by C. A. James
“Dana, this dam may be in one of the most sparsely populated parts of the country, but if it broke, the consequences to the country would be catastrophic. Just four hours’ drive down the river is Lake Sakakawea and the Garrison dam.”
The screen cut to the animated map of the disaster showing the floodwaters slicing the country in half.
“If they’d succeeded in breaching the dam, the floodwaters could have overwhelmed and burst Garrison Dam. A few hours later, the water from those two lakes would have hit Oahe Dam and breached it, too. The water from three of the largest dams in the country would have raced down the Missouri River and then into the Mississippi. The damage would be incalculable. Some say an event like this could bankrupt the whole country.”
Poindexter’s face came back onto the screen. “Thank you, Christine. That was Christine Garrett, reporting live from Fort Peck, Montana. We have Nathan Dexter with us now via Skype. Dr. Dexter is a professor of geology at Saint Louis University. Thank you for . . .”
Petri spun from the monitor. “Good work, people.” He strode out of the room.
Chuck Young pushed the throttle wide open on his boat and felt it surge forward, as soft and smooth as could be on the calm, glassy waters of the lake. He loved being a warden for the Fish and Game department. Going to work meant he got to climb into a top-of-the-line speedboat and spend the day cruising across the lake he loved so much, exploring its inlets and bays. His job was to make sure the fishermen and tourists were respecting the lake, the fish, and each other.
But today? This wasn’t what he’d signed up for. An hour ago he’d been drafted as a deputy agent for Homeland Security. It was about the last thing he’d expected when he tied his boots and headed for the lake this morning. There were two huge explosions down near the dam—even ten miles away it had been loud—and then a few minutes later the radio had squawked his name.
Terrorists! Here on Fort Peck Lake. Who’d have guessed? There’d been talk for years about how a small group of terrorists might be able to blow the dam. There was even a fairly detailed article on the Internet about it. But each morning when he put on his uniform, donned his hat, and took his boat out onto the calm, peaceful lake, those stories seemed far away and silly.
And now it had happened.
He throttled back as he approached a houseboat. Several fishermen were on the rear deck, but their fishing poles were abandoned. One had a pair of binoculars and was peering through them toward the dam. They had a small TV on the deck, it’s screen showing a news program with a female reporter interviewing some guy in a suit.
As his boat settled and drifted close to the houseboat, one of the fishermen turned his way. He didn’t look like he was from this area. Chuck wasn’t racist or anything, but it was just a fact that almost everyone in these parts was white, and these guys looked like foreigners, maybe from the Middle East or something. Visitors from foreign countries were an oddity.
He shifted the boat into reverse for a moment and brought it to a halt next to the houseboat. Strangely, the other two fishermen ignored him. They just kept watching the dam. Oh well, he couldn’t blame them. It wasn’t often the average guy actually witnessed a terrorist attack, and these guys must have had a front-row seat.
“Anything on the TV?” he asked.
“No, sir,” said the first man. “They are just reporting the same news they did an hour ago.”
The man spoke English well, but his accent was definitely foreign. But that wasn’t Chuck’s concern, it was just unusual.
“I’m afraid I have to ask you guys to leave the area. I’m sure you understand. We have orders, nobody within two miles of the dam until the investigation is over.”
“Of course, sir. We will move right away.”
“Thanks, ‘preciate it. You guys have a great day.”
McCaig peered through the viewfinder of the video camera and adjusted the zoom just a touch, bringing Christine and Patterson a bit closer.
“General Patterson, can you tell us how you found out about this operation? Was it a tip, or did Homeland Security discover the terrorist cell?”
Hell, thought McCaig, Patterson knew about the attack because he was behind it.
“No, I’m afraid that’s not information we can release at this time, Ms. Garrett. National security dictates that we protect the source of our intelligence.”
As Patterson spoke, there was a quiet whine of a turbine engine, and the blades of Patterson’s stealth helicopter started to turn. McCaig zoomed the camera out just a bit, bringing the helicopter into the image. Not bad for an amateur, he thought.
