Wet Desert: Tracking Down a Terrorist on the Colorado River

by Gary Hansen

  She looked puzzled. "So they're sending you?"

  He nodded. "There's nobody else. The Bureau's jet is taking me to Arizona as soon as I get there. Can you help me pack?"

  * * *

  6:55 a.m. - Kanab, Utah

  He slowed the motorcycle down to forty-five miles per hour as he approached the small city. He could not afford a traffic ticket. That would unravel everything. He scanned ahead for a roadblock. Although possible, he was fairly sure they wouldn't have one set up yet. He expected to hit one sooner or later. He imagined back at the dam they'd still be running around in circles and wondering what happened. He passed a sign that said "Entering the City of Kanab. Pop. 4492." Letting off the throttle, he allowed the motorcycle to coast down to thirty-five miles per hour, just five over the limit. You could usually go five over without getting noticed, even in these hick towns.

  According to the signs, the run from the dam to Kanab, Utah, measured just less than seventy-five miles, all open road. He'd made it in just under an hour. He knew it was the most critical leg of his escape. At Kanab, he'd be joined by traffic from the north rim of the Grand Canyon and ZionNational Park. After that, it would be easier to blend in. Another forty minutes and he'd pass through ZionNational Park, and traffic would be even heavier. Forty-five minutes beyond Zion and he would hit I-15 and St. George, Utah. After that he'd have to crash to get caught.

  He cursed himself for not bringing a radio on the motorcycle. Would the news be carrying the story yet? Maybe not. And when they did, what would they say? There was a small explosion at the dam? The dam is failing? He was dying to know what was going on. When he last saw the water shooting out of the smoke, it had been maybe ten feet in diameter. It would certainly be way more than that by now. That was an hour ago. But how big, he had no idea. What if it had not gotten any bigger? What then?

  Instinctively, he knew that the dam would tear itself apart. He had read that, but nothing said how long it would take. It could take days, for all he knew. His instincts told him it would take around eight hours. But he was not sure why. It just felt right.

  As the motorcycle exited Kanab, he accelerated. It felt good. His hair stood up on the back of his neck. His arms felt stiff. He felt physically tired, although his mind raced. He had done it. He had blown up the Glen Canyon Dam. There was much more to do. But the big one was done. Even if they caught him now, which didn't seem likely, his name would be famous forever. The mightiest dam on the Colorado would soon be gone. The river wasn't free yet, but it would be soon.

  * * *

  7:00 a.m. - Lake Powell, Utah

  Greg pointed at a rock wall on the east side of the channel. "That's it." He aimed the boat in that direction.

  Julie saw only a rock wall. She saw no opening, or anything that looked like it might be a canyon. She wondered how it was possible for her husband to tell which canyon it was. All the rocks looked the same to her. But Greg seldom made a mistake, and if he did, he recognized it almost immediately.

  Sure enough, as they approached the rock wall, an opening appeared. Greg steered in, and they passed through the gap into ForbiddingCanyon. Once inside, the red sandstone walls rose vertically on both sides of the boat for hundreds of feet. Greg carved the boat back and forth along the winding channel. Not far in, they approached a fork, and Greg veered right without hesitation. How he remembered the way, she would never know. She had once heard a woman comedian joke that there were only two things where men were definitely better than women: navigating, and writing their name in the snow with urine. Julie agreed with both.

  She held on to her seat as the boat carved back and forth around each bend of the rock walls. There was absolutely no traffic, a testament to Greg's decision to arrive early. By ten or eleven, traffic would be heavy around RainbowBridge.

  She felt Erika touch her shoulder from behind. She turned and Erika's face was right there. Her eyes were sparkling.

  "How far back in the canyon is it?" she asked.

  "I think we are almost there. We should be able to see it in a few minutes."

  At that, Erika came up and slid into the seat next to Julie. Julie made as much room as possible, but the seat was only meant for one person. The girls squished together, with Erika's bikinied rear end hanging off the edge of the seat. Julie laughed. Her friend always surprised her, no inhibitions. She saw Greg glance down at the girls and look back up, smiling.

