by Gary Hansen
Judy illuminated her flashlight. "Sam, look over there." She pointed her light at a small rock outcropping at eye level, off to the left of the raft.
Sam pointed his light at the same spot.
"Couldn't somebody climb up there?" she asked.
"Then what?"
She motioned upwards with her light. "You might be able to traverse up that ledge."
Sam shook his head. "I don't think you could make it. It's too narrow."
David's teeth chattered. "Try it! We can't hold on much longer." The water was almost to his waist and he had no leverage.
Keller helped Judy climb onto the outcropping. As soon as she found a place to grab, she pulled herself up. Like a spider, she clung to the rock and tried to traverse higher.
"It works," she said. "Somebody else come up."
Keller motioned for Sam to climb, then maneuvered to give him a leg up. Sam handed his light to Becky. Then with a boost from Keller, he reached for the wall as Judy had. But he missed the handhold. The action of Sam leaning against the rock was pushing the raft away from the cliff. David felt Afram stumble and lose his footing.
"I can't hold it!" Afram screamed.
But it was too late. Afram slipped into water over his head, and David couldn't hold the raft himself. It had almost pulled him deep before he let go. With the raft moving away, Sam fell into the boat and Becky screamed. Afram came up from underwater and stroked back to the rock wall.
Keller, Sam, and Becky were in the raft, and David, Afram, and Judy were on the rocks. And then the raft was gone into the darkness. Becky was screaming. There was no time to do anything. The beam from the flashlight hit David once more before the raft disappeared around the bend.
David wanted, needed, to yell out something, to scream at the top of his lungs. But nothing seemed appropriate. What could you say? Goodbye? Good luck? He heard Judy sob.
They were enveloped in darkness. Becky's screams eerily tapered off as the raft moved quickly downstream. David knew his friends would be dead in minutes, and the shock of that knowledge paralyzed him. After a while, they could no longer hear Becky screaming.
* * *
9:25 p.m. - Grand Canyon, Arizona
Keller regained his senses and took inventory. Only he and the couple were in the raft. The other three were behind on the rocks. He waited a few seconds for Becky to stop screaming, and then he barked out orders. "Find the paddles!"
She sobbed. "What good is that going to do?"
"FIND THEM!" he ordered. "If I die, I'm going to die paddling."
The girl shined her light on the floor and Keller saw paddles scattered around the boat. He grabbed one and made sure that Sam got another one. The girl was worthless. Keller straddled the right side of the raft. "Sam, you take that side," he ordered. Sam took his position.
"Shine the light out there and find someplace for us to land," he told Becky.
She obeyed. They drifted through the darkness. The sound of the waterfall was getting much louder.
Becky pointed the flashlight downstream toward the noise. "Is that --"
"FORGET THAT!" he yelled. "Shine the light at the shore. Try to find us someplace."
Keller expected Sam to defend her. He had been protecting her for the whole trip. But Sam said nothing.
"What was that over there?" It was Sam's voice.
Keller had seen it too. "Back to the right."
Becky moved the light and found a rock outcropping, jutting from the shore.
"We can make it!" Sam called out. "Paddle!"
Keller paddled, but he knew it was too far away. When they passed, they were more than three boat lengths from reaching it.
The waterfall noise had become much louder, and Keller knew the struggle was over for them. The currents were moving the raft farther into the middle of the channel. "Tighten your life jackets!"
The right side of the boat lagged slightly and he stroked twice to straighten it. He yelled to be heard over the water. "Okay, Becky, shine the light straight ahead!"
She did as instructed, and Keller saw the V shape of GraniteNarrows less than fifty feet ahead. He yelled loudly to be heard. "RIGHT SIDE PADDLE! LEFT SIDE PADDLE!"
Keller felt the water accelerate the raft as they were sucked into the narrows. Shooting through the entrance, he knew it was the fastest speed he had ever achieved in a raft. Becky was screaming again. Keller felt the wind on his face and the water on his feet. His hair blew back. He yelled at the top of his lungs and paddled harder. The raft bucked, but stayed in shape.