“I would like to get your comment on the story we broadcast an hour ago about the terrorist known as Zarrabian. Do you have anything to say about his accusations?”
Patterson grew rigid for a moment, then quickly relaxed. McCaig could tell Christine had surprised him.
“I haven’t seen your report, but the idea of a known terrorist making accusations about anything is ludicrous. If you’ve been in contact with him and didn’t inform the authorities of his whereabouts, that could be a very serious matter, Ms. Garrett.”
A soldier arrived in a Humvee and parked it directly behind Christine and Patterson, ruining the view of the lake and helicopter. The Humvee’s driver, clad in full body armor, helmet, goggles, and heavily armed, got out of the vehicle and started walking directly toward them. McCaig looked up from the viewfinder and tried to wave the soldier away, which only caused Patterson to glance back.
“I will say, though,” Patterson continued, “that the Patriot Act and interdepartmental cooperation between the NSA, CIA, FBI, and Homeland Security were critical to the success of this operation. It halted this act of terror before it became a national tragedy.”
Yeah, thought McCaig. And the suit-and-tie terrorists who are really responsible are in deep shit.
“Thank you, Mr. Patterson.” said Christine. “That was the White House Chief of Staff, John Patterson, speaking to us live from Fort Peck Lake, Montana, where four terrorists were killed just moments before they were—”
In the viewfinder, an arm whipped around Christine’s neck and a gun was pressed to her head. McCaig jerked his head up from the camera. Christine tried to scream, but her voice was cut off by the soldier’s choke hold.
“Christ, it’s Zarrabian!” yelled Patterson.
There were only four guardsmen still in the area. One drew a handgun and three raised their rifles, but Zarrabian was shielded by Christine’s body.
“What the hell are you doing?” yelled McCaig.
“You fucking asshole,” said Patterson. “You’re surrounded. You’re dead meat. You’ll never get away from here. And if you do, you won’t get ten miles before we track you down and kill you.”
“Shut up, Patterson. I will kill you like the dog you are, then kill Ms. Garrett.”
He started dragging her rapidly backwards toward the Black Hawk. “Order your pilot out of the helicopter!”
“Wait!” yelled McCaig. He ran after Zarrabian.
Zarrabian held the gun menacingly against Christine’s temple. “Stop, Captain McCaig!”
McCaig stopped. He realized he still had the camera in his hand, and pointed it at Zarrabian again.
A guardsman edged sideways, trying to move behind Zarrabian. Faster than McCaig could follow, Zarrabian fired a shot at the soldier, hitting him in the middle of his body armor, then had the gun back at Christine’s temple. The soldier stumbled back and spun from the impact. Zarrabian shouted out, “The next one to try that, the bullet will be through your neck, not your armor.”
“Colonel! Leave the woman,” said McCaig. “Take me as your hostage. I swear, I’ll cooperate!”
“Good idea. I’ll take you. And her.”
“No, I—”
“Shut up! No negotiation!” Zarrabian dragged Christine to the door of the helicopter. “Get in, McCaig. You’re flying. I’ll be right behind you. One wrong move and the reporter is dead, two wrong moves
and you’re both dead.”
Zarrabian pulled Christine into the Black Hawk, keeping her positioned as a shield. McCaig shut off the camera and climbed in. The pilot had his headphones on and was intent on his clipboard and flight plan, oblivious to the drama playing out five feet away. McCaig ripped the headset from the pilot’s head. The startled pilot jerked around and found himself looking at Zarrabian’s gun.
“Out!” said McCaig. He watched the pilot’s eyes scan the scene, quickly analyzing his options. After a moment, he clicked his seatbelt loose and stepped out. McCaig sat down and studied the controls. “It’s been a long time, but . . .”
He twisted the controls and the turbine’s whine increased. Just as the chopper’s blades started spin faster, a figure burst out of the RV at a full run. Bashir sprinted across the now-flattened grass, his gun drawn, and rolled into the helicopter.
“Christ, Bashir, you trying to get killed?” shouted McCaig.
