Wet Desert: Tracking Down a Terrorist on the Colorado River

by Gary Hansen

  Grant remembered thinking the time of explosion seemed so important a couple of hours ago. Now with the dam gone and LakePowell draining into the canyon, he wondered why it made any difference.

  Phil came over to Grant. "Mr. Stevens, can we sit down and talk about a few things?" He motioned to Brian and the other security guys. "Can you guys join us?"

  Grant looked at his watch. He needed to leave. "I guess I can talk for a few minutes." He sat down at the table.

  "Our first suspicion on this kind of situation would be international terrorists, after all the problems with the World Trade Centers in New York and all, and we are proceeding with that investigation. However, a couple of things don't add up. The first being that Brian here described the elevator repairman as a white guy. We checked him out. The paperwork was fake, and the maintenance company has no employees that fit his description. We expected as much. It's still probable that he was a foreigner, but he could be an American or European working with them. There's a lot of sympathy for the Middle East and bad blood for Americans and what they are doing over there."

  One of the agents in coveralls spoke to Brian. "Do you remember if he had any kind of noticeable accent?"

  "I'm trying to remember what he sounded like." He shook his head. "I don't remember any accent. I just remember he was calm and confident. When I said we didn't have him scheduled, he showed me the paperwork and rattled off Dan's name and how it was already set up and all. No, I wouldn't say he had any accent. His speech was very professional, if nothing else."

  Phil looked over at Grant. "Besides wanting to wreak havoc in America, why would anyone want to blow up this dam?"

  Grant raised his eyebrows. "Are you kidding?"

  The FBI man said nothing, obviously serious about his question.

  Grant looked at the security guards for support, but everyone waited for him. He blurted the words at the FBI. "There are tons of people who wanted this dam blown up."

  Phil seemed surprised. "Who?"

  "There are whole organizations dedicated to having it decommissioned - the Sierra Club and Greenpeace, to name a few. There are web sites that talk about it. There is even one group, the Glen Canyon Institute, whose entire purpose is to decommission the dam. They hold debates and lectures at universities trying to get support. One time a group of whackos rolled a black piece of plastic down the face of the dam to make everyone think the dam was cracked. Gee, if you think about it, half of the Democratic Party probably wants it removed."

  Phil shook his head. "You're talking about environmentalists?"

  Grant looked around the room for support. "Absolutely. I'm not saying they did it. But they sure as hell wanted to." He pointed at one of the news helicopters. "They're definitely celebrating right now, while they watch it on TV."

  Phil had not considered this perspective. "Why this dam, more than any of the other dams across the country?"

  "There are lots of reasons they focus on this one. The biggest is the canyon itself." Grant pointed upstream to LakePowell. "The area under the lake is called GlenCanyon. Less than a thousand people saw it before the dam was built. It was supposedly an incredible place, vertical carved rock walls on the sides, endless narrow side-canyons like ZionNational Park, and some of the canyons had waterfalls and vegetation like rain forests."

  Phil was amazed. "Why did the environmentalists let them build it in the first place? What about the environmental impact studies, the hearings . . .?"

  Grant held out his arms. "When Glen Canyon Dam was approved in the late fifties, there weren't any environmentalists, at least not many, and they certainly weren't very powerful. There was only one salaried member of the Sierra Club. Environmental impact studies hadn't been invented yet. The Glen Canyon Dam is largely responsible for the changes. It pissed off the environmentalists and got them organized. They vowed never again. A couple of years later, they stopped the construction of two more dams downstream in the Grand Canyon."

  Phil looked shocked. "They were going to dam up the Grand Canyon?"

  "Yeah, in fact if you float down the Colorado River, you can still see the exploratory holes drilled in the canyon walls, where one of the dams was to be built."

  "I still don't understand why the Democrats allowed it to happen."

  Grant smiled. "The Democrats are the ones who built it. They ran the House and the Senate in those days. They wrote the bill and sent it to a moderate Republican president, Dwight Eisenhower, who signed it. In the late fifties, the Democrats were no more environmentally-minded than the Republicans. They were, however, adamant proponents of water projects - big projects that distributed water to cities and farmers, created electricity for homes and industry, and created jobs in the process. The water projects were big welfare, and the Democrats loved them."

