Wet Desert: Tracking Down a Terrorist on the Colorado River

by Gary Hansen

  CHAPTER 10

  9:00 a.m. - GlenCanyon Dam, Arizona

  Two news helicopters hovered over the Glen Canyon Dam, cameramen hanging out open doors. The first one had arrived from Las Vegas twenty minutes before. The second arrived a few minutes after that from a television station in Phoenix.

  The opening in the top of the dam stretched over two hundred feet across, and close to three hundred feet down. Grant knew that the amount of water draining out of LakePowell was now more than the flow of the Mississippi. As he watched, a house-sized piece of concrete broke away and fell into the canyon, a sight that was becoming normal at GlenCanyon. The resulting splash could only be imagined, since the canyon bottom had long since disappeared in the clouds of mist.

  Grant felt helpless. What could he do? The dam would disintegrate with or without him there. Maybe downstream, where all the floodwater was headed, there was still something to be done. He turned away from the windows. "Brian, who did you talk to at Hoover? What were they going to do?"

  Brian shook his head. "I can't remember who I talked to. We didn't talk about what they should do. I just told them we had a hole in the dam."

  Grant hoped Fred Grainger was at Hoover. He nodded to the phone, "I need to talk to them. Can you get me the number?"

  Brian rustled through the papers on his desk and handed Grant a sheet while holding his finger under the number for Hoover Dam. Grant dialed the number and someone on the other end picked up.

  "Hello, this is Grant Stevens from the Bureau of Reclamation. I'm calling from Glen Canyon Dam. Is Fred Grainger there?"

  The man on the other end asked him to hold. While he waited, he wondered how long it would take to get to Hoover.

  "Hello, this is Fred." He sounded tired.

  "Fred, Grant Stevens calling from GlenCanyon."

  Fred's voice seemed to cheer up slightly "Grant. How are things up there? Who's in charge?"

  Grant shook his head, even though he was on the phone. "Like it or not, I'm in charge. I'm all the Bureau could muster for this one."

  Fred was silent on the other end for a moment. "What about the commissioner, and the VP's? Where's Archibald?"

  "They're all on their way to Kenya for the symposium," Grant explained.

  "Holy crap. So they don't even know?"

  "I don't know. They may have been reached by now. Commissioner Blackwell's admin sent me here this morning. I'm sure she's been trying to contact them ever since." The phone went silent for a moment, and then Grant spoke again. "What are you guys doing at Hoover?"

  Fred spoke tentatively. "Well, we canceled all tours for the day. We're using some of the tour guides to work traffic to turn people back."

  Grant couldn't respond. He hoped that they were doing a lot more than just canceling tours. "What about your water? Aren't you dumping any?"

  "Not yet," answered Fred. "But we started notifying -"

  "Why not?" Grant yelled into the phone.

  Fred stumbled with his answer. "We're trying. But I had to notify the dams downstream first, and Laughlin, so they could, you know, prepare. I can't just flood 'em out."

  Grant couldn't believe it. They were worried about flooding downstream. In reality, flooding downstream was a legitimate worry. The problem was, it was going to be unavoidable. And the longer they waited, the worse the flooding downstream would be. How could he make them understand? "Fred, we are having a catastrophic failure here! The Glen Canyon Dam is breaking apart. You are about to get LakePowell in your lap. I suggest you start dumping water as fast as you can."

  Fred hesitated on the other end. "I'm not sure I can authorize that. My boss is gone too. Besides, we're limited on how much water we can release downstream. If I let too much out, it'll cause problems."

  Grant felt the muscles in his neck tighten. "You have to authorize it, Fred. You're all we've got. If you don't start dumping, you won't be able to handle all the water and Hoover'll get topped."

  The phone went silent. Hopefully Fred understood that even Hoover, the king of the big dams in America, could not survive topping. Sustained topping, even of concrete dams, would tear them apart in no time.

  After some silence, Fred responded, "I figured the two spillways could handle most of it."

  Grant shook his head again. "Think about it, Fred. You think your spillways'll be able to dump two years of river flow in one day?"