“In for a penny,” yelled Bashir.
The blades bit the air, and the Black Hawk was airborne.
On the ground, Patterson seethed as the helicopter receded. “Get on your fucking radio!” he yelled to the soldiers. “I want that helicopter blown from the sky.”
“Sorry, sir. You’re not in command here. But we’ve reported the kidnapping and hijacking of your helicopter, and they’re dispatching an interceptor as soon as possible.”
“It’s a fucking stealth chopper, you idiot! They’ll never find it!”
Chuck Young pulled the throttle back and put his boat into neutral, cut the engine, and let the boat drift in the middle of the lake. The fishermen he’d talked to a few minutes ago were motoring slowly up the lake. There wasn’t another boat in sight. He was supposed to keep civilians out of the area, but there weren’t any more to worry about. Maybe he’d just kick back, keep an eye on things.
He raised his binoculars. The dam was mostly cleared now. A swarm of SUVs and sedans with flashing red-and-blue lights had replaced the military trucks and Humvees on the dam. Must be FBI and Homeland Security, he thought.
He scanned up the shore. About a mile up, he spotted a couple more Humvees and a truck. That must have been their command center, and maybe where that reporter was stationed who was on the scene. He was too far away to make out much detail, but he could see a few figures moving around, and a helicopter was lifting off.
He glanced back toward the fishermen. That was odd. They’d turned around. Crap. He hit the starter button and put the boat in gear, then pushed the throttle forward to full speed.
Why couldn’t people just follow directions? Nine out of ten times when he stopped a boat on the lake, they were polite. An inspection, maybe a warning about a slightly undersized fish, or a citation for underage drinking. That was about it. But one out of ten made up for the rest. Assholes, particularly drunk assholes, were the one sour spot in his otherwise perfect occupation.
Now these guys. What could be more simple than “stay away from the dam?” Jerks.
He was closing in on the houseboat, but suddenly things didn’t look right. One of the fishermen heaved all of fishing poles into the lake. Another pulled a canvas cover from the deck and threw the canvas into the lake. Chuck was close enough to see what was underneath. It was just like a picture in last month’s hot-rod boating magazine: four huge 560 horsepower outboard engines. The most powerful outboard engines in production on the planet. On a houseboat on Fort Peck Lake.
Crap, I’m in trouble, thought Chuck.
He cut the throttle and slowed. At the same moment, the houseboat seemed to virtually leap from the water. He’d never seen anything so incongruous.
Suddenly the windshield of his boat exploded as three bullets crashed through it. He dived for the floor, then reached up and pushed the throttle forward. The boat accelerated. He reached up for the wheel and turned it, trying to judge from the sun’s position when he’d turned around, then straightened out and prayed. There were no more shots, so he raised his head for a quick look. The houseboat was far away, speeding toward the dam.
He grabbed the mic of his radio.
“Mayday, mayday! Jenny, this is Chuck! You there?”
“Go ahead Chuck.”
“We’ve got a problem!”
“OK, we’re flying. Now what?” yelled McCaig over the helicopter’s noise.
“East, down the middle of the lake!”
McCaig banked the helicopter and headed east toward the dam. Zarrabian released Christine and lowered the gun. She rubbed her neck where he’d choked her, and brushed back strands of hair that were stuck to her face.
“Colonel, you’ve got some serious explaining to do!” she shouted. “What the hell is going on?”
Zarrabian pulled himself into the copilot’s seat and put on headphones, then picked up a third headset and held it up. Christine crawled forward between the two pilots' seats and put the headset on. Bashir found a headset in a pocket in the back and put it over his ears.
“I had to do that!” said Zarrabian. “We need this helicopter, and using you as a hostage was the only way to get it. There is a third boat, much larger. They are going to blow up the dam any minute!”
“What the hell?” said McCaig.
“There! By the dam!” said Zarrabian.
In the distance ahead they could see a houseboat going impossibly fast. A long swath of foam in its wake drew a line that pointed straight at the dam.