  While Phil was shaking his head, Grant's cell phone rang. "Hello, this is Grant."

  "Grant, this is Julia. I got ahold of Roland in Paris. The flight to Africa had not taken off yet. I'll conference you in."

  Crap. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to the commissioner. Grant looked out at where the dam used to be and wondered if they could blame him for it. He stood and walked away from the group. After he heard a series of clicks, he recognized the voice of the director of the Bureau of Reclamation.

  "Stevens, this is Commissioner Blackwell, can you hear me?"

  Grant thought it was arrogant of Roland to constantly refer to himself as commissioner. "Yeah, Roland, I can hear you fine."

  "What the hell happened out there?"

  Grant tried to organize his thoughts. "Looks like a guy posing as an elevator repairman planted a bomb in the west elevator. It blew a five-foot hole in the dam."

  "Is that it? Only five feet?"

  "That was four hours ago, Roland. The dam tore itself apart. It's gone."

  There was silence on the line.

  Roland voice was shaky. "You're saying the Glen Canyon Dam has completely collapsed? LakePowell is gone?"

  "Yes. The dam is gone. But no, LakePowell is still there. It's draining now. It'll be gone by tomorrow, though."

  Roland hesitated again. "Grant, I'm coming back. I'm trying to get a flight as we speak. I'm looking at all possible connection points. Julia, is the Gulfstream ready? I'll need it to meet me at whatever airport I can get to in the United States."

  Julie hesitated. "It's in Page, Arizona. Grant used it to get down there."

  The commissioner sounded shocked. "What? Stevens took the jet?"

  Grant was amazed. The idiot was more worried about his plane than the situation at GlenCanyon.

  Julia's voice was weak. "I thought under the circumstances . . ."

  Grant jumped in. "Why not, Roland? It was a good idea. If I had tried to fly commercial, I'd still be waiting for connections. Then nobody from the Bureau would be here. Would that be better?" Grant realized he had gone too far.

  The commissioner ignored him. "Julia, tell the pilot to stand by, as soon as I find out where my connection is. I'll call you back. Have them meet me."

  "Okay. Let me know when you make your plans," Julia said.

  Grant had other short-term plans for the Gulfstream, but he thought he should not bring them up right then with Roland.

  The commissioner got back to the subject at hand. "Stevens, what are you doing right now?"

  "The FBI is asking questions."

  "What are you telling them?" He sounded scared. "Be careful what you say; you represent the Bureau."

  Grant rolled his eyes. Why all the politics? Why couldn't anybody just communicate? "Don't worry, Roland."

  "Oh, and Stevens, don't make any stupid decisions before I get there. In fact, avoid making any decisions at all if you can help it. Just do what's necessary."

  Grant wanted to tell Roland to ram it, and then stopped himself. "Okay, Roland."

  Roland sounded distracted like he wasn't speaking directly into the phone. "I gotta go. The ticket lady is waving at me."

  Grant heard the
phone click. "Julia, are you still there?"

  "Yeah, I'm here."

  "Call me before you take the Gulfstream. I need it for one more trip."

  "But the commissioner said--"

  "I know what he said. But there's plenty of time. It will take him a while to fly back across the ocean. Just call me first."

  "Okay." Her voice sounded uncertain.

  Grant thanked her and hung up.

  * * *

  10:15 a.m. - Glen Canyon Bridge, Arizona

  Earl hustled out of the visitor center parking lot and over to where his officers were setting up the roadblock. A line of about ten cars was stopped at the sign. One officer was waving for the cars to turn around and go back the other way. The first car wasn't moving, however.

  The driver was yelling out the window at an officer. "What about Navajo bridge downstream?"

  "It's closed, too." The officer motioned up toward the lake. "You'll have to go around."

  "That's almost three hundred miles around! It'll take five hours!"

