by Gary Hansen
Grant pointed at them. "With them parked out in the open like that, he'll drive right by. They'll never catch him."
As the marsh turned away from the highway, the landscape between the mountains and the river was flat and gray with no vegetation for as far as the eye could see.
They traveled a few miles over this flat barren land, keeping the river on their left, before Grant pointed at a spot. "Put her down over there for a second, would ya?"
Sand sprayed in all directions when Lloyd brought the helicopter close to the ground, making it hard to see. Grant waited until the rotors slowed and the dust settled before he opened the door. He stepped out onto the surface. It felt like walking on the beach in California. White flat objects about the size of a quarter littered the sand. He picked one up and rolled it through his fingers. It was a shape that even a small child would recognize. He picked up a half dozen more as they were everywhere. He looked south and the landscape didn't change for as far as he could see. According to the map, this flat surface continued for another forty miles.
Grant climbed back into the helicopter.
"What were you looking at?" asked Shauna.
Grant turned in his seat and handed one of the white objects to Shauna, then to Agent Williams. When he swiveled back, he handed one to Lloyd.
"Seashells?" said Agent Williams.
The pilot swiveled in his seat, holding the shell up. "This whole area used to be underwater, didn't it?"
Shauna's hand came to her mouth. "The delta?"
Grant swept his hand over the landscape. "This is it, the Colorado River Delta. A century ago it used to be a thousand square miles of marshes. Now look at it."
Grant nodded at Lloyd and they lifted off. When they were back in the air, they followed the dwindling stream southeast into the center of the dry delta. Only a mile or two later they came upon a series of square lots bordering the water. They were dirty and separated by wire fencing or rickety wood. Most of these lots looked abandoned, but a few housed small trailer houses or wood shacks. Two Mexican police cars were parked in the last lot.
"And you thought they weren't taking this seriously?" Lloyd said.
"If they saw the destruction and flooding we just saw, they wouldn't be parked there," said Grant. "Not without a boat."
"Hopefully somebody'll warn them on the radio," Special Agent Williams said from behind.
"What is this place?" asked Shauna.
"I saw a sign back there that said Campo," said Agent Williams. "I don't know if it means anything or not."
"Whatever this place is or was, it looks like everybody's either gone or going," said the pilot.
"The water's too salty," said Grant. "Probably very few fish and bad water."
After they passed over the small lots called Campo, the pilot struggled to follow the river. It wound back and forth through the reeds and willows, disappearing for a while, only to reappear later. At this stretch, the once mighty Colorado River had dwindled down to a stream the size of a small ditch, a ditch you could step over.
"Where'd it go?" asked Agent Williams.
"I lost it," Lloyd said.
Lloyd flew the helicopter back and forth across the dense willows for almost ten minutes while the four scanned for the Colorado River. At one point they backtracked to where they lost it, but again they could not locate the river past that point.
"It's gone," Shauna said.
Lloyd hovered the chopper and looked over at Grant, waiting for instructions.
Grant wasn't sure. It had seemed clear to him back when they were in Yuma, that all he needed to do was fly south to find the environmentalist, but now the thought seemed absurd. He looked south over endless miles of barren desert. They could fly around all night and never see anyone. The sun was sinking in the western sky. It would soon fall behind the mountain range bordering the delta's western shore. Grant looked southeast and saw that the dense willows continued for another mile or so. After that, the dry delta stretched in all directions. Vaguely he remembered from a map a small channel where the Gulf of California encroached into the dry delta during high tide. He wondered if it was really there, or if it too was a lie, like the millions of western maps showing the Colorado River draining into the Gulf of California.
Grant pointed in a southern direction where he thought the ocean might be. "Head that way."
* * *
7:50 p.m. - The Colorado River Delta, Mexico
The skinny man slowed and stood on the pegs of the quad. He had ridden east for almost an hour from Highway 5 where he left the pickup. He knew the Gulf of California extended up into the delta for twenty miles. He had taken a tour a few years before where they boated up the small channel. So riding to it on an ATV seemed simple enough. It would be the perfect place to watch the river flow into the ocean again.
He had traveled east much farther than he expected, and he still couldn't see it. Staring at the heat radiating out of the desert for so long while riding made it seem like a constant mirage. Many times he wondered if he was going the wrong direction, but the setting sun behind him was as good a guide as any. He wished he had brought a compass, and wondered if he had aimed slightly too far north and missed the inlet completely.
He rode on. He was moments from giving up and changing direction when he finally saw it, a smudge of green in the distance. It had to be water. Otherwise, nothing could grow. He accelerated. Five minutes later he arrived at his destination. It was water, but it was not the Colorado River. He didn't need to touch it to know the brown water was salty, and came north from the ocean during high tides. It wasn't the Colorado River, but it soon would be.
Shutting off the engine, he climbed off. He felt sore from the long ride and his mouth was dry. He stripped off the helmet, then fished around in the rear compartment and brought out his water bottle. The water was warm. He took a long swig and looked at the bottle. He felt like an idiot for not bringing more. He had spent way too much time hiking in the desert to be this short sighted. It was just another reminder that he had not expected to get this far. The first few explosions were meticulously planned to the finest details, but this afternoon had been rushed, and he knew it. He felt damn lucky to be in the right place at the right time.
