by Gary Hansen
WETDESERT
Tracking down a terrorist on the Colorado River
A Novel by
GARY HANSEN
HOLESHOTPRESS.COM
AWARDS & REVIEWS for WetDesert
Whitney Award Finalist - Best Novel by New Author
"It reminded me a great deal of reading a Tom Clancy novel, but it is faster paced and the device doesn't slow down the story. But like Clancy, the author welds together diverse story lines and characters into one highly suspenseful tale that has the reader reluctant to miss a word or to set the book down." -- Meridian Magazine
"WetDesert was an exiting novel, I relished the entire book. It was a supremely engaging story with a lyrically drawn sense of place. This is a stellar debut." -- Once Upon a Crime, Minneapolis, MN.
"I could tell you this is a fast paced page turner. I could also suggest that through most of this book you will find yourself on the edge of your seat, but it would not do justice to this spine tingling thriller. I recommend one last trip down a Colorado River you have never before experienced." -- Sam Weller's Zion Bookstore
"WetDesert is a fast paced book that takes place over a three day period. Descriptions of the collapsing dams and muddy, fast flowing water keep the reader involved and turning pages. The reader watches the damage happen while the long-term repercussions are discussed and illustrated. This book by a first time author is worth looking into." -- Mysterious Galaxy, San Diego, CA
"WetDesert succeeds in creating gripping suspense while making readers realize that even a behemoth like Glen Canyon Dam cannot be taken for granted. The book keeps you in suspense throughout by using a local "sacred cow" to grab our attention and not let go." -- The LakePowell Chronicle
WETDESERT
HOLE SHOT PRESS
This book is an original publication of Hole Shot Press. www.holeshotpress.com
Note: This book is a work of fiction. Although many of the places referenced in the book are real, some characteristics have been changed to fit the story. Some real historical characters and events have been mentioned to enhance the story. However, the characters and events in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright (c) 2007 by Gary Hansen
Front cover photography (c) 2007 by Roy Tennant
Cover design and layout by Mark Vermeulen
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printed - 2007 / Paperback Edition
Second Printing - 2008
Kindle Edition - 2009
Library of Congress Control Number: 2007922620
ISBN-13: 978-0-9793521-0-2
ISBN-10: 0-9793521-0-X
www.wetdesert.net
To Kelly, Kevin, Jennifer and Allison
DAY ONE
Monday, June 21
CHAPTER 1
12:00 noon - Porcupine Canyon, Colorado
Grant Stevens braced for the explosion. He felt tightness in his stomach and up the back of his neck. He glanced sideways at his friend Bruce Godfrey and saw wild eyes and a tense smile. Bruce stared unflinchingly at the bombsite across the canyon. Neither of them would have missed this for the world. Grant looked back just in time.
The bombs detonated. Grant's entire torso flinched. Porcupine Dam exploded as particles jettisoned in soaring arcs above the structure. The concrete face of the dam came to life, bursting outward. A dust cloud expanded from the rubble, obscuring the entire structure of Porcupine Dam. Smaller clouds mushroomed out of the large one, in what seemed like a series of secondary explosions. Some of the rocks and pieces of concrete were propelled high in the sky, with trajectories like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
For an instant, Grant panicked. He was far too close. The onslaught of rocks and concrete would rain down on him, and kill him instantly. He would have no chance of escape. But then, as if on cue, the outward energy died. The particles reached the apex of their eruption and fell back to earth. Grant would not be killed after all, and he felt like an idiot for thinking it in the first place.
He relaxed. The explosion had been far more intense than he had expected, making him forget that they had not yet heard the noise. When the sound wave reached him, he ducked again. The loud impact made him feel like his chest might be crushed or his head split. He reached instinctively to cover his ears, in spite of the expensive twenty-decibel ear protection, clutching them tight to his head until the sound dissipated.
Only the dust was visible now, churning on itself like a thundercloud, and covering the carnage underneath. Although the dam's concrete structure was completely decimated by the explosion, and reduced to rubble, no flash floods or waves of water could be seen. In fact, no water could be seen at all in the streambed, or anywhere else below the dam. No reservoirs were released downstream by the demise. The canyon below the dam remained dry.
Grant realized he had never seen anything so spectacular in his life. He felt goose bumps on his arms and a grin spreading across his face. He stared at the fog of dust covering the far side of the canyon. A sound from behind startled him. It was a mixture of clapping, yelling, and a few whistles. Grant looked around and saw Bruce and the others applauding towards the demolished Porcupine Dam. At first, the cheering seemed foreign and wrong, but he slowly realized he felt the same way, and after a moment he joined in and clapped enthusiastically.
He glanced around at the others who were in attendance. Standing next to him on a flat plateau across PorcupineCanyon from the dam was a group of managers from the Bureau of Reclamation, representatives from the U.S. Department of Interior, and a large number of local politicians and various other VIPs from the Denver metropolitan area, including the governor of Colorado. The plateau, which acted as a grandstand for the large group, was conveniently located a half-mile downstream from the dam.
