by Gary Hansen
Phil grinned. "Exactly. And who was most adversely affected by draining LakePowell?"
Grant rubbed his chin skeptically. "So you think this guy's blowing up the dams because he hates boaters?"
Phil leaned forward. "Why not? It's something that both dams have in common. If you added up all the boaters on Powell, Mojave, and Havasu, you'd have a hard time finding three other lakes in the country with more boats."
Grant looked into Phil's pleading expression and understood immediately that Phil wanted to believe it, in a bad way. "I dunno, Phil."
Phil pleaded. "What if the guy's wife and kids were killed in a boating accident, Grant? What if a boat trailer came unhooked on the freeway and killed his mother?"
Grant could see the logic. A part of him wanted to embrace the theory, if for no other reason than to believe that the bombings were finally over. "Well, that should be easy to investigate. You should be able to get a list of boating related fatalities, right?"
Phil nodded. "I got a bunch of agents checking into it already. They were isolating the search around LakePowell. I just need to expand the search to LakeHavasu and LakeMojave."
"Better add Lake Mead," said Grant, with no enthusiasm.
"Good point." Phil jotted down some notes.
Grant hesitated to bring it up. "What about securing other likely sites?"
Phil was disappointed. "You mean if he tries to bomb other dams? Sure, we can do that. Where would you suggest?"
Grant started counting across his fingers. "Well, definitely all the dams on the lower Colorado, starting with Parker just downstream, Head Gate Rock, Palo Verde, and Imperial. But why not send a bulletin out to all dams, reservoirs, and lakes in the western United States? We could tell them to beef up security and watch out for persons masquerading as repairmen, Bureau of Reclamation, Fish & Game or anybody else who gets VIP access." Phil didn't seem that interested, so Grant continued. "Keep in mind that even if we accept the water-skier theory, his attempt at Davis has failed. He may need to strike again." Grant saw that putting it that way had gotten Phil's attention.
Phil instructed one of the other agents to write down Grant's suggestions. The agent asked Grant to repeat the names of the lower Colorado Dams, which he did. Phil asked if Grant could facilitate getting the information out to the dams via the Bureau of Reclamation. Grant gave Phil a contact at the Bureau to help him.
Grant asked another question nervously. "What about the whole international terrorist theory? Did you give up on that?"
Phil shrugged. "I have a whole team still investigating that scenario just in case. But it's not holding water." He smiled quickly as he realized the innuendo. "Solitary white guys at both dams, fertilizer bombs, big dam, little dam. It just doesn't fit."
Grant looked at his watch again and felt anxious. He needed to get back to Hoover. In spite of Phil's satisfaction with the anti-boater theory, Grant was sure more bombings were coming. He hoped that it was just paranoia, and that the destruction was over. The FBI, after all, was experienced at this kind of thing. Grant vowed to let them do their thing, their way. He had plenty to worry about already at Hoover. He stood, gingerly putting weight on his right foot, and reached out his hand to Phil. "I gotta go. I have to get back to Hoover. We've got a big morning ahead of us."
Phil nodded, also standing. "Well, we know how to get ahold of you."
Grant reached down to his hip for the cell, but it wasn't there. He looked back up at the FBI agents. "Actually, you won't be able to get ahold of me for a while. I lost my phone during my little accident." He motioned up toward the dike. "I'll try to get another one when I get to Hoover."
Phil nodded to one of the agents in coveralls, who unclipped his cell phone and handed it to Grant. Grant looked strangely at it, not knowing what to do. He was just about to hand it back when Phil held up both of his hands. "Hey, we can't afford to not be able to get in touch with you. Consider it a gift from the FBI. You can send it back to us when all this is over."
The agent who'd given it to him wrote down the phone number for him and made sure Grant knew how to work it. Phil turned and engaged one of his agents in conversation. Grant took the opportunity to sit back down and use the new phone to call Fred at Hoover to schedule the helicopter for his return flight. When Fred answered, he sounded like he had been asleep, but said he would arrange the helicopter and call back with the flight details. While Grant waited, Special Agent Susan Williams sat down next to him.