He left the bottle on the quad and clomped over to the water in the awkward riding boots. If it were cleaner, he would jump in. He definitely needed to rinse off the dust and sweat from the long ride. However, when he reached down and touched the water it almost burned his hand. The water had to be well into the nineties. The thought of jumping in made him cringe. He could imagine the salt on his back after he dried off in the heat.
No matter. He looked north into the dry desert. The Colorado River was coming. He expected it within an hour or two. It would change everything. When the river arrived he wouldn't be able to drink it, but he could definitely bathe in it. He stared at the horizon and tried to imagine what the water would look like as it traveled toward him.
He looked across to the opposite shore of the salty stream and realized there would be far too much water to fit in the channel. He looked back at the quad and wondered if he should move it farther away. If only there were a small hill nearby, where he could watch the water approach. Unfortunately, this place was as flat as a pancake for miles in every direction. He thought about the AllAmericanCanal, and how much water was in it. It had seemed large, sure, but not much larger than this channel. He admitted to himself that the canal had to have been much deeper. When it came down to it, he had no idea how much water would be coming from the north. But he felt sure that the water would arrive gradually, then build up slowly, giving him time to escape on the quad. Of course, that was all a guess, since he had not been able to witness the floods at any of the dams.
CHAPTER 39
8:05 p.m. - The Colorado River Delta, Mexico
They had been flying across the delta for almost fifteen minutes before they saw anything. Grant saw it first, far on his right, which meant they had aime
d too far east.
"Over there." Grant pointed.
"Yeah, I see it," said Special Agent Williams.
The helicopter banked right toward what looked from a distance like a muddy lagoon with weeds growing around the perimeter.
"We almost missed it," mumbled Lloyd. "We could have been flying around all night looking for it."
As they approached, Grant saw a group of people standing around two dune buggies. His first thought was, "why so many?" He expected the bomber to be alone. Could the events of the last thirty-six hours have been a group of environmentalists? Why hadn't he seen the signs? When he decided to fly into Mexico, it had been to find a single person. Although he had no details in his head, he had thought they could potentially apprehend the guy, or at least draw attention to him so the local authorities could get him. But if the perpetrator ended up being a group, not an individual, what, if anything could they do by themselves? Grant had always felt he would recognize the man if he saw him. Now he realized that expectation had been absurd.
"Hey, what are they doing?" Shauna yelled from behind.
Grant looked and saw some of the group pointing at the approaching helicopter and a group of men scrambling toward one of the dune buggies. For an instant he thought they would jump into the vehicle and attempt to escape, but he saw them reach into the truck and retrieve something approximately five feet long and round. As they swung the item around out of the truck toward the helicopter, Grant felt sure it must be some kind of missile launcher. They intended to blow the chopper out of the sky.
Now the folly of this trip, against the direct orders of the FBI, became blatantly obvious. His mind raced. They would all four be killed, because of him. He thought quickly of his wife and children. He loved his wife more than he had ever realized before and ached for her. She would be forced to raise his kids as a single mother. It was tough enough to be a kid without having to deal with a parent's death. He didn't have enough life insurance, he realized. They would suffer.
"Look," Shauna said, pointing.
The group had taken the round device from the dune buggy, and laid it on the ground. They proceeded to unroll it. It was white.
"It's some kind of banner," Shauna added.
When the group finished unrolling, they spread themselves along the banner and lifted it up, revealing the message THE SIERRA CLUB supports the Restoration of the Colorado River Delta. The group held the banner high and shuffled their feet to pivot it slightly to align it with the helicopter.
"Want me to land?" asked Lloyd.
Grant didn't know. As they approached the group, he could see some of their faces. A man with a bushy black beard held the banner at one end. A blond girl with a headband and ponytails stood next to him. Both wore worn clothes. Something told him that neither was the bomber. They both looked like demonstrators, or at least like the ones he'd seen on TV. The girl looked like the type to live in a tree. He could easily imagine the man laying down on the tracks in front of a train transporting nuclear waste, or handcuffing himself to the blade of a bulldozer at the site of a new highway.
The helicopter had reached the group now and Lloyd circled around them. They rotated themselves to keep the sign visible. Grant scanned their faces, but the banner obscured some. He could clearly see two blond guys and four women. Grant felt nothing as he scanned for some sign, some indication. What if they got closer? There were too many of them. It would be impossible to get a good look at all of them from the helicopter. He looked back at the man with the black beard and decided he couldn't rule him out as the bomber.
"You want me to land?" asked Lloyd again.
Grant looked up. The pilot was waiting for an answer. "Yeah, okay."
The helicopter sprayed the sand in all directions as it landed. The four passengers waited until the rotors were almost stopped and the sand settled to open the doors. When Grant opened his door he saw that the group holding the sign had approached the helicopter and he could hear them chanting something like: ". . .orado". When he heard it the second time, he understood.
"Restore the Colorado. Restore the Colorado," they chanted.