  Fred didn't respond.

  Grant spoke slowly. "Open the gates, Fred. Now. Get rid of as much water as possible."

  "I'm going to need some kind of authorization," Fred said.

  "It's just us Fred. As crappy as it sounds, I'm in charge." He continued. "I hereby authorize you to dump water. Hell, Fred, if it'll help, I'll order you to. Blame me. Just start opening everything you got."

  Finally, he responded. "All right. I'll open the gates."

  "Good Fred. I'll be there as soon as I can. Let me give you my cell phone number." Grant read off the number. "You can't be a hero on this one, Fred, but you can definitely be the goat. Do what you have to do."

  Fred seemed anxious to get off the phone. "I'd better go."

  "Fred, you guys control the dams downstream too, don't you? You need to open the gates at Davis and Parker too."

  The next two dams downstream from Hoover were Davis Dam, which created LakeMojave, and Parker Dam, which held back LakeHavasu. All flow control at Davis and Parker was automated and initiated from the Hoover Dam control center.

  "You want me to dump all three dams?" Fred asked, sounding more scared than before. "That'll flood everything downstream."

  "You will absolutely cause flooding downstream, Fred. But that's nothing compared to the flood that'll occur if one of the dams fails."

  "All right. I gotta go."

  Grant felt uncomfortable hanging up, but he knew he had to. "Okay, Fred, keep me posted."

  Grant hung up the phone. Brian was waiting.

  He pointed to Earl. "Earl's got something to tell you."

  Earl spoke in his raspy voice, "I just got a call from the Feds. The L.A. office of the FBI just landed in Page. They want a meeting with me and you as soon as they get here."

  The FBI wanted to talk to him? What could he tell them? He had enough things to worry about without having to deal with them. On the other hand, maybe they knew something already. Maybe they knew who did it. He saw no way to avoid the meeting. He nodded to Earl. "Fine, I'll be waiting."

  He walked to the windows. It was hard to believe how fast the sight changed when he was away for a few moments. During the phone call to Hoover, Grant estimated that the cut in the dam had grown by twenty or thirty percent. Now, watermarks were visible on the canyon wall just upstream from the dam. The water level next to the dam had dropped almost ten feet. Farther upstream, there were no marks yet, meaning the water was dropping ten feet in just over a hundred yards.

  He turned back to the group at the table. "How are the safety warnings going?"

  Dan answered, "Downstream, the police have closed all access to Lee's Ferry and other roads down into the canyon. The rangers at the Grand Canyon have called tour helicopters in Vegas and asked for their assistance in flying through the canyon to warn hikers to climb to higher ground. I need to check with them to see how it's going."

  Grant pointed upstream into LakePowell. "What about there?" he asked.

  Dan nodded. "Yeah, we called 'em."

  Grant continued. "How come I don't see anybody? What if some boater wants to motor down by the dam? If a boat enters this canyon upstream from the dam, he'll get sucked through the hole."

  The group looked around at each other.

  Earl spoke up, "I guess we could park a boat about a mile upstream to keep people away."

  Grant smiled, his first smile in a while. "Better make it a fast one. We don't want to see a police boat get pulled over either."

  * * *

  9:10 a.m. - St. George, Utah

  The man shut off the motorcycle and leaned it on its kickstan
d, then climbed off. Being an infrequent rider, nearly three hours on the road had taken its toll. His inner thighs and buttocks ached and his lower back wasn't much better. His fingers resisted straightening, preferring instead to remain in a gripped position. He fumbled while trying to unfasten his helmet strap; after removing his gloves, he was able to complete the task. He stuffed the gloves into the helmet, and left the helmet on the seat of the bike, unlocked. After all, this was St. George, Utah.

  Entering the restaurant, he shucked the sunglasses and stuffed them in his pocket. Not waiting to be seated, he headed straight to the bar where the TV was located. Finding a bar with a TV in St. George had been no easy task, especially one open this early in the morning. On his previous trips, he had stopped at almost every restaurant on

  St. George Blvd.

  before finally settling on the small cafe just off the exit from I-15, which had a small bar and a television.