She checked the bandages on his arms and tugged at the wrapping on his left arm that was slipping down. "Good luck at Hoover," she said.
"Thanks, we'll need it." He held up his arms. "Thanks for bandaging me up. You went far beyond the call of duty for an FBI agent."
She stood and smiled down at him. "Not a problem. The government needs you at Hoover so it doesn't collapse. I was just doing my part."
Grant's eyes drifted to the black semi-automatic gun strapped on her hip. He remembered how rigid and tough she had acted when she first arrived, and how precise and meticulous she had done her job at the bombsite. But underneath the FBI facade, she had turned out to be personable, something he never would have guessed two hours earlier.
Grant checked his watch again. It was time to move on. He had forgotten to get an update from Fred about what had happened at Hoover since he left. Hopefully, no news was good news. Regardless, Grant was anxious to get back as soon as possible.
CHAPTER 28
2:45 a.m. - Davis Dam, Nevada
When the helicopter touched down in the parking lot, Grant shook hands with the FBI agents and the security guards, then hurried to climb in and sit down. His bandaged toe was throbbing. He would need Advil or something even stronger as soon as he reached Hoover. He buckled in when the pilot handed him his seat belt. When he pulled the door shut and put on the headphones, quiet enveloped him.
After the rotors accelerated, the helicopter rose gently and Grant felt himself relax into his seat. The altitude gave him a great view of Davis Dam. Down below he saw Reese leaning against his truck, talking to someone on a radio, and the bulldozers sweeping back and forth over the damaged section created by the explosion. They were past the critical stage. Grant relaxed for the first time in many hours. He closed his eyes to savor the feeling, and had difficulty re-opening them.
He pried open his eyes when he felt the helicopter lean forward and accelerate. By then they were headed north across the glimmering black surface of LakeMojave. He stared at the blackness ahead and rested his eyes again. The rhythmic thump of the rotors felt so relaxing. This time when he closed his eyes, Grant Stevens slept.
* * *
3:00 a.m. - Mohave Desert, California
The truck cut through the desert air at 70 mph and the radio blasted George Thorogood's "Bad to the Bone." The skinny man sang along enthusiastically, " . . . I'm here to tell ya honey, that I'm bad to the bone. B-B-B-B-Bad, B-B-B-Bad, B-B-B-Bad to the bone." When the song ended, he laughed out loud. He slapped the dashboard and yelled as loud as he could. His neck and shoulders tingled so he shrugged them a few times. He didn't remember ever feeling this much energy. It felt wonderful. A road sign shot past on the side of the road. He was getting close. Reluctantly, he turned off the radio and tried to relax. He didn't want to miss the turnoff.
Since he had planted the bomb at Davis Dam, he had traveled back to Vegas for more supplies before heading south again. His ammonium nitrate supply was almost depleted, but then again, who would have ever thought he would be able to accomplish so much with so little. Back in Vegas, it had taken only forty minutes to restock the truck. He almost stopped at McDonalds before realizing that this could possibly be his last meal. So he drove on, and instead chose an all-night restaurant, with a steak and jumbo shrimp, the big ones, not those little dinky ones they give you on the all-you-can-eat special. He put the whole thing on the card. Why not?
By the time he gassed up the truck and bought a Big Gulp for the road, it had been almost 1:00 a.m
. After driving south for several hours, he had turned west away from the Colorado River on Highway 62. That had been almost twenty minutes before. If he continued that way, he would eventually end up in Palm Springs, but for now, he had another destination in mind.
Ideally, he would have loved to stop and blow up Parker Dam, but he figured by then it would be heavily guarded, along with all the other dams on the Colorado River. They would be on to him by now, and a little less trusting of white pickups with explosives.
