by Gary Hansen
"What makes you say that?" Special Agent Williams asked.
Grant considered the question. He had just assumed that the environmentalist would come from the highway on the west. He had no reasoning for it. In fact, the protestors had come from the east. "I don't know. I just figured --"
Lloyd interrupted. "You want to follow it north or south? We don't have much longer until we won't be able to see a thing."
Grant wanted to follow it north. He wanted to see the floodwater, but Shauna pointed out the front of the helicopter.
"Look!" she yelled. "The water."
Grant saw it too. A long, dark line moved toward them over the gray sand, both in the lagoon and outside of it. They all watched it come, mesmerized.
"How fast is that?" Shauna asked.
Lloyd answered. "It's slow, not much more than ten miles an hour." The water passed under the helicopter and Lloyd swiveled it so they could watch it flow downstream.
"Follow it," Grant commanded. He pointed toward the west shore. "Over there."
The helicopter moved forward and they angled southwest. They followed the water for several minutes. Visibility had dropped to less than a hundred feet.
"How long do you want to keep this up?" Lloyd asked.
Grant didn't know what to do. Part of him wanted to tell Lloyd to accelerate off in some direction, any direction. But what good would that do? They were looking for a needle in a haystack.
Just ahead of the helicopter the lagoon widened in front of them. To stay over dry sand the helicopter veered west for a few minutes. Then, as they rounded the wider section of the lagoon, Lloyd again aimed southwest.
"What was that?" Agent Williams' voice boomed through the headphones.
Grant scanned underneath the helicopter. "What?"
"Over there."
Grant couldn't see where she was pointing and had no idea where to look.
"There it is again! It's somebody." She touched Grant on his right shoulder. "He's on your side. He's in front of the water."
Grant finally saw him. It was a man riding a four-wheel off-road vehicle. The man looked like he had his hands full trying to keep the vehicle under control as it bounced over small clumps of sand and dodged the sparse weeds and brush that grew throughout the dry delta. The man swiveled his head as if he had just noticed the helicopter, then swerved hard right and disappeared into the darkness.
"He's gone," Agent Williams yelled.
The helicopter moved in the direction where they had last seen him. Grant felt a wave of excitement. Could this be him? It made sense, except for the fact that this guy seemed so - he couldn't think of the word - well, weak. Or was he overreacting to how skinny the man was?
"Give me my gun back," Agent Williams said from behind.
Grant flinched. That thought had never occurred to him. Was she going to just shoot him from the air, without even finding out for sure if he was the right guy? Grant reached down on the floor between his feet and carefully brought the gun up and handed it over his shoulder to the special agent. He heard the mechanical sound of her checking the chamber.
Lloyd swept the helicopter back and forth along the front of the slow-moving line of water, but they saw nothing. They searched for what Grant thought to be five minutes, but he didn't trust his sense of time with his heart racing. It was almost completely dark. The man could not have gotten away. There was no place to go.
"There he is!" It was Shauna's voice. Grant saw her reach up and point over Lloyd's left shoulder.
The helicopter banked left. Grant saw him again. They were almost on top of him. The skinny man looked up at them for an instant, craning his neck. The quick look nearly cost the man, as the four-wheeler hit something and he was almost bucked off. He must have lost the accelerator in the motion because the helicopter passed over him and they lost him again.
"There he goes!" Agent Williams said. "Due west."
The helicopter swerved and Lloyd positioned himself approximately three car lengths behind the bouncing four-wheeler, enough space to react. The next time when the driver jigged left, Lloyd followed.
* * *
9:10 p.m. - Colorado River Delta, Mexico
He couldn't believe it. How had they found him? He swerved east again and applied full throttle. He bounced over a mound of sand and sagebrush and nearly crashed, which forced him to back off the throttle. The loud whopping sound of the helicopter told him that they were right behind him. He veered south. They were still there.