“The first two boats were a distraction!” said Zarrabian. “Many of the soldiers and officers have gathered at the site of the first attack. This boat is armored. They’re going to strike a mile away from the first attack. The few soldiers close enough to shoot at them don’t have enough firepower to stop this boat!”
“And the area is swarming with reporters,” said Christine. “Maximum publicity.”
“Exactly,” said Zarrabian.
“Wait! They stopped!” said Christine.
“What the hell?” said McCaig.
Below them, the houseboat had arrived at the dam, but stopped a few boat lengths away. A few nearby soldiers were laying down a barrage of gunfire, and a half mile up the shoreline, two Humvees with .50-caliber guns were racing across the top of the dam, shooting at the terrorist boat.
“I don’t think this is good news,” said Zarrabian.
Suddenly the houseboat disappeared in a fireball. Pieces of fiberglass, wood, and bodies flew through the air. A modest wave washed over the dam.
“Uh oh,” said McCaig.
“That was tiny!” said Christine.
“The Captain is right, Ms. Garrett. This is as I feared. It is an underwater bomb.”
“I don’t see how—”
McCaig interrupted. “If you want to blow up a dam, you put your bomb under water. The weight of the water focuses the blast so that the force doesn’t just go up in the air.”
“You mean that wasn’t the bomb?” she asked.
“No. They probably have a huge goddamned bomb,” said McCaig. “That first explosion just got the houseboat out of the way so that the bomb could sink to the bottom. Now it’s sitting there in the perfect spot for maximum . . .”
Deep under the water, the bomb’s timer reached zero. An electric circuit closed. In nanoseconds, current began surging through the detonators.
The bomb’s makers had studied the art of shaped charges, first perfected in 1888 by Charles Munroe at the US Naval Torpedo Station at Newport, Rhode Island. Munroe discovered that the force of a high-explosive charge could be focused, almost like a magnifying glass focusing the sun’s rays into an intense spot. Munroe was able to vastly increase the penetrating power of his torpedoes without adding explosives simply by shaping the charge in the warheads.
Under the waters of Fort Peck Lake, hundreds of kilograms of chemical energy were converted to gigajoules of pure heat in microseconds. The explosion’s shock wave, focused according to Munroe’s principles, created a knife blade of water moving with such force that its edge was
like hardened steel. The wedge of water cut into the dam at supersonic speed, slicing and lifting the layers of dirt and gravel like butter, pushing vast quantities of water into the gap. The dam’s hard-packed earthen structure became a slurry of mud.
A huge chunk of earth slumped backwards down the dam’s face. Once it came to rest on the slope below, only a one-foot-high mound of mud remained to hold the water back from its downhill destiny.
Meanwhile, tons of water had been lofted into the air by the blast, leaving an empty void where there should have been lake. A huge wave rushed back in from all sides and converged on the dam. It surged through the gap, pushing mud along with the water as it sluiced down the slope.
When the wave finally receded, there was a channel cut through the mud. Water was flowing across the top of the dam.
It wasn’t much of a channel. If you encountered it in the woods, you’d barely call it a creek. But the water emerging on the dam’s face was thick and brown with mud. With each passing second, the water was cutting deeper and increasing its own power, slicing through the dam faster and faster.
McCaig piloted the helicopter over the doomed dam.
“That’s it,” he said. “It’s gonna go.”
“How long before it collapses completely?” asked Christine.
“Minutes!” he replied.
“Captain McCaig, we must get to Garrison dam as fast as we can. But I fear we will be intercepted before we arrive.”
“We've got a stealth chopper,” said McCaig. “And they don’t know where we’re headed. I’ll head south for a minute to throw them off. Then we’ll dive down into the trees, make their job really tough, and head east.” He tilted the chopper forward, descending and accelerating at the same time.
“Christine, turn off your phone and take the battery out! You too, Bashir. We won't have them tracking us. Colonel, maybe we can save some lives on the way. Once I get to the river valley, get on the loudspeaker and warn these ranchers! Make it short and sweet, because we’re going to be hitting about a hundred seventy pretty soon!”