On the desert highway, with no traffic, he drove with the brights on, and easily spotted the gravel road on his right. He slowed and turned onto the bumpy road and headed up a slight incline for a quarter mile. Up ahead, barely visible in the night, was a string of four large culverts stretched across the top of the road, causing the road to dip to get under them. He slowed, turned off the gravel road, and pulled up alongside the culverts and shut off the truck. He opened the door and climbed out into the desert air. When the door light extinguished, it was just him, the moon, and the stars. He took a few steps away from the truck, unzipped, and drained his radiator while his eyes adjusted. By the time he was done and had zipped up, his eyes were more dilated, and with a little help from the moon he saw the outline of the hills clearly, and could even pick out sagebrush on the hillside. He spun and looked back toward the Colorado River and LakeHavasu, over fifty miles away, and scanned for lights. But he saw nothing, which was not surprising since there were hills in between.
He took a few minutes and looked around, allowing his eyes to further adjust. He could just make out Highway 62 as it carved through the small valley. Finally, after he procrastinated as long as he could, he walked to the back of the pickup and grabbed a shovel and his cowhide gloves. He pulled on the gloves and carried the shovel over to the first of the four large metal culverts. The culverts were eight feet in diameter each and carried the water from the huge canal over the gravel road. If he had continued driving straight, he would have driven under them. Each one was almost thirty feet long.
He moved under the culverts, until he found a spot where the dirt angled down enough to give him a couple of feet of clearance to dig. When he dropped the shovel head to start digging, he heard a distinct buzzing sound. He jumped back, but after his nerves settled, he returned, bending down for a better look. The moon and the stars did not provide enough light under the culvert, so he reached the shovel where the sound seemed to be coming from and swept it out. He got it on the third sweep. Without a flashlight, he couldn't be sure it wasn't a Mojave Rattlesnake, but considering the location and the size of the snake, he felt confident he was looking at a Western Diamondback, almost a four-footer. Shaken from getting dragged out of its hiding place, the snake took a moment to coil again and resumed rattling. With the gentleness of a mother, he carefully scooped up the snake in his shovel, carried him over to the sagebrush in front of the truck, and let him go. No sense killing the poor thing.
He returned to the spot and started digging a hole under the culvert. When the hole was approximately two feet in diameter and eighteen inches deep, he moved to the second one. This hole ended up being slightly more difficult, the dirt being harder for some reason. He continued working and finally, with all four holes dug, he walked back to the truck and drank some of the melted ice and water in his Big Gulp. He took off his t-shirt and wiped sweat off his face. In the distance, he saw the lights of a car coming down Highway 62. He rested a moment while he watched the car get closer and finally pass by. They would never be able to see him up here on the hill, he knew, unless he turned on a light.
He carried two of the white buckets over to the culverts, uncapped them, and dumped a bucket of ammonium nitrate in each of the first two holes. A second trip for two more buckets and all four holes were done. A blue bucket of diesel was next. He poured it on top of the ammonium nitrate. The one bucket was enough to douse all four holes. He put all the buckets and lids back in the truck. He returned and poked one of his detonators in each hole, and wired them together with strands from his spool of wire. Finally, he hooked up the batteries and the small timer. Again, he felt tempted to set the timer short so he could witness the destruction, but Davis Dam had been too close for comfort. He stuck with the plan and set it to twenty minutes, enough time to get miles down the road. Long before anyone figured out what happened, he would be deep into California.
He pushed the button, causing the red light to illuminate and the timer to start counting backwards from 20:00. He walked quickly back to the truck and was just about to jump in when he saw car lights in the distance. He knew if he opened the car door and jumped in, the lights would give him away, so he had no choice but to wait. Unlike the car he had watched earlier, this one seemed to take forever. When the car finally passed, he considered jumping into the truck immediately; maybe they wouldn't be watching their mirrors. He felt glad he didn't, however, because he saw another car behind. This time his heart raced as he watched it slowly get nearer. He thought about stopping the timer, but he didn't. His heart beat loudly when the car appeared to slow in preparation to turn onto the gravel road. But when the car passed, he realized it had only been his imagination.
He only waited until the car was a few miles down the road before jumping in the truck. Let them watch their mirrors. He started the truck and slammed it in reverse, backing it under the culverts. He pulled it into drive and sprayed rocks everywhere as he accelerated back down the gravel road. The truck jarred as he bounced onto the highway and headed west toward Los Angeles. They would be watching for him if he stayed too close to the Colorado River. His plan was to take the long way through L.A. down to San Diego, then back east to the river.