He applied more throttle and prepared for another swerve to lose them. He scanned ahead, but his visibility was almost nil. Up ahead he saw the lagoon widen in front of him. He was too far east. He would get trapped. He veered southwest and tried to close the gap before the water trapped him. When he finally rounded the corner of the lagoon, the floodwater had only been ten feet away. He stayed in fourth gear full throttle and aimed again in a southwesterly direction. He had to try to get around it. After running in the same direction for a few minutes and no longer able see the water behind him, he swerved west. The helicopter was right behind him.
Since his angle of due west was perpendicular to the direction of the water, he knew he couldn't hold his heading long, or the water would catch him. He was preparing to turn when unexpectedly the four-wheeler spun around in a huge spray of water. He grasped frantically to hold on. He was instantly soaked and he blinked to clear his eyes and gasped for air. He knew in no time at all the water would be too deep for the quad, so he slammed it down one gear and goosed the throttle, aiming in the direction he thought was south. The tires spun. He relaxed the throttle slightly and they bit. He felt the water behind him almost shoving the vehicle ahead. Miraculously, seconds later he was back on dry ground. The helicopter was still right behind him. He aimed due south, forgot the swerving, and accelerated. He needed some distance from the water before he tried anything else.
He maintained a fairly straight course for a few minutes, veering only to miss a clump of brush. Although he hadn't completely given up, he knew that the chances of losing the helicopter were slim. The pilot was too good. And even if he could lose the chopper, the water was going to force him so far south that he would never get back to his truck. He would miss it by twenty miles. A thought occurred to him. How would they be able to apprehend him, with the water encroaching so fast? They couldn't set the helicopter down, or it would get washed away too. Although he saw no exit for himself, the thought that the people in the helicopter had no clear option either gave him a sliver of hope.
With his eyes watering and the lack of light, he didn't see it at first. When he did, it was too late. In a fraction of a second he saw the ground in front of him raise a couple feet into a hard crested bank, then drop off abruptly into a flat wet sandy area. He knew immediately it had to be the north tip of the Gulf of California. At over thirty miles an hour, the quad hit the raised area like a ramp and it shot him into the air over the wet sand. Releasing the throttle at the last minute had only worsened the trajectory of the vehicle, making it land in a severe front-down position. His body was launched forward onto the handlebars by the abrupt landing, causing the quad to veer sharply. The motion was too severe and he was thrown off an instant before the quad rolled. He thought he had landed clear, but felt the quad roll over his leg. The impact only lasted a second, but he felt an unmistakable snapping sensation.
His body slid to a stop, and amazingly he felt no pain. He was lying in a puddle of wet sand. His tongue tasted salt. He struggled up on his side and looked at the quad. It was upside down with a front tire still spinning. He looked at his leg and saw it jutted awkwardly to the side, still with no pain. He needed to get up and get going. But even if a miracle occurred to roll the quad back over, how would he start it with a broken leg?
He looked north toward the crest just in time to see the gray floodwater roll over the top and head toward him. This was it. He laid his head back and relaxed. He had no regrets. A small miscalculation would end his life
, but not before a string of successes that would be talked about for generations. The fact that he would be a victim of his own destruction seemed to fit somehow. It was not the way he planned it, but compared to getting caught and living the remainder of his life in prison, it was the preferable alternative. He was ready to die, and wondered how long it would take for the water to reach him. He didn't know much about drowning, or how bad it would hurt, but he welcomed it.
The loud whooping noise of the helicopter was still there in the background. But he didn't care, and tried to ignore it. The noise, however, increased in intensity until it became almost deafening. He was buffeted by the wet spray and sand from its rotors. He turned his head and held his arm up to shield the spray. He tried to roll, to escape from the turbulence, but his leg protested with intense pain. A blindingly intense light illuminated him from the helicopter.
* * *
9:15 p.m. - Gulf of California, Mexico
"Did you see that?" screamed Shauna from the rear seat. "He's probably dead."
The quad had abruptly swerved left when it hit the beach, and then rolled multiple times before stopping upside down. It was hard to focus in the dwindling light.
