The man turned his motorcycle onto a street in the small neighborhood in East Las Vegas. Unlike the many newer developments around the outskirts of the city, this street felt neither clean nor organized. A dog, chained to the water spigot on the front of a neighbor's house, ran out and barked at the motorcycle. A worn semicircle area showed the reach of the dog's chain. A car up on blocks on the left side of the street, and a front yard enclosed in chain link fence on the right, told visitors that there was no homeowner's association in this neighborhood. No one was out in the street to wave at, not that he would have waved anyway.

The motorcyclist continued to the corner lot at the end of the street. He stopped in the driveway, found neutral, and put the bike on its stand. He let it run while he dismounted. His legs were stiff from the two-hour ride from Utah. After he stretched, he walked over and pulled up the garage door. Inside was another almost new white pickup. It looked almost identical to the one he left in Page. He returned to the motorcycle, mounted it, then drove it in the garage. After shutting off the engine and dismounting, he immediately pulled down the door to keep his neighbors from inspecting the contents of the garage.

He unbuckled his helmet and pulled it off. His hair was soaked in sweat from the long ride in the heat of the day. He ran his hands through the wet hair, and then scratched his scalp. He tossed the helmet on the seat and headed into the house, leaving the job of unpacking for later, or potentially never. He stripped off his shirt as he walked into the stifling house, and scratched his stomach and chest, which where also soaked in sweat. He walked through the kitchen, not noticing the clutter of unwashed dishes on the counters. He headed directly to a dusty television propped on what looked like a nightstand that belonged next to a bed. He grabbed a remote control and hit the power button while he backed away a few steps for a better view. He remained standing. The channel showed a news reporter in studio with a picture of the Glen Canyon Dam behind, before it was blown up. He knew if he waited, the channel would eventually show what he wanted, but he flipped the channel anyway. The next channel showed a reporter interviewing what looked to be a park ranger. He flipped again. All the channels were running the story, but the third channel showed the view he wanted, an aerial view of where the dam used to be.

He caught his breath and backed up and sat on an old couch, not bothering to move the clutter aside. What he was looking at was even better than what he had seen in Utah two hours ago. Only the edges of the dam were still visible jutting from the rock walls. The water ripped through the opening, rolled over what looked like a fifty-foot drop, then raged down the canyon. It mesmerized him to watch it. It made goose bumps appear on his arms, in spite of the stifling heat. He smiled broadly and settled back into the couch.

He needed sleep after being awake most of the night. But at that moment, he couldn't imagine pulling himself away from the TV. The camera view panned upstream into LakePowell, although he wasn't interested in that. He wanted to see downstream, where the water was going. He wanted to see the flooding in the Grand Canyon. He wanted to see how far the flood had traveled, and what the expected arrival times were at various places. He wanted computer rendered images of what would happen when the water reached Lake Mead and beyond. He wanted more information about downstream. That was where the action was headed. That was where he was headed.

* * *

Grant gazed out the large oval window of the Gulfstream. He could see the Grand Canyon stretch for miles ahead. He couldn't help but notice the thin yellow smog layer resting in the canyon, not completely blocking his vision, but partially obscuring it. He had heard about the phenomenon, where easterly winds blew air pollution from Los Angeles into the Grand Canyon, but had never actually seen it first hand. In spite of the smog, he had a great view of the canyon. The Colorado River snaked back and forth as if it didn't know where it was going. The water level looked normal, although it was impossible to tell from the plane's altitude.

Just after taking off in Page, at Grant's request, the plane had followed the river. Normally, the plane would have been required to follow traditional flight paths, but under the circumstances, since Grant was the lead government official in this emergency, the pilot had agreed to follow the river. For the first few miles the river had seemed completely full, almost overflowing. Where the canyon widened the river had widened, filling the space. There had been a few places where the canyon had intersected large side canyons. In these areas the floodwater had filled the side canyons as well. Gradually as the plane traveled at over 250 miles per hour down river, the levels subsided. The flood had not traveled this far into the canyon yet.

According to the computer modeling reports that Julia had faxed, allowing for varying friction coefficients of the canyon walls, the predicted water speed through the Grand Canyon would be between twenty and twenty-five miles per hour. The leading edge of the flood would reach the center of the Grand Canyon, GraniteNarrows, between 4:00 p.m. and 6:00 p.m. It would exit the canyon at the end of Pierce Basin, which was the beginning of Lake Mead at between midnight and 2:00 a.m. Peak levels of the flood would lag the leading edge by five or six hours, ultimately reaching between four hundred and five hundred feet above normal in some places in the Grand Canyon. Since the numbers in Grant's report were based on a worst-case scenario, and since both LakePowell and Mead were lower due to drought conditions, the flood levels would not be as bad. But how much difference could he count on really? Even with adjusted numbers, chances of survival for any human, beast, or structure below five hundred feet in the Grand Canyon was unlikely. Hopefully the Park Service's plan to send helicopters, warning all hikers and rafters to move to higher ground, would work, although Grant had yet to see any helicopters from the window of the plane.

