else had exploded on or near the water. Then as the camera zoomed in further, as if the bridge had all the time in the world to do so, the northern edge of the bridge started to sink slightly. Then it accelerated as if shot all in slow motion. That is until seemingly without reason the bridge section snapped partly across the River and the northern section dropped neatly into the water.

Because of the distance from the chopper, there was no noise to accompany the bridge dropping into the murky brown water of the Parramatta River but Brining could sense the grinding and screeching noises of the metal as it let go. Superintendent Brining winced as if he could hear the sounds clearly, as he watched in horror as the section continued to collapse.

Bining caught a train in a few days a week and well knew the noises of the brakes thrown on in a panic. He knew that the passengers in the packed train from the Central Coast would be hearing that noise right now. Inexorably, the train continued towards the gapping hole in the line that was now only a couple of hundred metres in front of the train. The train was slowing and for a time it looked like it might just stop before reaching the section of missing track. Bining knew better. He knew just how long it took for a train that long and going that fast took to stop. There was not a chance in hell the train was going to slow down in time. The camera crew held it steady as some people started to pile out of the leading car, having forced the doors open. They didn't stand a chance at the speed the train was still going but somehow Bining couldn't bring himself to think they were doing the wrong thing. Plunging into murky water at high speed from a height of probably 50 metres or more didn't seem to be a good prospect for survival either.

It wasn't. One by one the carriages hit the empty space where the bridge should have been and like a model train on Gomez's track they toppled still linked together into the water, each carriage that came after the first pancaking the carriage in front into small pieces of twisted and mangled wreckage that quickly proceeded to sink. The train had been pulled to the side by the twisting motion of the cars as they crashed into each other so they didn't even have the small chance of being held up by the bridge remains. The entire eight-car train slid into the water. Most was gone within two minutes.