by C. A. James
Christine had been on scary rides before: she’d careened above cliffs on a one-lane road in the Himalayas, driven through land-mine territory in Iraq, and gripped the armrests in Caracas as a drunken cab driver swerved, honked, and ran red lights. But this ride was a new level of crazy. It was like being in a video game, only it was far too real.
McCaig flew low and fast, barely clearing the trees and hilltops. He banked, bobbed, and weaved, following twists and turns down the Missouri River as it meandered through its valley. She felt her stomach jumping.
To add even more surrealism to the experience, Zarrabian was on the loudspeaker, hailing the farms and sparse towns they passed. “Evacuate! The dam has broken! Evacuate! The dam has broken!”
Occasionally Christine caught a brief glimpse of a person on the ground: a mother hanging laundry on the line, a man working under the hood of his car, a rancher tending a herd of cows. They barely had time to look up before the speeding helicopter flashed overhead and was gone.
Tom Smart hung up the phone on the wall, then just stood there. His mind felt paralyzed. Confused. This wasn’t anything they’d covered in college. He was an electrical engineer, just graduated last year, and was really good at it. He loved his dam. The huge generators, transformers, switches, and circuit breakers embedded in the Garrison dam were almost an extension of his own mind and body.
Tom looked through the huge control-room windows over the line of massive generators below. He could sense their faint vibrations, transmitted through the control room’s floor into his feet, bones and brain. Tom didn’t need to look at his bank of computers to know that his generators were spinning in perfect unison, pouring out megawatts of power as they converted the vast gravitational energy stored in Lake Sakakawea’s waters into megawatts of electricity.
He turned back and looked around the control room. So clean, so perfectly organized. His mind’s eye could clearly see the circuits, wires, and cables, neatly laid out under floors and behind walls, joining the computers, control panels, switches, gages, and dials into a single, complex brain that controlled the dam. He could feel the bits and bytes, the volts and amps, flowing between the units, coordinating, controlling, and reporting.
This was Tom’s world. He loved every piece of it.
Now the Fort Peck Dam was broken? That couldn’t be. That was just impossible.
And he was supposed to take emergency measures? Evacuate? What measures? What was that supposed to mean? There was no emergency plan for this! It wasn’t in the manual! Wasn’t the governor supposed to call or something?
The control room door burst open and slammed against the wall, startling Tom. Two men rushed through. One was dressed like a tourist, a tall guy in his fifties. The other was a shorter, dark-haired man in full military gear, including a helmet and an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder. He was pointing a handgun. Right at Tom.
Tom felt faint. The blood rushed from his head. The world wobbled. The two men rushed toward him, and Tom half sat, half fell into his chair. They stopped, towering over him.
Tom had never looked down the barrel of a gun before.
The taller one spoke. “I’m FBI Special Agent McCaig. Retired, but right now this is an emergency and we need your full cooperation.”
Tom’s eyes widened, but he didn’t speak.
“Look, son, what’s your name?”
“T-T-Tom,” he stammered.
“Tom what?”
“Tom Smart.”
The tall guy smiled. “I like that. Smart. OK, Tom Smart, show us that you can live up to your name. I need you to open the floodgates of this dam as fast as you can.”
“Open the . . . I can’t do that!”
“Well, Tom, I’m not going to take ‘no’ for an answer. Do you see this man next to me?”
Zarrabian leaned closer, brandishing the gun.
“His name is Zarrabian. Does that ring a bell?”
“Y-Y-Yes, you mean the . . . T-T-Terr . . .”
“Zarrabian the terrorist. Exactly. Right here. Pointing a gun at you.”
“B-B-But he’s d-d-dead!”
Zarrabian put the gun against Tom’s temple.
“Now, we really need you to open the floodgates,” said McCaig.
“But Mr. Special Agent M-M-McCaig, I can’t do that! It would be catastrophic downstream! It would cause a huge flood! And I’m not authorized!”
Zarrabian pressed the gun harder into his temple. Tom let out a quiet whimper.