Up ahead, at the end of the Grand Canyon, Grant saw a large body of water. That would be Lake Mead. When the Gulfstream flew over the lake, Grant looked straight down. The banks seemed flat, which would allow the water to spread out when it rose higher. That was good, although it was hard to tell how flat they really were from the sky.

Even without the extra floodwater, Lake Mead was the largest man-made lake in the US with a capacity of 9.2 trillion gallons. Someone had once calculated that the lake would cover Pennsylvania with over a foot of water. Right now Grant only hoped that the lake could handle all the water from LakePowell. LakePowell was the second largest, at 8.5 trillion gallons. But with the lower drought levels in both, there was a possibility. Grant looked at his watch. They had about eighteen hours to see if they could dump enough water out of Lake Mead to make room for the water from LakePowell that was already on its way. While he pondered that thought, the Gulfstream began its descent.

* * *

Greg pulled back on the throttle and the Mastercraft slowed, it's bow settling down in the water. The boat drifted in the main channel of LakePowell just off the west shoreline. They had traveled south for almost a half hour since leaving Hole-in-the-Rock. Julie figured it would take another hour to reach the marina.

She didn't understand why Greg stopped. He looked agitated, scanning his head back and forth. Actually, he hadn't seemed himself since they'd left Hole-in-the-Rock.

"What's wrong now?" she said.

"Something isn't right." He pointed up and down the channel, "Look how many boats are on the lake. I've never seen this many. It's like everybody is heading out."

Julie had noticed the heavy traffic, but then again, she had never been to Hole-in-the-Rock. Some of this traffic could be attributed to Bullfrog Marina to the north. Julie pointed downstream. "Maybe there's something going on. Something at the marina or down by the dam, some kind of party or something."

Greg shook his head. "If that were the case, they'd be taking their water-ski boats, not their houseboats. This has something to do with the water level dropping. I'm sure of it."

"We could flag someone down and ask," Erika said. But there was no enthusiasm in the comment.

Paul spoke up. "We're stopping at Dangling Rope on our way back. We can ask there."

Erika was nodding. "Someone at the marina should know what's going on."

There seemed to be an unspoken consensus. Greg nodded and Erika turned back around in her seat. Greg pushed the throttle forward again and the Mastercraft accelerated back to speed. Julie looked out across the water. It did seem like everyone on the lake was heading out. Many seemed to be in a hurry. For a moment she wondered if something really was wrong. She looked at her watch. It would be lunchtime soon. She wondered what Max and Darlene were doing back at the houseboat.

* * *

Sitting on the roof of the houseboat, Max bent a page as a marker and tossed the paperback he was reading on the empty chair next to him. He glanced over at his wife, who was oblivious to the world, her face buried in her romance novel. The cover of the book showed a muscular man holding a woman by the waist, while the woman leaned back with a look of passion on her face. Max wished some of the passion from Darlene's books would translate into real life.

He stood and stretched, and then walked to the edge of the roof, scanning the water below and the small canyon where they were parked. He was glad he and Darlene had decided to stay alone today, but he had no intentions of wasting the whole day reading. He walked back to his wife and plucked the book from her hands.

She reached for it. "Hey."

"Enough reading for a while. Let's do something."

"Let me finish my chapter first."

He reached for her arm to help her up. "You can finish your chapter later. I'm bored. Let's eat or something."

She looked at her watch. "We just ate an hour ago."

"Fine, then lets do something else. We need to move around." He pulled her up until she was standing.

"Like what?"

He winked at her. "I don't know. How about we kayak up the canyon a ways?"

Her face showed skepticism. "It's too hot."

He pulled her away from her chair. "We'll be practically in the water. You can jump in whenever you need to." He pointed upstream. "The canyon might get really narrow up there. Maybe it's one of those cool places where you can reach from one side to the other."

"Can I bring my book?" She asked.

Max rolled his eyes. Unbelievable. But, he imagined her begging to come back after only a few minutes if she didn't have it. He gave in. "You can bring it, if you pack a few things for lunch to take with us."

She reached for the book, but he shook his head. "Not yet. Go get ready, and I'll put the kayak in the water."

A few minutes later, Max was dragging the kayak down the beach into the water. He noticed the sand was wet for at least ten or twelve feet above the waterline. He stood and looked at it for a moment. He didn't remember the wet band being so big before. Additionally, the ropes tying the houseboat to the rocky shore were tight, and Max thought he remembered them having slack before.

He was pondering whether the water had dropped when his wife walked out of the houseboat. She carried a paper bag with their lunch, and a full six-pack of sodas, and two large beach towels. More noticeable however, was that she had changed her swimsuit. Darlene was wearing one that Max had never seen before. The suit's lines were daring, and since Darlene was overweight, she rarely wore daring clothes.