Suddenly, there was nothing. They were falling. The raft pitched backwards and Keller fell out. He felt mist in the air. He felt fear. He felt exhilaration. He felt peace when he hit the water. Then he felt nothing.
* * *
9:30 p.m. - Las Vegas, Nevada
Like a million other Las Vegas residents, the Van Buren family was glued to the TV. Just like when the war started, or the Los Angeles riots broke out, or even the O.J. verdict, this was a time when all the networks had abandoned their sitcoms and concentrated on the news. To the people of Las Vegas, this was not just any news, either; it was their news. It concerned their river, the Colorado, the one that provided their electricity and their water. It also concerned their dam, Hoover, which could potentially fail under the onslaught of floodwater en route toward it.
The Van Burens were not what you would call an ideal family unit. They consisted of a dad and three boys. No mom - she had run out on them fifteen years before. The two older boys and their father worked security at the casinos. Like his older brothers before him, the youngest boy played linebacker on his high school football team. The Van Burens were big. And they were pissed off that a bunch of terrorists thought they could get away with what they had done to the Colorado River.
When the news showed another camera shot of the floodwater in the Grand Canyon, Jeremy, the oldest son, set down his Budweiser. "If only I could get my hands on those towel-heads." He clenched his hands around an imaginary neck, and pretended to violently strangle the life out of the poor dumb sucker.
Milt, the father, tilted his beer at his son. "And we would do it for free, wouldn't we boys?"
All three boys nodded enthusiastically.
The TV then showed an aerial view of Hoover Dam, zooming in on the sand bag dike being constructed. The Van Burens had already talked at length about this dike, and whether it would work or not.
The TV switched to the mayor of Las Vegas. "Citizens of Las Vegas and neighboring communities, we need your help."
All four Van Burens stopped talking about strangling terrorists and listened closely.
The mayor continued. "Engineers estimate that we will need close to a million sandbags to build up Hoover Dam high enough to retain the floodwater. That is more than construction companies in the area can manage, so I am calling on you, the people of the great city of Las Vegas, to help us. We need all able-bodied men and women to bring your shovels and help us fill sandbags. We have set up a dozen locations around the city."
A list of locations showed up on the screen. The Van Buren boys noticed that the second spot on the list was a huge sandy hillside only a couple of miles down the road.
"So if you can help, please come prepared to work. We ask that all volunteers bring their own drinking--"
Milt shut off the television. "Come on, boys." He finished his Budweiser and tossed the can on the floor. "We got work to do."
CHAPTER 24
9:35 p.m. - Davis Dam, Laughlin, Nevada
The skinny man drove his other white pickup truck up to the police roadblock at Davis Dam and stopped behind a sport utility vehicle. The emblems on this second truck were not from Jensen Industrial Elevator like he used at the Glen Canyon Dam. Instead, the truck had the official blue oval logos of the Bureau of Reclamation, including the images of a mountain range. The large emblems made the truck look very official.
Although the highway normally continued up over the crest of the dam, the
police roadblock now stopped traffic a half mile from the dam itself. The combination of police cars blocking the road, wood barriers, and orange cones set in a semicircular pattern left no doubt that they were not allowing traffic over the dam, but instead wanted them to follow the cones around in a small semi-circle and head back the way they had come.
He saw a policeman approach an SUV in front of the truck and motion around the cones. The driver of the SUV rolled down her window and pointed up over the dam. The skinny man cracked his window to see if he could overhear the conversation. Even through the small opening, he felt the stifling hot air outside. He could hear the policeman clearly.
"Sorry ma'am, but the road is closed." The policeman pointed down the hill. "The other bridge is only a few miles down the road."
The lady responded with animated motions from her hands, but the skinny man could not quite hear what she was saying.
"Ma'am, I understand it's an emergency, but all evacuations are being routed over the other bridge. We're not allowing any traffic over the dam." The policeman stepped back to end the conversation and motioned the SUV to continue back down the hill.
The SUV moved forward abruptly, the driver obviously unhappy, but the vehicle followed the cones around and headed back down the hill.
The skinny man's heart pounded as he pulled the truck up to the policeman and stopped.