“Tom, the Fort Peck Dam is broken,” said McCaig. “Billions of gallons of water are headed your way. Chances are pretty good that your dam is going to break when that water gets here.”
Tom closed his eyes in distress. “You mean it’s real?”
“Yes, Tom Smart, it’s real. Now here’s the deal. There’s a chance, maybe just a slim one, that we can save your dam.”
“How?”
“I’m no expert, but I’ve got a computer whiz for a partner, goes by the name Special Agent Omar Bashir. Agent Bashir dug up all kinds of computer models and disaster plans that the Army Corps of Engineers did. Bashir says it’s close, damned close, whether those billions of gallons will go over the top of your dam or just fill it to the brim and hold. Does that sound about right to you?”
“I-I-I don’t know, sir. The geologist’s computers do those simulations. Sir.”
“Well, so did those army engineers. Whatever chance that is, we’ve gotta start letting your water out right now, as fast as we can.”
“But sir, I’m not . . .” He stopped, frozen mid sentence as Zarrabian moved the gun to the center of his forehead.
“Agent McCaig asked nicely,” said Zarrabian. “I just give orders, and you obey my orders. Or you are dead. There is no more time. Open the floodgates. Now. All of them. Understand?”
“Y-Y-Yes, sir!”
Zarrabian backed off, still holding the gun.
“I need to use the computers, sir. Can I go to the computers?”
Zarrabian waved the gun toward the bank of computer screens. “Do it.”
Tom sat down at a computer and started typing, with Zarrabian and McCaig close behind. He clicked a couple items. “There on the wall, sir. The monitor is showing the live cameras on the spillway.”
The monitor showed the long, sloping, bone-dry sluice below the floodgates. A few brown weeds poked up through cracks here and there. A utility truck was parked in the middle, and two men seemed to be working on one of the floodgates.
“Is there a siren, Tom Smart?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Sound it. And in about ten seconds, I want to see some water.”
Smart brought up a control application on the computer and started clicking. The two men in the spillway looked up in alarm, and dashed for their truck. As their truck started to move, the first of twenty eight gates cracked open, releasing a stream of water that rapidly turned into a fast-moving sheet racing down the smooth concrete spillway. Another gate cracked open, then another. The truck threw up a huge fan of water as it accelerated through the flood. In quick succession, all twenty eight gates began to open.
For a moment, McCaig worried that the truck would be swept away, but the men reached the side of the spillway. They jumped from the truck and clambered up the steep concrete slope to the top of the embankment, then turned back to watch. Their truck was half submerged, creating a huge wave of white, foamy water. A few moments later, it lost its battle and slid away with the churning waters.
“How are we doing, Tom?” said McCaig.
“Sir, that’s twenty-five percent. It’s already going to cause problems downstream.”
“Billions of gallons, Tom. Headed your way.”
Tom looked faint again. “Yes sir. We’re at thirty percent. Thirty-five.”
“Where are the other engineers and managers, Tom?”
“Th-they’re at lunch, sir! They’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.”
“How many are there?”
“Seven. Plus the boss.”
“What do you do here in an emergency?”
“What sort of emergency, sir?”
“Like a fire, or a huge chemical spill, something like that.”
“Oh, we have procedures for that!” Tom seemed suddenly excited to get a question he could answer. “There’s an automatic procedure to shut down the generators, and one to set off all the fire alarms, and a way to lock all the doors in case of a terrorist . . . I mean, you know . . .”
“Got it,” said McCaig. “OK, shut down the power plant, right now.”
“But sir—”
Zarrabian waved the gun in Tom’s direction. Tom turned back to his console and clicked and typed. An alarm sounded in the distance. “OK, sir, my generators are going offline.”
“Your generators, Tom?”
“Well, sir, I mean . . .”
“Never mind. Now trigger the fire alarm.”
“Is there a fire?”
“Just do it.”
“OK, but you know that will bring the fire department, right?”
“Tom, there are a lot more people than the fire department headed this way right now. The firemen will be lucky if they can get through the traffic jam.”