  "I'm sorry, sir," said the officer. "The bridge isn't safe right now."

  "Bull. Look at all those people out there." He leaned out of his window and pointed at the bridge where four police cars were trying to move about fifteen parked cars and pedestrians off the bridge. Some cars were turning around. Others were boxed in by other cars or waiting for pedestrians to get out of the way.

  Earl walked past the argument and the roadblock, and approached the edge of the bridge. He looked over the edge and down into the river. The water was only four hundred feet or so below him, far less than the normal eight-hundred-foot drop to the river. The water was hitting the steel girders in the arch that supported the bridge. Earl could feel the bridge moving like it was alive. He heard a loud creak from flexing metal. He picked up his radio.

  "Get 'em off now. Turn on your sirens. This thing's gonna collapse."

  He heard the sirens come on. He saw some of the pedestrians start running. Three cars drove past Earl off the bridge. The bulk of them, however, were going east toward Page. He saw about seven or eight cars get off the bridge on the other side. There were still three cars plus the four police cars. Two of the cars started to move. The third, a motor home, wasn't moving yet. A door opened and some idiot jumped out with a video camera. The PA on the police car roared, "GET BACK IN YOUR CAR." The guy kept filming.

  Earl got on the radio. "All units get off the bridge now."

  One of the police cars followed the two passenger cars toward the east side. The other two headed west toward Earl. The last one stayed with the motor home. The girders groaned and Earl felt the road move a little. He saw a crack open under his feet. He took five steps backwards off the bridge, keeping his eyes on the road. Two police cars flew passed him, slamming on their brakes once they were off the bridge. The cops jumped out of their cars and ran back to where Earl was standing. Earl took several more steps back from the bridge.

  Earl saw that the motor home had started moving slowly toward him. The man with the video camera ran and jumped in the side door of the moving vehicle, but quickly re-emerged, hanging out the door with the camera rolling. The motor home was coming up to speed. The police car was right behind, siren still urging. As the motor home got within seventy-five feet of Earl, he could see the young male driver, shirtless and grinning from ear to ear.

  While Earl was watching, the bridge let go with a screeching sound loud enough to hurt Earl's ears. The bottom of the west arch under Earl's feet broke loose and the road dropped and twisted, throwing the motor home and the police car off the bridge. Earl was still looking into the driver's eyes when it happened, and saw the grin replaced by an open-mouthed scream.

  The asphalt in front of Earl disappeared just three steps in front of him. The motor home and the police car hit the water a hundred feet below. The police car knifed in and went under, but the motor home plopped in like a beach ball and bobbed on the surface. The west end of the bridge was pulled under immediately. The east end of the bridge, still attached, flexed downstream, then it broke loose and was gone too. The police car bobbed back up for a couple seconds, then back under. Earl watched the motor home floating along on the surface, front end down, the water twisting it around as it went. He saw the rear window, now on top, break open with unidentified debris exploding outwards. Without the window to trap air inside, the motor home sank like a rock.

  The two officers, who barely escaped, ran up behind Earl. "How many did we lose?"

  Earl responded, "One of our officers, and one motor home full of idiots."

  * * *

  10:25 a.m. - GlenCanyon Dam, Arizona

  Grant saw the bridge collapse and two vehicles go into the river. The thought of being inside the car sickened him. He hoped it wasn't Earl in the police car. He turned and barked at the FBI agent with the radio. "Get ahold of Earl. Find out if he's okay. See if he knows how many people went in."

  The agent walked away from the group while talking into his radio. He quickly gave a thumbs-up sign. "Earl's okay. There was one police officer in the car. They aren't sure how many civilians were in the motor home."

  Phil looked at Grant. "What are you going to do now?"

  "My job just moved three hundred miles downriver. After I talk to Earl, I'm flying downstream to the next dam to get ready to receive this water. Is that all right with the FBI?"

  Grant spoke to the agent. "Tell Earl I need a police car immediately to take me back into Page to the airport."

  There was a brief radio communication. "Earl says without the bridge, it's about five hours to Page," the agent relayed.