  He climbed on a stool and looked up at the TV. He was glad to be alone at the bar. Unfortunately, the TV was tuned to a sports channel showing baseball highlights. A fifty-ish woman with gray hair, who looked like she would rather be anywhere else but waiting tables, walked up with a coffee pot.

  "Coffee?" She laid a menu down in front of him.

  He slid his cup toward her, an unspoken response to the question. While she poured, he pointed at the TV. "Can we put that on the news?"

  She looked around the room, most likely to see if anyone else would care. After she verified the room was still empty, she nodded. "Sure. I'll get somebody to come in and change it for you." She left.

  He picked up the menu and scanned it, but he was so anxious to see the news that he couldn't concentrate. Why couldn't she have changed the channel herself? He leaned over the bar and looked for a remote.

  The waitress materialized beside him. "Ready to order?" Her voice sounded strange, as if she didn't approve of him leaning over the bar.

  He dropped back in his seat and opened the menu again. There were pictures of omelets, eggs, French toast, and other breakfast specials. He didn't feel all that hungry. He just wanted to watch the news. "Is somebody gonna come in and change the channel?"

  "Yeah. They'll be here in a minute. Do you need some more time?"

  He scanned the pictures in the menu, not close to making a decision. "How about a couple of pancakes?" he said suddenly.

  She pointed at a line in the menu. "Two or three?"

  "Two," he said.

  She wrote on her pad and continued talking without looking up. "Bacon, sausage, or ham?"

  He didn't feel like any. "I'll take bacon."

  She grabbed his menu. "Somebody'll be here in a minute to change the TV." She left.

  He watched a highlight of someone hitting a home run, fans fighting in the grandstands for the ball. He hated baseball. What a boring sport - too much waiting. He looked at his watch. It had been three hours already. What if nothing else was happening at the dam? Maybe the news wasn't on to it yet. What if they figured out how to fix the leak?

  "You want another channel?" A man in an apron, probably a cook, walked into the bar.

  He pointed to the TV. "Can we see if there's anything on the news?"

  "Sure." The man walked over to the TV, reached up, and started flipping channels. "Any one in particular?" he asked.

  Which channel would be first to cover it? A local network, probably. He was about to say something when a picture of the Glen Canyon Dam, obscured in fog, appeared briefly then disappeared.

  "Stop!" he yelled, holding out both of his hands. "Go back a couple."

  The cook looked at him curiously, as if he was thinking he might pull a gun or something. The TV flipped back to the view of the dam.

  "That's it." He stood and walked closer to the TV.

  The view of the Glen Canyon Dam was taken from a helicopter. The whole area where the west elevator had been was gone. It had simply disappeared. Water poured from a football field-sized cut in the dam. His heart seemed to stop beating. This was better than his dreams. He couldn't stop a huge grin from stretching across his face.

  The man in the apron stood next to him. "Is that the Glen Canyon Dam?" he asked, pointing toward the television.

  The words "Glen Canyon Dam, LakePowell" were written in bold across the bottom of the screen in bright yellow.

  "Yeah," the man said, not taking his eyes off the TV. The camera panned downstream and showed the water rushing down the rock canyon. Brown water, obscured in mist, churned in constantly changing rapids, rapids that looked like they could swallow a whole house. He quickly estimated the water levels below the dam to be a hundred feet above normal.

  "How did you know about this already?" The cook asked, without taking his eyes off the TV. "Did you hear about it on the radio or something?"

  "Yeah," he answered, without thinking or looking at the man.

  They both stared blankly at the television without saying anything. The camera showed the water line above the dam, and a close up of the water rushing through the break.

  "What caused it?" the man in the apron asked. "Did they say on the radio?"

  He heard the words, but at first he didn't realize they were directed toward him. He watched in amazement as a piece of concrete the size of a house broke off the dam and disappeared into the canyon below. He couldn't believe it. The scene seemed surreal, like a fantasy. He felt a large pit growing in his stomach.

  The cook tugged at his arm. "Did they say what caused it? On the radio?"