Tom clicked another couple times, triggering fire alarms and flashing lights.
McCaig raised his voice over the wail of the alarm. “With the fire alarms on, the other engineers won’t come back in the building, right?”
“They’re not supposed to. But they’re going to see the spillway open and be really mad. They might come in.”
“So here’s the deal, Tom Smart. Zarrabian and I have to go. But we won’t be far away. We’ll be keeping an eye on the water and on the spillway. If those gates start to close, we’re going to come back, and Zarrabian here is going to be really, really mad. Got it?”
“Y-Y-Yes, s-s-s-s-sir!”
“Do your security cameras show the exits?”
“Yes, I can do that! You want to see it?”
“No. I want you to watch the exits. When you see me and Zarrabian leave, I want you to trigger the lockdown. Got it?”
“Yes, sir!”
“And you leave it that way. Got it?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Because if you unlock it again, Zarrabian is going to come back looking for you. Got it?”
“Yes, sir!”
McCaig and Zarrabian jogged down corridors, up a dozen flights of stairs, and out into the sunshine at the top of the dam. As the heavy steel door closed behind them, they heard the security bolts click into place.
“Damn, would you look at that,” said McCaig as they jogged toward the helicopter. Even though the spillway was at the east end of the dam, nearly two miles away, they could hear the distant roar of water. The ground seemed to rumble under their feet, and a heavy mist swirled up from the raging torrent. The valley to the south was already flooded with a wide, churning froth, gathering mass and momentum to begin its long trip to the Gulf of Mexico.
They climbed into the helicopter. McCaig started the blades spinning. In the distance, he could see a small caravan of fire trucks and police cars racing up the highway toward the dam.
“What now?” asked Zarrabian.
“We go back to meet Christine and Bashir. Then we wait.”
Christine brushed a strand of breeze-blown hair back from her face and tucked it behind an ear. The microphone in her hand felt good, solid and professional after a day of cell phones and consumer-grade cameras. She looked into the waiting camera lens that would soon send her image to millions of people. She ought to feel tense—a dam blown up, four men murdered, a seemingly untouchable corrupt politician, a frightening and surreal helicopter ride to this unlikely outpost, and now she was about to report the biggest story of her life. Live.
She felt oddly calm.
The producer and his camerawoman, Sven and Amber, had arrived in a small RV outfitted as a rolling TV studio. Christine had expected maybe a station wagon or SUV, but Sven had laughed. “RV? You bet!” he said, sounding like a character straight from Fargo. “Yah, in the big city, you go home every night. Out here in North Dakota, when we get a good story it might be a two-day trip!”
Not only was it a rolling TV studio with beds, it had a shower and a full makeup table. It was the quickest shower of her life, but she felt refreshed and ready.
Behind Amber and her camera, Christine could see Sven through the open door of the RV watching several TV monitors. Her own image was on one screen, and Dana Poindexter was on another. Bashir was in there too, working some sort of electronic magic in the RV’s bathroom.
Christine turned back to the lake. They were parked on a grass-covered bluff overlooking Lake Sakakawea. In the distance, she could see the long, low line of Garrison Dam, lit by the glow of the low evening sun. The normally blue, flat lake was a churning, swirling cauldron of muddy floodwaters.
Christine pressed the earpiece more snugly into her ear just as a director’s voice came on from San Francisco. “Hey, Christine, Al Espinosa here. You ready?”
The the motorized lens twisted as Amber zoomed in on Christine.
“Yeah, Al. I’m good.”
“We have about three minutes. Dana’s going to narrate the live footage we got when Zarrabian kidnapped you, then give the quick back story about Fort Peck. Some shots of the dam and flood, then we’ve got some excerpts of the interview that Sven just did with Bashir. We’re going to re-broadcast those, and—”
“Rebroadcast? Jesus fucking Christ! Al, tell me you didn’t broadcast Bashir’s interview yet!”
In the RV, she saw Sven spin away from his monitors and look out the door at her.
“Uh, yeah, of course we did. That was great stuff!”
