Agent Williams nodded. "That would explain why nobody saw it."

An idea occurred to Grant. What if this wasn't what they thought? "Hang on. You say that nobody actually saw him dump it in?"

She shook her head. "No. No one has reported --"

Grant interrupted, "And nobody knows where he dumped it?"

"No."

It all fit. It all came down to why. The net result of poison in the AllAmericanCanal was what? Grant turned to Agent Williams. "Have they shut the head gates yet, the ones feeding water into the canal?"

"Yes," she said. "They shut them as soon as the report came in."

Grant smiled. "He's bluffing."

Agent Williams looked uncomfortable. "What makes you say that?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

Agent Williams looked over at Lloyd, who shrugged his shoulders.

Grant rubbed his forehead. "Look, what's the net result of poisoning the water?"

Lloyd answered. "Kill a ton of people?"

Grant shook his head. "I could buy that if this were somebody else. But assuming this is the same guy that blew the Glen Canyon Dam, Davis Dam, and the California Aqueduct, it wouldn't add up. What was the first thing that we did after the call came in?" Grant answered his own question. "We shut the head gates, the same as when he blew the California Aqueduct. He knew that's what we would do."

Agent Williams seemed to be catching on. "Okay, I can see why dumping poison in the canal would make us shut it down - that makes sense - but what makes you think it's a hoax?"

Grant smiled. "There's one thing inconsistent with the other bombings."

"Yeah, this wasn't a bombing, it was a poisoning," Lloyd said.

Grant shook his head. "Okay, but even more inconsistent is the fact that he phoned. That's the first time he's done that."

Agent Williams looked confused. "I don't know what difference it makes. Even if we believe he's bluffing, we still need to check it out, just to be safe. It's not like we can open the gates and take the risk the poison really exists."

Grant knew neither the agent nor Lloyd was following his line of reasoning. In fact he wasn't sure he knew himself. All he knew was that he'd just been given clue number four, and it fit. All four attacks were intended to send more of the Colorado River downstream. He felt it more than knew it.

"No, you're right, Agent Williams. I'm not saying we shouldn't close the gates. The point I'm trying to make is about the bomber himself. He doesn't care what happens to the canal, and by warning us, he's telling us his intent is not to kill, he just wants us to divert more water downstream."

"But what's downstream? Just Mexico."

Shauna walked over from the river and joined the conversation. "The Mexican Dam is called Morales. It's similar to Imperial Dam in that its primary purpose is to divert water for irrigation."

Lloyd looked confused. "So even if our bomber's intent is to steal all this water for the Mexicans, would their canal even hold it?"

"No way," said Grant. "Their canal isn't even as big as the All American."

"Then what's below that?" asked Agent Williams.

"Nothing," said Shauna, "just a dry riverbed. Morales diverts almost the entire river west."

Agent Williams sounded surprised. "Then where does the water go that continues downstream?"

Shauna shook her head. "Basically nowhere. There isn't much left. By then the riverbed is almost dry."

The special agent looked confused. "All the water? Dry riverbed? You mean the Colorado River is gone after Morales?"

Grant winced. It was like he had just been gut punched. His mind began racing and the voices of the others started to fade. The puzzle fit. He had all the pieces. And now that he did, he felt like an idiot for not seeing it before. It was the damn Mexican border; he hadn't been thinking beyond it. He had been hypnotized by the old "that's not my job" theory, the same theory he hated when others adopted it. In order to understand the intentions and motives of the Colorado River bomber, he needed to look at the Colorado River as a whole.

Shauna continued, "Yeah. Like I said before, we ended up signing a treaty with Mexico to guarantee what they get today. Without the treaty, the river wouldn't even make it there. The Americans would use it all."

Agent Williams thought about that for a minute. "What about where the river hits the ocean?"

Shauna laughed. "The delta? There isn't one. The water doesn't make it there any more. The whole thing is dried up."

Grant jumped back in, but his voice was dreamy. "People who visited the delta in the early 1900's described endless marshes, filled with millions of waterfowl. Huge fish hunted in the brackish water. The delta stretched across almost fifty miles. Explorers considered the Colorado River Delta one of the most incredible places on earth. Jaguars were even seen hunting there."