  Just when Julie thought straight ahead was the only way possible, Greg veered left into a narrow opening she had not even seen. She shook her head. No wonder explorers had spent months looking for it. After passing through this narrow cut, they finally saw their destination. Up ahead, a long line of floating docks wrapped around the bend.

  Erika stood, holding on to the windshield of the boat. "Where is it?"

  Greg pointed upstream. "It's around the corner." He slowed as they reached the first dock then pulled forward to the last available mooring.

  There were no other boats. Paul jumped out and attached ropes to the cleat on the dock. Greg shut off the engine. Erika climbed out onto the dock and helped Julie up behind her.

  Julie watched as her husband grabbed the cameras and a cooler that contained their breakfast. He climbed out of the boat. "Are we in a hurry?"

  Greg looked at his watch. "Not really. If possible I'd like to leave before eight, but that still gives us an hour."

  Erika pointed to where the docks disappeared around the bend. "Let's go already." She held out her hand for her husband. "Come on."

  Julie took a camera bag from her husband and followed. "Why are you so excited anyway? You were just here last year."

  "That was a year ago," Erika called out as she and Paul hurried along. "I love this place."

  The two couples walked for a few minutes until Greg spoke. "There it is."

  Erika, who was ahead of Greg, stopped and looked up. "Where? Oh. I see it."

  The large rock bridge was barely exposed as it blended in perfectly with the cliffs on the right. The rising sun had not yet reached it in the deep canyon, further disguising it.

  Erika stormed ahead. "Let's hurry and we can eat breakfast under the bridge before anyone else shows up."

  "We can't," Julie called out. "It's sacred. The Indian tribes."

  "That's bull and you know it. Besides, I don't see any Indians."

  A sign mounted close to the rock bridge designated the area under Rainbow as sacred by six different Native American tribes. However, many considered it pretentious for the tribes to lay claim to the site, especially considering that when explorers first tried to find the arch in the early 1900s, most of the Indians had never seen it, and even with hired Indian guides it took months of trial and error to locate it. An early black and white photo showed a picture of an Indian sitting on a horse on top of the arch. Maybe it was only off limits to the white man. Julie generally avoided walking under it more to avert dirty looks from other visitors than any belief that the spot was sacred.

  The closer the two couples got to the arch, the larger it became. Julie knew it was three hundred feet tall. She tried to imagine a football field standing on end under it, and agreed that it might fit. They were climbing now, but they stopped about a quarter mile away to rest and take a group picture. Julie glanced at her watch. They had plenty of time.

  * * *

  7:10 a.m. - Denver, Colorado

  Grant gazed out the window of the Bureau of Reclamation's Gulfstream IV-SP. He was the sole passenger on the small jet - just him, two pilots, and a pretty flight attendant. The jet had already been running when he arrived. Supposedly the jet had just arrived from the east coast after dropping off the commissioner from his international connection the night before.

  Before that morning, he had never seen the Bureau's jet. When he had approached it at the airport, the Gulfstream had glistened in the rising sun and looked brand new. He remembered hearing the scuttlebutt when the Bureau purchased it in the late nineties, replacing their older jet. Every
one at work was surprised that the government had funded it. And even now, riding in it, he wondered what kinds of shenanigans were performed to justify it. With federal deficits, how could the Bureau justify a 50-million-dollar-plane?

  The story of how the Bureau of Reclamation had bought its first jet was legendary. In the 1960's, the haydays for building dams in America, Floyd Dominy, the most famous commissioner to ever serve in the Bureau, had asked for a jet and been denied. However, Dominy arranged for the cost of a jet to be buried in a dam appropriation bill in Congress. His bosses at the Department of Interior had been furious, but Dominy kept the plane. And over the years most of the other large government agencies had followed the Bureau and acquired jets. Since Dominy paved the way, commissioners of the Bureau of Reclamation, and whoever they wanted to schmooze, had flown in style, zipping back and forth between Denver and WashingtonDC at five hundred thirty miles per hour.