Max gaped at her. She looked wonderful.

"You like it?" she asked, spinning so he could look.

He nodded.

She handed him some suntan lotion. "Here, rub this on me before we go. I don't want to get burned in this suit."

Max squirted some lotion in his hands, and forgot all about water levels and wet sand.

* * *

Sid and Ryan could see the bottom of the TannerTrail, at least where it disappeared into the overflowing Colorado River. It was a hundred yards or so ahead. Until now, their decision to hike off trail above Escalante had been working. Actually, that was an understatement since the old Escalante ran somewhere along the original riverbank, which was now hundreds of feet underwater. So the decision to leave the trail had been genius.

Since the helicopter had warned them, Sid and Ryan couldn't believe how fast the water had risen. In total, Sid guessed the river was up three or four hundred feet. It was hard to tell. But he had never seen anything like it, even in the movies. As it rose, the river widened, and if possible, got dirtier than it already was. Before, there were rapids occasionally along the river. Now, the whole river was a rapid. This angry Colorado River was tearing apart the Grand Canyon. Every few moments, incredibly loud noises that sounded almost like explosions, echoed through the canyon as huge boulders and pieces of the rock walls broke off and rolled into the river. Rockslides were plentiful, and Sid was starting to worry that they'd get caught in one.

When they rounded the bend, the bottom of TannerTrail was just up ahead. Well, it should have been just up ahead, instead it was underwater, swallowed by the swollen Colorado River. Something seemed surreal about the way the trail meandered back and forth down the hill then right into the brown frothy water. It was as if the two scenes didn't belong together. Ryan and Sid both stopped and stared. Although the TannerTrail was less than a football field away, Sid had no idea how they were going to get to it. Their path was blocked. The ridge they were on led right into the river. They had almost made it. Sid looked at where the rocks led into the water. What if they just followed the path right into the water, and waded next to the rocks. They could even swim a little in the deep places.

Ryan must have been reading Sid's mind. He pointed at the scene, farther upstream than where Sid was looking. "Look how strong the current is up there."

Sid saw where the cliff jutted out into the river, and the current ripped past it. It would be impossible to get around that point. He held up his arms in frustration. "Now what?"

Ryan craned his head up at the small cliffs above them. "We need to get up there somehow."

The row of cliffs was only about twenty-five or thirty-feet tall in some places, and if they could find a way on top, the higher ridge would lead them the rest of the way over to Tanner.

The thought of scaling a rock wall made Sid's knee hurt even more. "I don't know if I can do it."

Ryan glared at him, angry. "What are you nuts? You want to die?"

Sid didn't answer. He was surprised at Ryan's anger. For a moment he felt more afraid of Ryan than the river itself. Something told him that Ryan wasn't going to let him quit.

Ryan continued to scan the cliffs above them for a way up. Sid joined in the search. However nothing looked plausible, especially with the knee. The rock ledges were almost vertical. A couple of places looked promising in spots, but then an overhang or some other obstacle made it too risky. Sid moved back along the ridge where they had come, to see if they had already passed something. However, if anything, the cliffs were even higher and steeper.

"Over here." Ryan yelled.

Sid turned and saw that Ryan was way down by the water, pointing up at a large cliff. Sid moved back down the trail toward him. He looked up at the rock wall where Ryan pointed. It was one of the taller parts of the ridge line, and the top was inverted and completely impassable, not to mention the bottom was in the water.

"You're kidding, right?" Sid pointed at the top. "How you gonna get over that?"

Ryan shook his head and pointed off to the left. "No. We cut across on that ledge about two thirds of the way up.

Sid hadn't seen the small ridge. It was too small. In fact it looked too small to traverse. "Are you sure?"

Ryan was already wading into the water. He was up to his armpits before he reached the base of the cliff. "Come on. The water's still rising."

Sid followed obediently. By the time he reached the base, Ryan was already twenty feet above him, climbing up the crease. The water was cold and Sid was already shivering even though only a moment ago he was burning up. The cold moved him and made him climb faster. The knee throbbed with every step, but the pain from the cold water was worse. When he had climbed high enough to be completely out of the water, he rested, and looked up. Ryan was grasping for a handhold.

"Are you stuck?" Sid asked.

"Nah. I'm okay. Come on."

Sid climbed on. What seemed like an eternity later, he reached the spot where Ryan had struggled to find a handhold. Like he'd seen Ryan do, Sid felt around with his left hand, trying to feel for something that offered a grip. He searched for what must have been a couple minutes, but he could not find anything.

"All right, how'd you get past this spot?" He asked, without looking up.

"I couldn't get a hold of anything." The sound came from the above, but also from the left.

Sid looked up, mostly with his eyes, not daring to move his head very far. Ryan was traversing across a split in the rock. He had almost made it.

"So how'd you get past this spot then?" Sid asked.