The policeman tried to wave him around, but he didn't move, instead rolling his window all the way down and leaning out. The policeman reluctantly approached the window. "Sir, you can't stop here. All traffic-"
The skinny man pointed down at the door emblem. "I'm with the Bureau. They sent me down here to run some tests."
The officer hesitated, and then motioned for him to pull the truck forward and off the side of the road. When he stopped, a second man wearing a generic security uniform approached him. He noticed that the security man had a small Bureau of Reclamation patch above the pocket of his uniform. It was show time.
The Bureau's security guard was a short black man who looked like he was trying to grow a beard but failing. He leaned in the window of the truck. "About damn time somebody showed up. We were beginning to think nobody cared."
This surprised the skinny man. They were actually happy to see him. He stumbled slightly with his words. "Well, uh . . . I've been up at Hoover. They sent me down here to run some moisture tests." He reached for the fake Bureau ID in his pocket.
The guard perked up. "What's going on at Hoover? We ain't heard nothin' down here except on the radio."
He retrieved his identification, but this guy didn't seem like he cared, so he held it closed in his hand. No sense showing it if he didn't need to. The question about Hoover needed answering, although the skinny man hadn't really been there. Fortunately Hoover had been all over the television all day. "Well, you probably know they've been scrambling to get ready for the flood water. They dynamited the spillways this afternoon." He had heard about the spillways on the news. That had been a brilliant idea to save Hoover, one he never would have thought of. The possibility that Hoover might survive could screw up his whole plan. Hoover's collapse was an important domino in the chain.
The guard continued, motioning with his hand at nothing in particular. "They told us about the spillways. Our water level's been rising ever since. What about the floodwater coming down the Grand Canyon? When do they expect it to get to Hoover? And what about that thing they're building on top of the dam? Do they really expect that to hold anything?"
The skinny man had been glued to the TV and had the same questions. When would the floodwater arrive? Would the sandbag dike hold? Building the dam higher with sandbags was another thing he hadn't thought of. He could not imagine it actually working, not with all the water headed toward it from LakePowell. But what if it did?
He realized he was wasting too much time. "I know you have a ton of questions, but I'm kinda in a hurry. They want me to make some moisture measurements up on the crest." He pointed up. "This dam is gonna get a workout tonight and we don't want it to leak."
The guard stepped back away from the window. "How long you gonna be up there?"
He thought about it. "I don't know. A half hour, forty five minutes." He started to roll up his window, then lowered it again. "Hey, just so you guys know, to take my measurements, I'm gonna be drilling a couple of holes in the top of the dam. I need to make sure they're not seeping."
The guard smiled. "You the boss."
He put the truck back in gear and headed up the road. That had been too easy. He couldn't believe it. They had actually been hungry for news and interaction. That had worked to his advantage. He had not even needed the fake ID.
As the road wound its way to the top of the dam, he looked across and saw how well the dam was lit up. Too well, he thought. He was going to be out in the open. If somebody watched too closely, they'd figure out what he was doing. The road reached the crest of the dam and he drove across it.
Lights along the dam spilled out over the water and gave him a view of the water level. It had risen much higher than he remembered from his scouting missions. For the level to rise this fast, Hoover must be dumping an incredible amount of water. It didn't matter, though. It all worked into his plan. He needed Hoover to dump enough water to rupture the gravel dam he was standing on. Not that he could count on the water itself to do the trick. No, he was going to give it a little head start.
He drove to the middle of the dam and stopped in an area between two of the floodlights. The area wasn't dark, but it was the best he could do. He had already shut off the engine before he looked around, and had another idea. He fired the truck up again, and turned it around so it faced the other direction; the truck bed was now hidden from the security guards below. He opened the door and let the wave of hot desert air envelop him. He hopped out of the cab and stood for a moment staring out over the water of LakeMojave. The black water stretched beyond the reach of the dam's floodlights until it disappeared somewhere in the distance. He couldn't help but think about upstream at Hoover Dam, and the imminent flood. To him, the thought of the water coming was good. It was a satisfying feeling. In fact, he wanted the flood to hurry.