  He looked over at the man. "Huh?"

  "What caused it? You said you heard about it on the radio."

  He shook his head and motioned back toward the door, keeping his eyes on the TV. "I don't have a radio. I'm on a motorcycle."

  The man gave him a funny look, making him realize he had just contradicted himself regarding the radio. In the depths of his consciousness he wondered if he should try to say something to cover up the contradiction, but his amazement of what was happening on the TV overrode the concern. The cook must have shared the same feeling, because he broke the stare and reached up and turned up the volume on the TV.

  ". . . no comment yet from law enforcement or the Bureau of Reclamation regarding the cause of this disaster. Additionally, we were unable to contact anyone downstream in the Grand Canyon."

  "It's gonna drown everybody in the Grand Canyon," the cook said. "It'll kill a ton of people."

  This comment bothered him. Hopefully the park would have enough time to warn everybody, and get them out. All they really needed to do was hike up a couple of hundred feet, to get above the water. He didn't want to see too many people die.

  The trance was broken when the waitress delivered his plate of pancakes to the bar. He jumped when he heard the waitress behind him.

  "Oh my gosh. What dam is that?" she said. The words "Glen Canyon Dam" were still painted across the bottom of the screen.

  The man in the apron pointed at the screen. "LakePowell."

  The waitress held a hand in front of her mouth. "Oh my! What happened?"

  He noticed that another waitress, this one much younger, appeared wearing the same dress. A man in regular clothes, not the restaurant uniforms, walked in. "What the . . ."

  Over the next few moments, more people showed up, most of them other customers. The comments and questions became noisy enough that the cook had to turn up the TV again. The man watched for a few more minutes, until another enormous piece of concrete broke off the structure and fell into the water. He no longer had any desire to eat. And although the last thing he wanted was to pull his eyes off the images on the television, the group made him uncomfortable. And besides, GlenCanyon was only the first. He had much more to do. He pulled a ten out of his wallet, and tossed it near the untouched plate of pancakes. The waitress's eyes, like everyone else's, were still riveted to the television, so when he walked out the front door toward his motorcycle, no one noticed.

  * * *

  9:15 a.m. - Hole in the
Rock, Lake Powell, Utah

  Julie and Erika stopped for a rest. Paul and Greg were a hundred feet farther ahead. Erika took off her t-shirt and adjusted her bikini top. It was hot already, maybe ninety degrees. Julie unscrewed the lid on her canteen and took a long drink.

  Fifteen minutes before, they had arrived at buoy 66, which meant they were sixty-six miles upstream from the Glen Canyon Dam. They turned into the small bay and tied off the boat on some rocks on the shore. There were three other boats parked and hikers were already spread out up and down the slope. Julie's first thought at seeing where they would be hiking was that you would have to be crazy to climb it. But, after a few minutes of complaining, she had reluctantly tightened the laces on her hiking boots, checked the canteens, and the two couples had started their hike.

  Now, while Julie rested, she glanced back down and saw that another boat had arrived below and was preparing to hike. Julie wiped sweat off her brow and wished they had started earlier. "We should've done RainbowBridge on the way home."

  Erika exhaled. "I don't think I would have felt like stopping anywhere on the way home."

  Julie thought Erika had a good point. She looked up and saw the men still climbing. They looked strong, especially Paul, who had a springy step and looked like he could take off running at any moment. "Paul looks like he could go forever."

  Erika looked up at her husband. "Yeah, and we were both stupid for not putting a rope around him so he could pull us with him."

  Julie laughed. Now her imagination was going to be taunting her with that fantasy of a rope pulling her to the top.

  Looking up the slope, Hole in the Rock was basically the intersection of two near-vertical cliffs, their merger creating a notch that climbed steeply upwards until it cut right into the rock and formed a steep 'V' shape. The climb up the notch was a minimum twenty-five percent grade, but sometimes increased to as much as forty-five. Julie's calves were burning already, even though they weren't even a quarter of the way up. Farther ahead the two men had stopped and were looking back down at their wives.