As Grant and the others climbed out of the helicopter, the rhythm and energy of the chant seemed to increase. "Restore the Colorado. Restore the Colorado." The group seemed energized by the chopper's arrival and Grant realized that the four of them were likely the first audience for this protest.
A few more steps and both groups stopped, facing each other. The pace and volume of the chant increased. Grant recoiled as they began to thrust the banner at him in rhythm with their voices. He waved his arms in the air for them to stop, but it only increased their energy. He scanned the group and focused on a few faces. A blond man directly in front of him, also sporting a full unkempt beard, reminded him of a picture he'd seem on one of the tabloids of Brad Pitt when he grew a beard for one of his movies. The man's eyes looked mean and uncivilized. Could he be the bomber?
A girl to Grant's left caught his eye. She was a beautiful brunette with big eyes and long straight hair over a white t-shirt. She was young. She was chanting like the others, but without the hostility. He would be shocked if she was older than fifteen. He felt sure she had not masterminded the explosion at the Glen Canyon Dam.
Farther left, Grant spotted a man wearing a white polo shirt. Unlike the others, he was clean-shaven and professional looking. He looked more like the sort who just got off work than a protestor. Lacking was the urgency in his eyes like the rabid blond guy directly in front.
Grant wondered how, or if, the stalemate would end. How long could they go on? But he sensed the energy of the group was dying. When he scanned back to his right, the black bearded guy he'd first seen from the helicopter had stopped chanting and was motioning with his free arm for them to stop. It took a while for Black Beard to quiet them, but after a few half-hearted attempts, they stopped.
"Why is the FBI traveling in a tour helicopter?" yelled the blond guy in front.
The question caught Grant off guard, and he instinctively turned to look at Agent Williams. He saw her blue coveralls with the insignia on the breast pocket and realized how they'd made the connection.
He looked back at Black Beard and waved his hands back and forth. "No. No. We're not FBI, we're--"
The blond cut him off, pointing. "That's a lie, we can see her. . ." He didn't finish, but emphasized his point at Agent Williams by shaking his finger.
"What I meant to say," said Grant, "was that we are not all FBI. We're . . ." He stopped and looked back at his group. Lloyd, with his beard and clothing, could easily blend in with the protestors. Shauna, who looked terrified, looked the part of the analyst she was. Special Agent Williams, with the coveralls, well, there was no doubt about what she did. Grant wondered what the protestors thought he looked like. He realized he needed to be careful about what he told them about the group. He didn't want to force the bomber undercover.
"We're here to mitigate some of the damage of the impending flood." He saw that many of the group's eyes remained on Special Agent Williams. Grant pointed to her. "The FBI sent a demolition expert in case we found any other bombs."
"Who do you work for?" asked Black Beard.
Grant hesitated, worried about the effect of his answer. "The Bureau of Reclamation."
The blond in front went nuts and thrust his arm forward, pointing at Grant. "You're the bastards that built the dams. You guys are the ones that killed the river. This delta's dead because of you."
The words stung. He looked straight at the blond guy. "Those dams were built before you or I were even born," he said defensively.
A woman pointed at him. "Well, the river's free again now. The delta's gonna be alive again." She looked behind her to make sure she had their support. "And we're not gonna let the government put it back again. You're not going to re-build GlenCanyon. That dam is history." Grant heard some rumblings of support from the group.
"What are you guys looking for down here, on the delta?" as
ked one of the protestors.
Grant knew he was on dangerous ground. "We've been following the flood waters. We just came from Imperial and flew over the flooding in northern Mexico." He saw some looks of concern from the crowd.
"How bad's the flooding in Mexico?" asked Black Beard, sounding genuine.
Grant looked around at the now-attentive group. "It's bad, actually terrible. When we flew over, it looked like the river was flooding for miles in every direction." By the positioning of their vehicles, he guessed the protestors had driven down the east side of the river through the farmland. They would have seen the makeshift shacks and huts. "It looked like many of the small homes were decimated."
"We saw some bodies floating in the water," Shauna added, from behind.
Grant saw some heads drop and some shoulders sag.
"What about upstream?" asked the blond guy, who had calmed and now almost looked civilized.
Grant looked around. "Well, Headgate Rock Dam in Parker, Arizona failed, the Palo Verde and Imperial Dams were intentionally broken to prevent breach, but we don't know about the Morales Dam in Mexico."
The blond man's eyes flared. "We don't care about your dams."
Grant considered the rebuff. "How about the destruction we saw south of Parker Dam, and the bodies we saw floating there? How about the areas below Laughlin where a whole community of houses and buildings were washed away? Or what about the trailer park below Headgate Rock Dam that was totally destroyed when the flood carried them downstream and piled them up against a railroad bridge? How about yesterday in the Grand Canyon, when hikers and float trips were caught in the flood? We don't have the death toll from that yet."
"That's not our fault," the blonde said tentatively.
"Oh? I thought that's what you were here celebrating," said Agent Williams.
Grant stared into their eyes, the ones that were still looking up. Most showed compassion. The young brunette looked like she might cry.
"We're here to celebrate the freedom of the river," Black Beard said. "That doesn't mean we're happy about the people who died."