“Goddamn it! Sven!” she yelled, and marched past a startled Amber.
Sven stepped out onto the RV’s step.
“What the fuck! I told you not to broadcast that!” she yelled.
“I’m the producer of this story, Ms. Garrett. That was news.”
“Do you realize what you’ve done? Christ!”
“Christine!” said Al into her earpiece. “Calm down! Get back to the camera, OK? I don’t know what’s going on there, but you’re on in two minutes.”
She stepped close to Sven and shook the microphone in his face. “You have no idea what you’ve done here. Fuck, now they know exactly where we are!”
Sven’s brow furrowed and he looked puzzled.
“You moron!” she yelled. “There’s a dozen news vans down by the dam, and they’re all hoping it bursts so they can film the story of the decade!”
Sven scowled. “And we’re in this stupid state park, a mile away!”
“Because you’re the one who is going to interview the terrorists!”
His eyes grew wide. “You didn’t—”
“I told you not to broadcast Agent Bashir without my say-so! What part of that wasn’t clear?” she yelled.
“Christine!” said Al.
“And now they’re going to be on us like flies on shit! Anyone who sees that story will be able to pinpoint this location in about two seconds!”
“I, you . . . you should have . . .”
“Is there a military base in Bismarck?”
“Ya, we got National Guard there. About three thousand, I think,” he replied.
“Police?”
“Ya, sure, we got police.”
“How far to Bismarck from here?”
“Oh, ‘bout an hour, maybe,” said Sven.
“Al, when did Bashir’s interview go on?”
“A half hour ago.”
“So, a half hour at most until the police and National Guard descend on the dam.” She shook the microphone at Sven, making him lean back again. “See that helicopter on the dam?” She turned and pointed across churning, muddy waters of the lake. The stealth Black Hawk helicopter was visible through the shimmering heat, parked on the top of the dam near the power-generating station. “The guy in the
copilot’s seat was Zarrabian.”
Sven’s eyes grew wide.
“You’d better hope he gets back here in the next half hour, or you just blew the story of your career! And maybe started a war.” She spun and marched away.
“Christine! Are you listening?” said Al in her ear. “Poindexter starts in thirty seconds. You need to get it together!”
“OK, OK, Al. Just . . . just give me a sec.” She walked back to where Amber was waiting with her camera and took her position again. She closed her eyes and took deep, slow breaths, willing her anger away.
Al’s voice came on again. “Christine, you’re serious? You’re going to interview Zarrabian?”
“I was. He agreed to a live interview, and we figured we’d have at least an hour before authorities arrived. Until Sven here gave away our location.”
“Jesus, Christine. OK, Dana, here we go. Five, four, three, two, . . .”
“Good afternoon, I’m Dana Poindexter. If you’ve just tuned in, Christine Garrett and retired FBI Agent TJ McCaig were kidnapped at gunpoint three hours ago by the terrorist known as Zarrabian.”
Through the RV’s door, Christine could see Sven’s monitor switch to footage of Christine interviewing Patterson at the moment when Zarrabian walked up behind her, took her hostage and began dragging her to the helicopter.
Poindexter continued. “The kidnapping was broadcast on live TV. FBI agent Omar Bashir tried to jump into the helicopter to stop Zarrabian, but was himself disarmed and taken hostage.
“Apparently Zarrabian ordered Mr. McCaig to fly the helicopter to the Garrison Dam, about seventy miles north of Bismarck, North Dakota, where he released Christine Garrett and FBI agent Omar Bashir.
“Christine Garrett joins us now via affiliate station WBKD-TV from Bismarck, North Dakota. Christine?”
“Thank you, Dana. Four hours ago, terrorists were able to blow up the Fort Peck Dam in Montana, releasing over five trillion gallons of water down the Missouri river.”
In the RV, Christine saw the picture change to to an aerial view of the Fort Peck dam and the raging Missouri River.
“The flood is just now arriving at Lake Sakakawea, the lake created by the Garrison Dam, where I’m standing.”