Ryan hesitated before answering. "It's kind of tricky. Put both your hands where you're holding on with your right. Then wedge your left foot against that rock over by your knee. Then you should be able to get high enough to grab on that ledge above you."

Sid glanced over and found the rock by his knee. Carefully, he slid his foot up until it found the foothold. He rested. The bad right knee started shaking, complaining about having to support the bulk of his weight.

"Now push with your left foot and pull yourself up to the ledge."

Sid looked up and saw that Ryan had made it. He was standing on a small ledge and looking down at Sid pointing. "It's right above you. See it?"

Sid saw the ledge, but he didn't think he could get to it. He considered it a risky maneuver, one that could end up in a fall. While he contemplated, an explosion accosted his ears. He let go instinctively with his left hand and covered his ear. He saw motion off to his left, something big. He looked over and watched a wall of rock fall into the river below, an avalanche of smaller rocks following behind. The rock, which could not have been more than fifty feet away, made him do something bad, something he had told himself he would not do, no matter what. He looked down. Sid looked down and saw the huge boulder swallowed by the river. One big splash and it was gone. The look down terrified him. First of all, he was much higher than he would have imagined. And the river, if possible, had risen even higher than when they started. It was as if it was chasing him up the cliff. Sid knew in an instant that if he fell, he'd be dead. The water was moving too fast, and churning too much. There was no way he could survive. He pulled his eyes back up, away from the danger below. But the momentary glance had done its damage. He instinctively pulled his body closer to the rock, hugging it. He had been climbing long enough to know that you can't climb if you are too close to the rock. It screws up your leverage. But he couldn't help himself.

"Sid. What are you doing?"

Sid heard Ryan, but he didn't look up. His face was touching the rock, and he felt sure if he moved, he would fall. "I don't think I can make it."

Ryan sounded angry. "What d'ya mean? You were doing fine a minute ago."

Sid didn't feel like telling Ryan the truth, that looking down had scared him. Ryan didn't seem in the mood for that. Besides, Ryan was already at the top. He'd made it. Ryan was angry because he wanted to leave, and Sid was holding him up. Would Ryan be happier if Sid fell? At least then he'd be free to go.

"Get your butt away from the rock." Ryan's voice wasn't angry anymore. It sounded sympathetic. "You can't climb like that."

Sid didn't move.

Ryan continued talking. His voice was patient and comforting. "Sid. You need to relax. That rock surprised me too. I almost jumped off the ledge."

That helped. The image of Ryan jumping in the river at the sound of the rock, made him laugh. "I'm a little freaked out here," he admitted.

"Take a couple slow deep breaths. Relax."

Sid did as he was told, and it helped. He had been too scared to breathe. "Now, let your butt go out a little, get some leverage."

Slowly, Sid stopped hugging the rock.

"That's it! Okay, now try to imagine you're practicing on a rock that's only a foot in the air."

It was an old climbing trick, a trick that had helped Sid before. Sometimes when a climber is stuck high on a rock, pretending the rock was only a practice rock, and not very high, made it easier to relax and climb when you were nervous. Sid however, used a variation of the trick. He instead imagined that the ground had risen behind him as he climbed, and that if he wanted, he could always just step off the rock, and rest. The trick had worked for him in the past. He had never tried it before while a flood was tearing boulders right out of the rock wall, but he did his best to put those thoughts out of his mind.

"Okay, now pull yourself up and down a couple times. Get a feeling for the handholds you got," Ryan ordered.

Sid did just that, and was surprised to feel that his arms still had a little strength left in them. Not as much as he wished, but more than he expected. He pulled up again, and took inventory on the knee. It had stiffened even more. He wondered how much more it could take.

"All right, you ready?"

Sid looked up this time. Ryan peered down at him from the rocks above, smiling. The sight made Sid relax even more. "Yeah, I guess so. Let's do it."

Ryan pointed at a ledge just out of Sid's reach. "Okay, that's your next handhold. You're going to need to push up with your left foot to get that high."

Sid put the rogue Colorado River out of his mind. He did the same for the memory of the cliff next to him breaking off and falling. He concentrated only on the ledge above. He stuck his butt out farther then pushed up, pulling at the same time with his hands. It worked. He slid his left hand up to the ridge and grabbed. The handhold was solid.

"Yeah! Good job." Ryan was clapping above him.

Once Sid climbed past the tricky part, the rest of the climb was uneventful. A few minutes later Sid was standing on the ledge next to Ryan. A part of him wanted to reach out and hug his friend, like a brother. After all, he would not have made it without the encouragement. But hugging his friend was unthinkable.