Below the plateau, sprinkled up and down the slopes, were the non-VIPs. This much larger group, which Grant estimated at a few thousand, was made up of non-managerial staff from the Bureau, farmers who had once irrigated using the water from Porcupine Reservoir, curious local residents, and a group of environmentalists with a banner that read: Free the Rivers, Kill the Dams. A scattering of deputy sheriffs infiltrated the group to keep peace between the environmentalists and the farmers.
While he stood and stared, he was vaguely aware of someone collecting the ear protection in a large basket. When the man, a Hispanic in a maroon tuxedo, approached, Grant deposited his ear protection in the basket with a mumbled "thanks." He looked back at the demolition site. The change was incredible. He had never seen anything like it. He rubbed his hand on his chest and admitted it still felt tight. He peered down into the canyon, but the dust frustrated his ability to see much of anything. If only the wind would blow the cloud away. However, that afternoon, PorcupineCanyon was devoid of any wind or even a breeze.
This event, which had drawn so many spectators up PorcupineCanyon on a hot Monday, was the culmination of five years of lawsuits, political jockeying, and environmental studies. Ironically, the Bureau of Reclamation, which had fought hardest against decommissioning Porcupine Dam, was now in charge of the event, and celebrating the dam's demise. Grant felt hypocritical. In spite of the excitement of witnessing the explosion, ultimately Grant wanted to build dams, not blow them up. As a manager for the Bureau of Reclamation, he detested the thought of destroying a working concre
te dam. Although Porcupine Dam was not in the same league as the bigger, more well-known dams in the west, its sheer simplicity made it remarkable to an engineer like him - just a sweeping concrete arch, with two rounded spillways sculptured right in the middle.
Bruce Godfrey, his friend from the River Hydraulics Group, slapped him on the back. "What'd ya think?" Bruce had been unable to talk about anything else for weeks.
Grant pointed in the air. "For a second I thought some of the pieces were going to hit us."
"Yeah. Me too. It was awesome!" Bruce pumped his arm in excitement. "And it was way louder than I thought it would be. Even with the earphones," he said, motioning to his ear.
Grant pointed down in the canyon. "I wish I could see better. There's too much dust to see how much of the structure . . ."
"Give it a few minutes to settle," Bruce said, motioning toward one of the hospitality tents and a table of drinks in ice. "Let's get a drink."
Grant nodded and they both headed towards the table. He wondered if events like this were his future. How many more dams would the Bureau demolish over the next ten years?
Grant had worked for the Bureau for eighteen years. He had joined the Bureau to build dams, big concrete ones like Hoover and GlenCanyon. Their sheer size and power hypnotized him even after all these years as an engineer. As a child, he had toured Hoover Dam with his family while they vacationed in Las Vegas. At the age of seven, while looking down the six hundred foot face, he had announced to his parents that he would build dams when he grew up. But unlike most children, Grant had not stopped with his childhood dream. Instead, he had let his passion propel him through college - first a bachelor's degree in civil engineering, then a master's, all focused on the chemistry of concrete, structural analysis, and ultimately, dam building.
When Grant first started working at the Bureau of Reclamation in the early eighties, he had advanced quickly, gaining recognition both for strategic decisions and common sense. He garnished awards and promotions. It was not until his career was set and he had worked for the Bureau for over ten years that he finally realized the truth. It came in the form of disapproval for a dam proposal he engineered for the Snake River. It wasn't the disapproval that bothered him, because almost all his proposals had been denied. It was the lack of concern from his management at the Bureau. They had expected it to be refused.
The day the proposal was rejected, Grant's mentor Henry Petersen, who had helped design the Glen Canyon Dam in the late fifties, looked Grant in the eyes and said, "Face it, Grant, there ain't gonna be no more dams in America. It's over. It's not considered environmentally correct to build dams anymore."
It was at that moment that Grant's conscious mind grasped what his subconscious had known for years - he was too late. America's dams were already built. His dream would never be fulfilled. The Bureau of Reclamation had become a maintenance organization, content to monitor water usage. And, as the final straw, the Bureau was now decommissioning the dams it had built in the first part of the twentieth century.
When they reached the table, Bruce grabbed a cream soda and popped the top. "You all packed and ready to go?"
Grant smiled at mention of the trip. His luggage was packed for a flight that evening. "Yeah, as ready as you can be." He sorted through the sodas, and picked out a Diet Coke.
"How late are you guys leaving?" Bruce asked.
"Nine," Grant said.
This was a trip Grant was really looking forward to. The flight would take him first to JFK, then Paris, and then Nairobi, Kenya. After that it would be small propeller planes and cars to the dam site on the Tana River. Unfortunately for Grant, elephants would not be necessary, since there were actually paved roads to the site.
Since all the big rivers in the United States were already dammed, most of Reclamation's engineering work was now done in foreign countries. The Bureau consulted around the world on how to harness water resources. This particular trip to Kenya was a weeklong international symposium on dam building. Engineers, including Grant, would be attending from many of the giant projects around the globe, including the most impressive dam of all, the Three Gorges Dam in China. Grant had traveled to foreign countries before for business, but never a trip of this magnitude.