  Grant forgot he needed the bridge to get to Page. He couldn't wait five hours. Suddenly, he was in a hurry to get back to the Gulfstream before the commissioner stole it from him. "Isn't there another way across? Do they have a helicopter?" He waited while the agent asked Earl the question.

  "Earl says they don't have any choppers, but he might be able to talk one of those news teams into taking us across in their helicopter. They're still hovering around with cameras. He's going to try to get ahold of one on his radio. He'll let us know."

  Fifteen minutes later, Grant was climbing into the green helicopter for KBXY out of Phoenix, Arizona. The chopper sat in the visitor center parking lot with its rotors idling. The network affiliate was more than happy to take Grant across, as long as they could ask a few questions.

  Surprisingly, Earl climbed in the helicopter and sat next to Grant. "I DIDN'T WANT TO GO THE LONG WAY, EITHER," he yelled over the noise.

  A cameraman climbed in next to Earl and shut the door. The helicopter became amazingly quiet. Grant felt the rotors accelerate. A head appeared around the seat in front of Grant. The guy shoved a microphone in his face.

  "What caused the dam to break apart?"

  "I'll answer a few questions, but no cameras or microphones."

  The reporter showed displeasure, but pulled back the microphone. In an instant, a pad and pencil materialized out of nowhere. "Okay, why is the dam breaking apart?"

  Grant felt the helicopter take off. "We think a bomb was placed in the west elevator shaft early this morning. The explosion caused a small hole deep in the dam. The force of the water then tore the dam apart in just under four hours."

  "Has any group taken responsibility for the bomb?"

  Grant didn't want to talk about that. "Law enforcement should answer questions about the perpetrator. The FBI is handling the criminal investigation."

  "What kind of flood should be expected downstream?"

  The helicopter was now above what used to be the Glen Canyon Dam. Grant paused to take a look. The water in the canyon was now flowing through the dam site as if it were not even there. The remaining dam only created what amounted to a fifty foot rapid in the river. Grant looked at the high water marks just upstream of the dam site and estimated the water had dropped more than fifty feet next to the dam.

  Grant looked back at the reporter. "Could you repeat the que
stion?"

  "Flood. What kind of flood will this cause?"

  "Luckily, downstream from here the Grand Canyon runs for almost three hundred miles, so not a lot of people or structures to worry about. There are efforts underway to evacuate the visitors from the canyon. Those efforts started almost three hours ago, long before the dam failed."

  "Will the dam be rebuilt?"

  "I don't know. That's a question for your congressman."

  The reporter looked at his notes for a second. "Grant, what is your last name, and what do you do for the Bureau?"

  "Last name is Stevens and I am a water resources manager."

  "Why did the Bureau send you? Where is Roland Blackwell, the commissioner, or any of the vice presidents? Isn't this a big enough problem to warrant their presence?"

  "Roland and most of his team are out of the country. They have been contacted and are arranging for return travel as we speak."

  The helicopter had descended and was now landing on the road just past the roadblock on the opposite side of the river. The reporter pleaded with Grant.

  "Mr. Stevens, can we get one camera shot of you answering a question? How about an easy one about the water downstream or the dam falling apart over a period of hours?"

  Grant considered. He had heard that most of these people were not trustworthy, but this guy seemed okay. "No new questions, and no questions about who did it."

  "Great! It will only take a minute."

  The helicopter settled and the rotors began to slow down. Earl opened the door and the noise level rose considerably. When Grant climbed out of the chopper, the reporter was waiting for him.

  In the noise, the reporter yelled through cupped hands. "LET'S GO OVER THERE WHERE WE CAN GET THE DAM SITE IN THE BACKROUND." He pointed to the river. They started walking away from the helicopter's noise.

  Minutes later, the reporter was standing next to Grant, holding the microphone. The cameraman had the camera pointed at them. Grant had not expected the camera to be so close. He felt a sudden urge to straighten his hair, but resisted. The camera moved in close enough to see up his nose. The reporter asked Grant if he was ready.

  He nodded. "One easy question," he reminded the reporter.