Sid looked out over the Colorado River. In his whole life, he'd never seen anything like it. He estimated it to be almost a half a mile across. And the level had probably risen four or five hundred feet. It was moving faster than a man could run, more like a bicyclist, maybe even faster than that. The water wasn't just flowing straight either, it churned and swirled like Sid had never seen before. The thought of falling in made him shiver. Even if he had a life jacket, which he did not, the river could easily pull him under and drag him along the bottom, propelling him up or down at its leisure. The thought reminded Sid of a guy, a SCUBA diver named Nelson, who he met in college. Nelson claimed that he and some other guys used to drift dive, wearing full SCUBA gear, down some river around Jackson Hole, Wyoming. And this river wasn't just a scenic tour either; it had rapids and white water. Anyway, Nelson used to say that only divers who could equalize their ears real fast could do it, because in one spot, the river pulled the divers down from the surface to eighty feet in a couple seconds, which would rupture ear drums if they weren't equalized. After that, he said it was like the center of a tornado, perfectly calm. However, seconds later, the river yanked the divers back up to the surface and back down the river. Sid wasn't sure if that story was true or not. But when he saw the swirling whirlpools and eddies, he remembered it. He thought it gave him a better perspective, as if from the victims point-of-view of what it would be like to be pulled under.

"Let's go." Sid said, but when he turned Ryan was already headed along the ridge.

A few minutes later they reached Tanner. An incredible feeling of relief washed over Sid. Back when he was hanging on the cliff, he would not have bet a dollar on making it. But here he was, and if the knee let go now, no big deal. Worst case they could send a mule down for him. Standing on the trail, they rested, looking down at where it disappeared in the swollen river. For a moment Sid thought he heard voices, but the Colorado River had become noisy as it grew. There were the constant sounds of water moving past the cliffs, and sporadic sounds of rocks rolling underwater, rock slides on the banks, and boulders breaking loose. The new noises came as the river carved into hillside it hadn't been able to reach for millions of years.

For the last hour, back when his life was in jeopardy, Sid saw the new river as something to be afraid of, but looking down on it from Tanner, it was different. It was spectacular, unbelievable, and breathtaking. Watching it on TV would not do it justice. Standing on the banks, he could feel it.

Sid heard the voices again and this time distinctively heard the words 'over there'. Ryan must have heard them too, because he cocked his head at the same time. Sid saw their heads first, but as the group crested the knoll, they became totally visible. Obviously, they were rafters not hikers. The men wore swim trunks, and the women bathing suits. One of the women still wore a life jacket. Another woman wore a green and white striped bikini.

A man pointed at Sid and Ryan. "Hang on!" He jogged toward them.

"Do you know where the trail out of here is?" The man asked, pointing up out of the canyon.

Ryan pointed at his feet. "We're standing on it."

The man looked down at the worn trail where Sid and Ryan stood. He turned toward the rest of his group, who had just reached the trail. "Thank God, we made it."

Another loud explosion rocked the canyon, making the group instinctively duck. Sid looked back where they had just come and saw another huge section of the cliff fall into the water and send waves across the river. Then just as quickly, while the sound still echoed through the canyon, the river swallowed the rock.

The rafters must have already seen boulders breaking off and fall in the river, because the man picked right up where he left off. "So how far up is it?" He pointed up the trail. "How long will it take?"

Sid looked down. The man wore aqua socks. They were coated with dust, except for wet spots where moisture squished up through them. One of the women wore platform flip-flops. Sid saw no hiking shoes, no tennis shoes, and absolutely no socks, none of them. He had a feeling if his knee went out and he had to stop, he wouldn't be alone.

"Three or four hours," Ryan answered. "If we keep moving."

Sid saw surprise and unbelief in the man's eyes. Many in the group cocked their heads back and forth, looking at each other.

"Three or four hours?" Mr. Aqua Socks asked in disbelief. "How far is it?"

"Eight miles." Sid answered. He reached down and rubbed his knee. "And they're not easy miles either."

"What happened to your boat?" Ryan asked.

Another man, wearing a yellow baseball hat stenciled with Los Angeles Lakers, stepped up by Mr. Aqua Socks. "We had already noticed the water rising before the helicopter warned us. We were looking for a spot to stop, but the water was moving too fast. Then after the helicopter, we found a sandy place where we could get out. As soon as we got out, the river took the raft. It's gone."

"Where's your guide?" Ryan asked.

Mr. Aqua Socks raised his hand. "I'm the guide, but I only know the river, not the trails. And this is my first year running the Grand Canyon. What about you two guys?"

Sid looked over at his friend, an unspoken message for Ryan to answer.

Ryan motioned up the trail. "We hiked down TannerTrail from the rim two days ago. Then we spent a couple days hiking and camping along the Escalante trail." He pointed down at the river. "It's underwater now. Anyway, the rising water rimmed us on the way back to Tanner. We almost didn't make it."

No one spoke after Ryan's answer. They nodded politely, but Sid saw most of their eyes focused up TannerTrail.

"Ready to head out?" Sid asked, already knowing the answer.

Mr. Aqua Socks nodded. "Sure." His comment was followed by nods from others in the group.