  Grant repositioned himself into the comfortable leather seat, which felt infinitely better than a coach airline seat. Travel on commercial airlines would never be the same after this trip. The Gulfstream was even more luxurious than he imagined. The first thing he noticed was the huge oval windows along the sides. They were much larger than anything he had ever seen before. And they looked more like clear glass than the milky plastic of a commercial airliner. An expensive lever lowered an accordion blind between the panes. The cabin actually felt roomier than a full-sized plane, which Grant attributed to the lack of storage compartments overhead, and the large and well-spaced leather seats. Grant ran his hand along the polished wood grain hand rests below the windows. He stretched his legs out. No problem. A seven-footer could ride comfortably in this seat. The plane was beautiful as well as roomy. It made Grant envy the lifestyle of his bosses.

  He knew that this particular trip was an anomaly. Normally he wouldn't be allowed within a hundred miles of this situation. He could guarantee the commissioner and his entourage would take over as soon as Julia could arrange their early exit from the symposium in Kenya. The remoteness of the location in Africa, however, would slow their return.

  As the plane climbed out of Denver, Grant looked west over the Rocky Mountains separating Denver from Utah. A few cumulus clouds floated over endless mountains. The view from the valley floor in Denver was misleading, and gave the impression that one only needed to drive through a small mountain pass to arrive on the other side to another open valley. But the view from above told a different story. The range visible from the valley was only the beginning. The mountains continued, peak after peak, for what seemed like at least fifty miles. Grant knew that if someone tried to hike through, without a compass to point west, he would end up hopelessly lost in the range with no hope of ever finding SaltLake and the Mormons.

  The flight attendant tapped his shoulder. She held out a plate with a selection of bagels.

  He nodded yes and selected one with onions on top.

  She handed him a napkin, knife, and small package of cream cheese. "Would you like some orange juice?"

  He nodded. "Sure."

  He guessed she was in her thirties. She looked plain at first glance, but her smile changed everything. The perfect white teeth and sparkling brown eyes, in addition to her trim figure, made him wonder if she had been a model before. If not, it was only because she hadn't smiled enough.

  She returned with a cup of orange juice, then sat on the arm of the chair next to him. "Hi. I'm Wendy."

  "Grant Stevens," he replied.

  When he first arrived, he was surprised to find a flight attendant at all. For some reason, he expected a big cooler on the floor, and executives tossing each other sodas and peanuts. Now the thought seemed absurd. When he cut open the bagel, it felt warm and fresh, making him wonder how Wendy could have had time to shop during the short layover.

  "So how long are we going to be in Page?" she asked.

  The question surprised him. It had never occurred to him that the plane would be waiting with him in Page. "I don't know. I'll have to figure that out when I get there."

  The thought made him wonder what was happening at the dam. He looked out the window and decided the plane was at cruising altitude and he should probably make the call to GlenCanyon. He asked Wendy if the Gulfstream had a phone, and she pointed to a compartment by the window.

  "What are you doing at the dam? Do you have an important meeting or something?" she asked.

  He looked up at her and saw mild interest, but no fear whatsoever. "Julia didn't tell you?"

  She shook her head. "No. She just said to be ready to fly somebody immediately. I just figured . . ." Her voice trailed off, then he saw her brows furrow. "Julia didn't tell me what? Why, what's going on?"

  He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by another phone in the rear of the plane.

  "Excuse me, please," she said, then quickly stood and walked back toward the rear of the plane.

  While she was gone, he figured he better make the call. He leaned forward in his seat and searched in his right rear pants pocket for the card he used to scribble the phone number. He found the crumpled card and straightened it enough to read the number. Grant took a bite out of the bagel, then punched in the nine digits. Someone picked up immediately.

  "Hello, this is Brian."

  "Brian, this is Grant Stevens from the Bureau of Reclamation. How bad is it down there?"

  The man sounded nervous. "Well, there was an explosion about an hour ago. I didn't see it, but I heard it. It blew the top out of the elevator shaft and a hole in the dam."

  Grant wondered what could blow up the elevator shaft. None of the turbines were even near there. "What blew up? Do you have any idea?"

  "Heck, I don't know. It must have been somewhere down the elevator shaft. Something blew. It seemed like a bomb."