He was miles down the road when he saw the next car, and he was miles farther when his watch told him the explosion had occurred.
* * *
3:15 a.m. - Hoover Dam, Nevada
Grant awoke at the slight jar of the helicopter landing. He had wanted to inspect the progress of Hoover-Two from the air, to get a better perspective of the progress. But, unfortunately, he slept through the whole thing. Grant had never been a night owl, preferring to be in bed snoring long before 11:00 p.m. In fact, his wife and kids complained every year when he insisted on celebrating New Year's Eve at 10:00 p.m. with New York, and then going to bed. He hadn't made it to midnight on New Year's Eve for years. He had never gone an entire night without sleep and he tried to ignore his body's desire for more. Hopefully the short nap would help. When he tried to step out of the chopper, the throbbing pain in his foot reminded him of the ordeal at Davis Dam. After the helicopter departed, he headed down the stairs from the top of the visitor center parking structure.
After being waved past security in the visitor center, Grant walked straight to the big windows looking out over Hoover Dam. The first ten-foot phase of the dike looked complete. It stretched all the way across the dam from the Arizona side and butted into the cliffs on the Nevada side. The manner in which the artificial light cast shadows on the sandbag dike gave Grant the impression that the dike was not an addition, but part of the structure itself. The texture of the sand bags from a distance reminded him of scales on a lizard. As he stared outside, Fred and Shauna arrived and joined him at the windows.
"The progress is amazing," he said excitedly to Fred and Shauna. "It looks incredible."
Fred nodded. "Yeah, I think we're going to make it."
"What happened to you?" Shauna's eyes were large and filled with concern.
Grant glanced down at the bandages on his arms, the coveralls, and the oversized tennis shoes. "Ah, well, I had an accident down at Davis."
She interrupted him. "I can see that. What'd you do?"
He took a few minutes to explain to Shauna and Fred the sequence of events at Davis Dam. Shauna cupped her hands over her mouth when he explained how close the dam had been to breaking, and how he was swept out over the rocks by the water.
"So what's wrong with you?" Fred asked, pointing at the bandages.
Fred nodded. "We'll find you something."
Grant looked over the dike to the water. "The water's way up, isn't it?" He turned and looked at Shauna.
"It's risen about ten feet in the last three hours," she said.
Grant returned his gaze to the ongoing construction. "Is that within our projections?"
"It's close. We actually expected it to be a few feet higher by now. I think we'll be okay."
"Are the spillways at capacity?" asked Grant.
Fred answered. "Not yet, not for another hour or so." All three sat silent for a few moments before Fred spoke up. "You know, I haven't checked them for over an hour. You wanna go look?"
"Absolutely," Grant said, moving away from the windows.
"You guys go ahead," Shauna said. "I need to finish my downstream calculations."
The two men headed out the door, Grant limping on his sore toe. As they walked out of the visitor center, Grant saw a truck had just unloaded sandbags and a group of National Guardsmen scurried to place them on the dike. The old man was still on the dike with the bullhorn, and barked instructions when somebody placed a bag incorrectly.
Fred detoured around an empty truck and found a spot of partially constructed wall where they could climb sandbags to get over Hoover-Two. As they crested the dike, Grant heard it. It reminded him of a gigantic waterfall. After they descended the other side, the rumbling increased with each step. Grant felt his excitement build as they walked past the snack bar. When they came around the rock cliff and looked over the fence, Grant had to catch his breath.
The water was still ten feet from the top of the fifty-foot-diameter spillway tunnel, but the amount of water moving into it was staggering. The tunnel's steep fall, coupled with the sheer volume of water, created a strong suction, and the sound of air being pulled into the hole alternated with loud "wuf" noises as air pressure occasionally pushed spray back up the hole. Part of Grant wanted to turn and run to save himself from getting sucked in. The other part wanted to stay and stare for hours.