"The water'll reach him any minute," said Agent Williams.
Lloyd motioned at the silver handle on Grant's right. "Use the spot."
Grant spun the handle and saw that it maneuvered the spotlight just outside the cabin. He aimed it down and flipped the switch to illuminate below. He swept it wildly for several seconds while he got the feel of it. He found the man lying on his back, his right leg bent awkwardly to the side. The man seemed dazed.
Lloyd brought the helicopter in close and the man lifted his hand up to shield his eyes. Grant only saw his eyes for a second, but it was enough. It was him, the bomber. Here was the man who had blown up the Glen Canyon Dam, and the Colorado River Aqueduct, the same guy who tried to blow up Davis Dam and poison the AllAmericanCanal. Here was someone who would stop at nothing to restore the Colorado River, even if it meant killing innocent people. He was seconds from drowning in the flood he had created, seconds from being buried in the delta he had tried so hard to restore. What justice did he deserve? If they rescued him and took him back to America, his trial would be a media circus. Lawyers would line up to defend him. The liberals would scream for a presidential pardon. It would divide the country, Grant was sure of it.
But even in that fraction of a second, Grant had seen something else. Although Grant did not agree with what this man had done, he understood.
There was no decision to make. Grant shucked the headphones, opened the door and jumped from the helicopter, which was now only six feet from the ground. He landed off balance, fell, and rolled in the wet sand. Disoriented from the dark and the rotor turbulence, Grant stood, shielding his eyes from the swirling wet sand. His knees and arms were wet from the beach. An instant after regaining his feet, he felt water run over them. The floodwater.
The floodlight swept erratically after Grant released it. With the light moving back and forth, he searched for the environmentalist. The water had risen almost to his knees. Finally he caught a glimpse of him, and slogged in that direction. When Grant reached him, he was on his back in the water flailing his arms. Grant grabbed his shoulders. He yelled to the man. "Who are you?"
The man stared up at him before reaching for Grant's hand. He didn't answer.
Grant pulled him up and put the man's arm around his neck. The man grimaced in pain, then looked into Grant's eyes. Grant asked the question that was burning in his mind, although he already knew the answer. "You're him, aren't you? You're the one who's been blowing up the dams?"
The man nodded in affirmative, then his eyes rolled up into his head as if he might pass out. The water was rising quickly and was almost to their waists. The man's eyes came back to life and Grant tried to move him toward the helicopter.
"Hurry!" warned Lloyd from the helicopter.
As Grant dragged the man forward in the rising water, he saw the helicopter moving to meet him. They were close when Grant tripped and both men went down. Grant went under. The water felt gritty. He hoisted himself back to his feet and grabbed the environmentalist again. He wondered how on earth they would be able to get the man to the helicopter, but then noticed that Lloyd had positioned the landing gear right in front of them. The pilot kept the chopper close and dipped the landing gear in the water. Grant grabbed on, and helped the man loop his arms over also. The water behind pressed them against the chopper for a second before Lloyd lifted and both men were pulled out of the water. Although Grant had both arms over the landing gear at his armpits, his body and wet clothing felt heavy and he wondered how long he could hold on.
He looked over and saw the other man was struggling. He had the look of pain in his eyes. Grant shouted to be heard over the noise of the rotors. "Hold on!"
The man nodded, but he didn't look like he could go much longer. He looked back at Grant, and stared for a moment.
Grant repositioned his arm over the other man's shoulder to help. The helicopter smoothly accelerated and they skirted the gray water. Grant wondered if Lloyd could find a place to set them down. He knew he couldn't last very long. He saw the environmentalist's eyes roll into the top of his head again, then his eyelids close for a while. The helicopter jerked and the man's eyes opened and focused on Grant's. Although the noise of the rotors made communication impossible, Grant's eyes and the environmentalist's locked. "Who are you?" Grant mouthed.
The man shook his head. Grant thought his lips mouthed, "It doesn't matter."