The group passed by Sid and Ryan and headed up the trail. However, neither Sid nor Ryan moved immediately. They stood for another few moments looking out over the swollen Colorado River. Something told Sid he would never see anything like this again in his life. He needed to try to burn it into his head, to remember it. Across the river, Sid saw a rock wall the size of a two-story building break off and fall in the water. The loud sound followed seconds later.

"Wow," Sid said. "This is amazing. Isn't it?"

"I wish I had a camera." Ryan added.

"Wouldn't do it justice."

Ryan nodded. "You're probably right."

They watched a moment longer in silence.

"Hey, you guys coming?" The question came from Mr. Aqua Socks.

"Your knee gonna make it?" Ryan asked.

Sid smiled. "As long as I'm following the one in the green bikini."

CHAPTER 15

12:15 p.m. - Boulder City, Nevada

Grant looked around as he walked down the steps from the Gulfstream. A small sign by the terminal announced BoulderCityAirport. This airport looked even smaller than the one at Page. Aside from the Gulfstream, most of the other planes were small Cessnas, or Pipers and looked to be privately owned. Grant couldn't see any other jets. The Gulfstream stood out like a Ferrari in the ghetto. He knew that most visitors to Lake Mead didn't use this airport; they flew into Las Vegas, which was full of Lears, Gulfstreams, and other small jets.

As Grant walked down the stairs, a black & white police car drove up to the plane. The officer rolled down his window without getting out. "You the guy from the Bureau?"

Grant nodded and walked over to the passenger door. Before he jumped in, he waved back at the flight attendant. While they were en route from Page, the call had come in from Julia to send the jet to meet the Commissioner in Chicago where he would be connecting. The Gulfstream would be leaving immediately. Grant wondered if he would ever ride in it again.

He climbed into the police car and it took off immediately. After exiting the small airport, the policeman turned north, and headed into BoulderCity. They sped down a small road, encountering little traffic. The south side of town, by the airport, was old and dirty. It gave a glimpse of the town's beginnings, when BoulderCity was created in the late 1920s to house the five thousand workers needed to build Hoover Dam. Grant could see ahead on the bluffs a new and different BoulderCity. Growing out of the hillsides were vacation homes and condos with views of the water.

The officer turned toward Grant. "You just came from LakePowell?" He sounded curious and concerned.

"Yup. Things were pretty hairy up there. What have you heard?"

The officer kept his eyes on the road. "The news said the Glen Canyon Dam let go, a bomb or something. My wife says there's stuff on TV that shows water filling up the whole canyon. Real bad."

The car reached the intersection of US-93 just as the light turned green. Grant looked up and down the street and didn't see many other traffic lights. Without slowing, they merged onto US-93 heading down the hill. The road provided a great view of Lake Mead.

Grant was surprised to see some boats out on the water. He pointed. "Why are they still out there?"

The officer leaned forward and tried to look ahead of a car in front of them. "They've been trying to clear the lake all morning, since we got the news. But it's a big lake and there's not enough people to warn them." He took his eyes off the road for a second to look at Grant. "Why? How soon should we expect the water?"

Grant was happy the officer's eyes had returned to the road. "It won't get here until after midnight, but you need to get everybody off before it gets dark."

Grant tensed as the officer swerved into the passing lane and accelerated around an SUV pulling a water-ski boat. They passed the turnoff to BoulderBeachState Park and headed up a hill, losing sight of the lake. A casino sat perched at the top of the hill, the last opportunity to gamble for those leaving Nevada. The policeman keyed the mike on his radio.

"I've got your boy from the Bureau. We're just passing the casino."

After the casino, US-93 wound lazily for a mile through jagged rock ridges until dropping via a couple tight winding switchbacks to the dam. Ahead, he saw where the highway continued across the top of the dam into Arizona, and surprisingly, traffic was still being allowed across. Looking deep into the canyon, he could see the six outlets from the Arizona side of the dam were open, spraying huge columns of water across the canyon in a spectacular water show, a show not seen since the spring floods of 1983. However the six outlets on the Nevada side were still closed, a problem. All twelve outlets should've been open. It meant Hoover wasn't dumping as much water as they could. They hadn't followed his instructions.

A dozen orange cones blocked entry to the VisitorCenter parking garage, which sat wedged into the cliffs. An officer stood next to a sign that read 'Hoover Dam Visitor Center CLOSED'. The visitors center itself, a modern oval building, hanging over the edge of the deep canyon, was similar to the one at GlenCanyon. The officer pulled right up next to the round building and stopped. A man waited outside for the police car. When the car stopped, the man reached for the door. Grant recognized him as Fred Grainger, the one he talked to from GlenCanyon.

Fred wore some slightly worn blue Dockers, a short sleeve button-down shirt, and a pair of walking shoes, and in general looked more comfortable than stylish. Fred was rumored to be in his early fifties. The one thing Grant knew was that Fred Grainger had been at Hoover Dam since before Grant joined the Bureau.