"You cleaned and oiled your rifle yet?" Bruce had a large smile on his face.
"Yeah right, like I could get a rifle through customs."
After the symposium in Kenya, Grant would vacation for an additional week around Kenya and into Tanzania. Who knew when or if he would ever get to Africa again? Bruce had been joking with him for weeks about going on a safari and shooting some big game, which he just might do. If he did, though, it would be with a loaner rifle, as he certainly had no intentions of trying to check his deer rifle in and out of airport security, border crossings, and customs.
Bruce laughed. "If you get me a Black Rhino head, I'll hang it on my living room wall."
Grant smiled at the image. He saw himself in customs with his hands cuffed behind his back, the unwrapped head of the endangered black rhino sitting on his luggage. But even as the image faded, another replaced it of seeing animals like the rhinos, elephants, zebras, and lions in their natural habitat. What an opportunity, an opportunity that comes only once in a lifetime. He was excited about the symposium itself too. Where else would he get to talk to engineers about real dam projects like Three Gorges? Certainly not in Denver.
Bruce frowned. "I can't believe Howard didn't try to horn in."
Grant scanned the crowd for his new boss and thankfully couldn't see him. "Even Howard knows he'd be out of place in Africa with a bunch of civil engineers at a dam symposium."
It was the first time in Grant's career he had reported to someone younger than him. But age was the least of Howard's problems. Historically, the Bureau's management consisted of civil engineers like Grant, who had worked their way up through the system. Howard, however, was a spy, and everyone knew it. In the U.S. government, the Bureau of Reclamation fell under the Department of the Interior. And Howard had come from Interior six months before. He was neither recruited nor interviewed. At the Bureau, it was inconceivable to become a manager without an engineering degree. But, by the early eighties, as the Bureau became less engineering oriented and more water management oriented, managers with MBAs had become the norm. Yet, Howard was neither an engineer nor a businessman. His education was the worst sort of training for actually accomplishing anything in life - he was a lawyer. The rumor was that a Senator had arranged for his position, one who wanted to find out how the Bureau of Reclamation worked, then gut it. Nobody at the Bureau seemed to know who the mystery senator was, but they knew that when the gutting started, Howard would be the one pointing the knife.
Life had been hell since Howard came aboard. He knew nothing about dams and water management. Worse, he came with the pre-conceived notion that everything the Bureau did was wrong. He ridiculed and scoffed at everything. Most frustrating, however, was that upper management seemed unaware or unconcerned. They let him roam through middle management unencumbered, allowing him to hand out endless busy-work and make decisions that could only be described as uninformed. Management either did not notice, did not care, or were afraid to do anything about the work efficiency problems or drop in morale.
Bruce reached over and scooped some salted nuts from a bowl. "Yeah, but I'm still surprised they left him in charge while they're gone. Roland should know better than that."
Roland Blackwell occupied the top position in the Bureau, the Commissioner. Besides managing most of the dams in America, and the Denver office, Roland flew back and forth across the country securing political support and funding. But at least Roland had once been a civil engineer, even if he hadn't been very good. Bruce's concern was legitimate - it was inconceivable that the Bureau would leave Howard, the spy, who couldn't build a dam in his flower garden, in charge while everyone was in Africa.
Grant shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Nothing's going to happen while we'
re gone."
Bruce put up his index finger. "Yeah, but what if it did?"
Grant shrugged. "Like what?" He turned and walked back toward the ledge where the remains of Porcupine Dam were finally becoming more visible through the dust.
Bruce hurried alongside. "Who knows? What if they had a catastrophe at one of the dams? Howard would have no idea what to do."
Grant shrugged. "What kind of catastrophe? The dams are practically automated."
Bruce hesitated, trying to think of something, then smiled. "What if they ran out of grease at one of the generating plants? The friction could damage the turbines."
Grant laughed and started walking again. "Sounds like a perfect job for Howard, greasing the turbines."
When they reached the ledge they stopped and looked at the remains of the dam. Although still partially obscured, it was obvious the precision charges had done a near-perfect job of reducing the concrete dam into a neatly stacked pile of rubble. By the end of the summer most of the debris would be gone, hauled down the canyon in trucks. Then the canyon would look more like it had before, except for the long scars where the dam had butted into the canyon walls.
Grant and Bruce dallied for an hour admiring the scene, eating and mingling. As managers for the Bureau, they had been allowed to attend the decommissioning with the VIPs, but both knew they were not important enough to rub elbows with politicians. That was the job of Commissioner Blackwell and his cronies. It was Grant and Bruce's job to stay out of the way, something Grant was more than happy to do.
After they both ate their fill of the appetizers and finished rehashing the explosion, they started back to their car. A gravel road snaked back and forth through some trees for almost a half mile down to where the cars were parked. They had just started down the road when Grant heard someone call his name.
"Stevens. Stevens. Hang on a second." Grant's boss Howard ran toward them, waving his arms. His forehead protruded and his bushy eyebrows grew together, making him look like he was constantly furrowing his brows.