Grant agreed. It didn't matter. Although he already knew the answer that all of America wanted to know, Grant asked the question anyway. "Why?"
Grant saw recognition in the other man's face. The man looked down at the black water below the helicopter, then he stared upstream at the blackness that obscured the Colorado River Delta. The man stared back into Grant's eyes and smiled. Not a funny smile, nor an evil or mischievous smile. It was subtle and reserved, and communicated satisfaction and happiness. Grant felt the muscles in the man's arms relax. Grant tensed and stared into his eyes.
"No!" he shouted. "Don't!"
But the man just looked back at Grant. He let himself slip down until he was holding the landing gear with only his hands. Grant lunged and put his arm over the environmentalist's hand. The man stared at Grant for a brief moment, then closed his eyes, and released his grip. Grant tried to hold him so he wouldn't fall. He didn't want to let him go. He didn't want to let him get away. He didn't want him to die. But he felt the man's hand slipping out from under his arm. He grabbed at his wrist, but the dead weight was too much. The man fell, still looking up at Grant, still with that subtle smile, still with those haunted eyes, dropping into the black water below. And then he was gone.
They searched for him. The helicopter swerved back and forth where the man dropped. Lloyd circled, and Special Agent Williams swept the spotlight back and forth. Grant hung on to the landing gear, and focused downward, afraid to blink. But he saw nothing. He knew they wouldn't find him. He was gone. And so finally they gave up. Agent Williams opened the door and encouraged Grant while they flew him to a dry spot where they could land safely. Grant's arms ached from holding on, but he knew he would make it.
Looking down, there was only darkness, an endless expanse of black water, water that might have been in LakePowell only the day before, and now flowed into the Gulf of California. The fresh water mixing with salt for the first time in seventy-five years.
EPILOGUE
September 10
9:30 a.m. - Highway 89, East of Kanab, Utah
Grant had not been back to LakePowell since the disaster over two months before. For part of that time he had not been allowed. The two-month stretch since the bombings would always be remembered by him as a period of high highs and low lows, a period when sometimes he hated the world, and other times he could not believe his good fortune.
The previous day, Fred
had retrieved Grant from the Las Vegas airport for a day at Hoover, then a drive to GlenCanyon. Hoover had changed dramatically since June when Grant had last seen it. Gone forever was Hoover-Two and the thousands of sandbags that had created her. Gone were the high water levels. Gone were the throngs of National Guardsman. Gone were the FBI special agents in their blue coveralls. All of these had been replaced by a new white high water mark on the rocks around Lake Mead, a testament to the height of the flood that would last for generations.
To Fred's question of whether anything looked different, Grant had responded that it almost looked like nothing had happened at Hoover. Fred had laughed and took Grant to see the spillways. On the way to the Nevada spillway, Grant noticed that two buildings, the snack bar and the gift shop, both which had been on the water side of Hoover-Two, were missing. Fred had explained that the water damage had been severe enough that they would both need to be rebuilt.
The Nevada spillway itself had changed dramatically. The round spillway tunnel dropping into the hillside had been severely eroded. It was no longer round. The concrete had been stripped off the bottom showing exposed jagged rocks. The shape was almost square now, except for the bottom left, which looked like it had a deep tear in it. Deeper in the mountain, Grant could see more places where the concrete was completely gone and where large openings expanded beyond his vision. Inside the concrete retaining walls where Grant had authorized demolition, the ragged concrete edges had been worn smooth by the water. Only a small stream, maybe three or four feet deep, still flowed down the spillway, as the water in Lake Mead had almost dropped below the spillway openings.
Grant asked Fred if the Arizona spillway was worse or better. Instead of explaining, Fred drove him over. Although the erosion seemed less severe inside the spillway itself, the concrete arch bridge spanning the Arizona spillway had been weakened enough to warrant future demolition and replacement.
Fred explained that in a week or two, after the water in the dam had lowered enough to completely dry out the spillways, inspection crews would descend on ropes deep inside. They expected to find huge caverns hollowed out by the forces of the water.