  For the first time since the call from Julia, Grant considered that the explosion might have been intentionally set. Until then, he had considered it an equipment-related explosion, but, if it were intentionally caused, then why? "You said there was a hole in the dam, Brian. How big?"

  Brian hesitated. "It looked pretty small when I first saw it, but now it's way bigger. It keeps growing. The water is really shooting out the hole."

  Grant pictured water pouring over the top of the dam in a small cut, but Brian's description didn't make sense. "Where exactly is the hole?"

  "It's in the west elevator shaft."

  That wasn't what Grant meant by the question. "How far down?"

  "About a third of the way, maybe two hundred feet."

  The answer felt like a gut punch. Grant leaned back in the seat and rested his head against the cushion. Was it possible he misheard? "Sorry Brian, could you repeat that?"

  "Two hundred, or maybe even two fifty."

  Grant bent forward and put his head in his hands. This was much worse than he had imagined. The pressure that deep in the dam would--

  Brian's voice rang in his ear. "Hello. Are you there?"

  He rubbed his forehead. "Yeah Brian, I'm here." Grant hesitated at the next question, not too sure he wanted to know the answer. "You said the hole is much larger now, you said shooting out. Approximately how big is it?"

  "You mean how big is the hole? I'd say let's see . . . maybe twenty-five or thirty-five feet."

  Grant tried to picture the leak; he'd never seen a column of water that large. Actually, a thirty-foot column of water, no one on earth had, for that matter. How could there not be any casualties? "Did everyone get out of the plant?" he asked.

  Brian's voice became low, almost a whisper. "I don't know, I couldn't contact them on the radio. I can only hope."

  Grant pictured what amounted to tons of water falling another four hundred feet down onto the generation plants below. "Has the water destroyed the plant yet?"

  Brian seemed to choose his words. "At first, the water shot out the hole so far that it cleared the plant completely. It didn't even touch it. By now, some of the water must be hitting the plant, but I c
an't really tell, there's too much mist down there."

  Grant tried to picture the whole canyon filled with mist. "Are you alone?"

  "I was alone in the visitor center, but there's a couple of my men at the upper access roads. Anyway, the cops showed up about a half hour ago."

  Grant pictured a dozen police cars parked haphazardly. "What are they doing?"

  "Mostly keeping people away, you know. But some of them are just looking themselves."

  He imagined the spectacle and how temping it would be to just stand and stare. Grant wondered if he would be able to not stare after he arrived.

  "Hey, I need to go." The security guard sounded anxious to get off the phone.

  "Okay, Brian. I'll be there as soon as I can." Grant replaced the phone in the compartment.

  Wendy was staring at him with wide eyes. "Is it bad?" she asked.

  Grant sighed. "Oh yeah."

  "The dam?"

  Grant nodded. "Yeah. Looks like somebody blew it up. It's breaking apart."

  Her eyes grew even bigger. "Will people die?"

  Grant considered the question. How could people not die if the dam failed completely? "Luckily, the area downstream of the dam was the Grand Canyon, for three hundred miles. Not a lot of people. If someone could just warn them." He hesitated, then looked down. "I'm sure some people will get hurt."

  Wendy just stared, then her demeanor changed as she remembered something. She offered Grant about twenty pages of paper. "This just came in on the fax machine. It's from Julia."

  Grant took the pages and flipped them around. The title page read, "DAM FAILURE INUNDATION REPORT, Glen Canyon Dam, Arizona." He scanned the table of contents, then looked up.

  "Wendy, how soon will we be there?"

  "We should land in Page in about fifteen or twenty minutes."

  Not enough time to read the entire document. He started reading. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wendy walk toward the back of the plane. After the second sentence, Grant skipped ahead, looking for paragraphs with numbers. Farther into the document he found tables that included flood depths and times downstream at various places in the Grand Canyon. At some point he realized he had been muttering. His stomach began to boil. He had to consciously stop himself from rubbing his forehead. Near the back of the document, he found an analysis of what would happen after all the floodwater from LakePowell joined with Lake Mead. It described theoretical water levels and their impact on Hoover Dam. Grant swore under his breath.