"Grant. We're glad you made it." Fred shook Grant's hand as he exited the car.

Grant couldn't stop the rebuke. "Why aren't the Nevada outlets dumping?"

Fred expected the question. "They won't let us yet. We're on hold. Come inside and I'll fill you in."

Grant wanted to argue, but instead followed Fred into the building. Fred led him down a set of stairs. As they descended, Fred started talking. "The mayor of Laughlin called the governor. So the governor came here and --"

"The governor of Nevada is here?" Grant asked.

Fred nodded "Yeah. And he's a jerk."

They walked into the main lobby lined with pictures of the dam's construction and facts about how the dam operated. They walked past a chart showing water levels over the past thirty years. The last time Grant had been in the lobby, it was filled with tourists and kids. Fred led them into a small movie theater with the words 'The Story of Hoover Dam' written above the doorway. Inside the theater, a large conference table and chairs had been set up on the floor in front of the screen. Beyond it, the room elevated to auditorium seating. At least fifteen people, mostly men, were talking when Grant and Fred entered. After they entered, the conversations stopped. All eyes met Grant's.

Fred broke the silence. "This is Grant Stevens, from the Bureau in Denver."

A large man in a suit sitting at the end of the table stood. "Where's Commissioner Blackwell?"

Grant knew immediately he must be the governor. He carried a visible aura of authority. Everyone else in the room deferred to him. The governor looked as if he'd played in the NFL before going into politics. His shoulders and chest were huge, and the suit, although obviously expensive and custom fit, seemed out of place on his body style. His hair didn't have a strand out of place, making Grant wonder if he was preparing for a press conference. His entourage contrasted with the Hoover Dam personnel. The governor's people were all in expensive suits; the Bureau people were casual. It was as if the party invitations had neglected to mention proper attire. Grant suddenly felt underdressed for the role he was playing in his slacks and polo shirt.

Grant tried to respond confidently, but his voice cracked. "The commissioner was on his way to Kenya for a dam building symposium on the Tana river. I talked with him this morning. He's made emergency flight plans to return. He's probably on his way here as we speak."

The governor shook his head in disgust. "How inconvenient." He pointed at Grant. "So who's speaking for the Bureau in the meantime, you?"

Grant had never liked guys like this, who tried to intimidate everyone they met. He felt emotion building up inside. He took a step toward the governor. "Yeah. I speak for the Bureau. And who are you?" although he already knew the answer.

The guy took a step forward, obviously unaccustomed to being challenged. The governor's attitude reminded him of the commissioner. The governor grasped both lapels of the expensive suit in a posture of authority. "The name is Rally Jenkins. I'm the governor of Nevada."

Grant nodded his head as if he had just figured it out. He felt himself stepping over the line. It was bad enough that this man had gotten in the way of what needed to be done at Hoover, but the pompous attitude was too much. Grant cleared his throat and then looked straight at the governor. "So are you the one getting in the way of what needs to be done, holding up dumping the water?"

The governor didn't hesitate. "Damn right. I got a call from the mayor in Laughlin early this morning, saying he was told to evacuate everybody around LakeMojave and Laughlin. He said you guys were going to open the gates and flood em out. When you started evacuating my cities without my permission, I had no choice but to get involved."

Grant nodded, then spoke as if he were talking to a child. "Do you happen to know why we need to open the gates Governor?"

"Sure, somebody blew up the Glen Canyon Dam. But that's over four hundred miles from here. My people need some time to --"

Grant slammed his fist on the table "There isn't any time!" He saw a few in the room jump at the outburst. The governor himself, showed a moment of apprehension, before his eyes narrowed. Grant brought his voice back to normal. "Sit down and let me explain a few things." He motioned for them to be seated, and some did, but not the governor.

"I know everything I need to know."

Grant started talking before he could stop himself. He pointed at the governor. "I highly doubt that, governor. If you understood the situation, you would understand why we need to open the gates. Since you don't understand, you obviously don't know everything."

The governor's eyes burned.

Grant lowered his voice and removed the hostility from his tone. "Please sit down governor, and I'll try to explain a few things that I think will make a difference in how you feel."

The governor looked around at the others and finally settled into his seat.

Grant looked around at the group. "The governor is correct, the Glen Canyon Dam was blown up this morning. I have in my hand a study completed in 1998 by the Bureau regarding what would happen in just such an event." Grant held up the report that Julia had faxed him in the Gulfstream. "Computer modeling was done to determine the speed of the floodwater, depths, etc. Before I get into the details governor, how about you telling me approximately how much water was in LakePowell?"

The governor answered with only a touch of apprehension. "Well, I know it's not near as big as Mead."

"Partially true governor. Lake Mead holds 9.3 trillion gallons and LakePowell holds only 8.5 trillion."

The governor's mouth dropped.