In preparation, just like when he scouted GlenCanyon, he'd listened for hours on a scanner to determine who was who and how they expected legitimate visitors to check in. And, like GlenCanyon, if you knew the right words, submitted the right paperwork, and dropped the right names, they let you in. That would change in the near future after they analyzed the events of the next couple of days. In fact, the policy would no doubt change after this particular visit. This would be his last freebie and he needed to make the best of it.
He walked to the back of the truck and opened the tailgate. He grabbed a long tool shaped much like a jackhammer, which he dragged from the truck. The tool had an auger where the bit on a jackhammer would be. Holding the tool by both handles, at about eye level, the auger could drill a six-inch hole five feet deep. He'd told the guard that he'd need to drill several holes in the dike to do the moisture absorption tests, so he didn't expect to raise any suspicion with the tool.
He pulled the crank on a small compressor in the back of the pickup and it came to life. He plugged the huge drill into the compressor and lugged it over to the waterside of the dam. He had to lift the tool over a waist-high cinder block wall that bordered the upstream side of the dam. He chose a spot as far from the boulders as possible, braced and pulled the trigger. The auger spun against the hard ground before finally biting in and began its slow drop into the roadbed. Gravel piled up around where the auger spun in. A couple of times the tool jarred his arms, almost tearing the handles out of his hands, but he was braced for it, and it caused him no problems. He had already practiced with the tool and knew what to expect when the drill hit rocks.
The oversized drill chugged deeper until the auger buried itself and the handles almost rested on the ground. He released the trigger, flipped a switch to reverse the auger, depressed th
e trigger again, and the drill climbed back out of the hole. Shutting it off, he lifted it carefully away, so as to not knock gravel back in the opening. He admired his work for a moment, but didn't tarry, knowing full well the first one was the easiest. He hefted the drill back over the wall onto the asphalt road. He lined it up with the previous hole, so he would have a line of holes from the wet side of the dam to the dry side. He pulled the trigger again, hoping there wasn't a concrete pad under the asphalt. The drill spun harmlessly for several seconds on the hard road before it finally grabbed and started sinking.
When he rented the tool, they had told him that highway construction teams used the same tool to bore through pavement all the time, and that he could dig through asphalt all day long as long as he didn't hit any concrete. He watched closely as the black debris came up out of the opening around the bit. Suddenly the debris changed to gray dust and gravel and he knew he was past the asphalt. No concrete pad. He had just relaxed his hold on the drill when it jammed, jerking his arms savagely before an override shut it off. Maybe there was concrete down there. He pushed the reset button and pulled the trigger again, but it jammed again. He reversed it, then tried once more. Same result. A feeling of failure washed over him and he wondered if this whole exercise had been in vain. What had ever made him believe he could succeed?
He gave up on that spot and reversed the drill, letting it climb out of the hole. He picked a different spot only two feet away. He let it rip again, and waited while the drill did its thing. He wondered if he would have the same result, but this time the auger kept spinning. It jerked hard a couple of times, but kept going until the hole was done. He wiped sweat off his brow. Working in the intense heat was suffocating. He looked out at the water of LakeMojave and briefly considered taking a dip to cool off, but instead he moved the drill to the next target. He repeated the process three more times, until a line of five holes stretched across the dike.
With his arms now shaking, he lifted the tool back into the truck and used his shirt to wipe more sweat off his face and neck. But the motion was a waste of time since his shirt was soaked too. He rummaged in the truck and grabbed another gadget, one he'd designed himself. It included a two-foot-long plastic tube, with a bucket on the top. At the top of the tube, right under the bucket, he'd mounted a ball valve. He opened another bucket and poured white pellets into his tool, filling the bucket on top. The substance, ammonium nitrate fertilizer, was the same as he had used at GlenCanyon. He carried the gadget over to the first hole, put the bottom of the tube in the hole, opened the ball valve, and felt the fertilizer drop into the hole. He shook it to get it all out. It took four more trips before all five holes were filled. Next he used the same tool to put diesel fuel into all five holes. He was almost finished.