Grant continued. "To put it in perspective, Lake Mead holds just over 2 years of Colorado River flow, and Lake Powell just under. All of you who think there's enough room left behind Hoover to catch the water in LakePowell, raise your hands." Grant paused for effect. No hands went up. "So, before I start reading from this report, I want to make sure we all agree that Hoover is not going to hold all that water?"

Fred Grainger asked a question. "How long does the report say it will take for the water to get here?"

Grant thumbed through the report until he found the table. "The water will reach the end of PierceBasin--" He looked up at the group "That's the beginning of Lake Mead." He continued reading. "at approximately 14 hours after the dam failure. Peak levels will occur 20 hours after the break, and be approximately two hundred fifty feet above normal."

Grant looked up. No one spoke. A few persons had their heads down. The governor had a blank look on his face. Grant spoke directly to Fred Grainger. "Fred, do you remember ever using the spillways at Hoover?"

"Yeah, in 1983, the year of the big spring runoff. It was the only year we used the spillways since the dam was built."

"Do you remember how much water went down the spillways and the river?"

Fred nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, peak was just over twenty eight thousand cubic feet per second. That was in addition to another seventy five thousand through the river works."

Grant shook his head. "So the worst flood since the dam was built netted just over a hundred thousand cubic feet per second." He looked directly at the governor. "Governor, were you around in 1983? Do you remember if there was any flooding downstream?" Grant already knew the answer.

The governor hesitated. "That was over twenty years ago, but I heard that there was quite a bit of flooding downstream. A lot of damage. Look, I'm not saying that--"

Grant interrupted him. "Fred, were the spillways running at capacity in 1983?"

Fred shook his head. "No, they'll handle over two hundred thousand cubic feet per second, each."

"Thanks Fred." Grant looked back at the governor. "So if the spillways were full, they'd handle over ten times more than in 1983?" He looked directly at the governor. "Does that sound like a disaster downstream governor?"

The governor stood. "Mr. Stevens, I'm not arguing there's not going to be a problem. I'm just making sure those people are allowed the proper time to evacuate."

Grant waved his hand. "Just a second, I'm not finished" He handed the report to Fred Grainger and pointed to a paragraph. "Fred, will you read this so everyone can hear?" Grant wanted to watch their eyes when they heard the words.

Fred took the report, and leaned forward against the table. "Overtopping of Hoover Dam would begin..."

Someone cut him off. "Water's going to go over the top of the dam?"

Grant glared at the person who spoke. "We already established that Hoover will not hold all the water." He lowered his voice and motioned to Fred. "Keep reading."

"Overtopping would begin approximately 25 hours after the failure at GlenCanyon and continue for 10 days before reaching a peak level of approximately 60 feet over the dam about 75 hours after the failure."

The governor's jaw dropped, as well as many of the others. A couple people who were standing sat down. The resistance in the governor's face drained away.

Fred continued reading. "Maximum discharges would be 75,000 cubic feet per second through the water works, 400,000 through the spillways and another 2,000,000 over the top of the dam, making a total of approximately 2.5 million cubic feet per second."

Grant paused then asked a question. "Fred, what would happen if sixty feet of water went over the top of Hoover Dam for ten days?"

Fred's answer was just above a whisper. "It would fail."

Grant repeated, "Hoover Dam would fail." He looked directly at the governor, then repeated it again. "Hoover Dam would fail and then the contents of both dams, which amounts to 4 years of river flow, would barrel down BlackCanyon." He nodded at the governor of Nevada. "What do you think the mayor of Laughlin would think of that, governor?"

The governor spoke without looking up. He massaged his eyes with the thumb and index finger of his left hand. The arrogance was gone. "What does the Bureau suggest we do, Mr. Stevens?"

CHAPTER 16

12:30 p.m. - Lake Powell, Utah

It was exactly as Max would have hoped. They had kayaked for a half hour and then the canyons had narrowed. The kayak skimmed through a vertical rock canyon, narrow enough for Max to touch either side with his paddle. Max paddled slowly as Darlene leaned back, reading her book.

"Look at this honey."

She looked up from her book, then book-marked it and set it down. "Wow. This is cool."

"Now you see why I wanted to come up here?"

The canyon veered left, and when they came around the turn, the walls opened up to reveal a sunlit cavern with a sandy beach, very romantic, and very isolated.

Darlene sat up. "Look at that."

"Guess where we're having our picnic?" Max said.

Darlene smiled.

When Max pulled the boat up on the sandy beach, he noticed the sand was wet, as if it had been recently underwater. The walls were wet also, way above the waterline, maybe twenty-five or thirty feet. Max thought about that and decided it was strange, almost as if there were humidity in the canyons. However, he felt no humidity. If he didn't know better, he would have sworn that the water had dropped. But it was impossible for LakePowell to drop twenty-five feet in such a short amount of time. Wasn't it?

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