Agent Williams looked between Shauna and Grant. "And it's all gone now?"

Grant nodded. "All of it. The river bed dries up almost sixty miles from the ocean; it just kind of disappears into the sand."

Lloyd, who had been silent, argued, "But every map I've ever seen, shows the Colorado River emptying into the Gulf of California."

Grant looked him in the eyes and shook his head. "Not any more. Not for decades."

Lloyd rubbed his eyes, then responded with vigor. "Hey, I'm no tree hugger, but that stinks. So we need water. Fine. Divert a little here and there, okay. But, all of it? Every drop? We dry up a delta that big so we can have water fountains and palm trees in Los Angeles and Las Vegas? That seems a little over the top."

Agent Williams spoke again, almost pleading. "I don't understand how this could happen."

Grant hung his head. "Well, it did. It was a different time." He knew how it happened. Everyone had been looking out for number one. When the U.S. government allocated the water in the Colorado River between the western states and Mexico in 1930, the squeaky wheel got the oil. California squeaked the loudest, and the delta didn't squeak at all. Early in life Grant learned that water flowed downhill. But, after joining the Bureau, Grant learned that water flowed uphill, toward money, and in the West, nobody had more money than California.

Grant continued. "Well, I think we finally have a plausible motive for our bomber."

"Do we ever," Lloyd said.

Grant felt funny. They had just cracked the case wide open. The Colorado River bomber was an environmentalist. He was sure of it. Now the FBI would know where to look. They could track him down. But Grant didn't feel as good as he should, and he sensed that the others didn't either. It had been easier when they thought the bomber wanted to destroy, maim, or kill. Now the motive turned out to be restoring a wildlife habitat. Now what? Grant knew what they had to do, but his feelings had changed.

"So what's next?" asked Agent Williams.

Grant considered. "First, we need to tell Phil."

Agent Williams nodded.

Grant pointed south. "Then somebody needs to contact Mexico again, and let them know what's happening."

Grant knew what else they needed to do. Subconsciously, he'd known it all along. "And finally, we need to start making arrangements to go into Mexico. With all the water that's headed downstream, the Colorado River Delta is going to be wet again, after over fifty years. And I have a feeling our environmentalist is going to be there to celebrate it."

* * *

3:00 p.m. - Palo Verde Dam, California

The helicopter blew dust in all directions as it lifted off from the Palo Verde Diversion Dam. Grant caught a final glimpse of Don Simpson from above. The head of the Palo Verde Irrigation District still looked nervous. He had been extremely anxious when he found out they were leaving. But, all things considered, things were fine at Palo Verde. The water levels had been slowly dropping since peak, and the rate at which the dike was washing away had slowed. The farmers were lucky, especially compared to what might have been if they had not intentionally broken their dam. Grant had tried to reassure Don of that fact before leaving. Not that Grant could blame him. Many of the farmers would hold Don personally responsible for the dike's failure. Blame waited on both sides of tough decisions.

As the helicopter followed the river downstream, Grant marveled at the way the river had changed, transformed from a calm green to a rushing brown. Sometimes, when it left its banks and spread out, it almost reminded him of the upper Mississippi, or maybe the Missouri. That probably made sense as the upper Mississippi averaged a little over 600,000 cubic feet per second, and for the next two months, the Colorado would be very close to that.

Soon after the helicopter left Palo Verde, Grant saw a small town shimmering beyond the countless grids of farm land, about five miles ahead.

"What town is that up there?" Grant asked.

"That would be the thriving metropolis of Blythe, California," Lloyd responded.

There were many words Grant could use to describe Blythe, but neither thriving nor metropolis came to mind. He looked at his watch and noted it was after 3:00 p.m. "Shauna," he said into the headphones, "how long before the water gets to Imperial Dam?"

"5:45," she responded immediately.

"All right, that's almost three hours; we have some time." Grant pointed ahead to Blythe. "Lloyd, head over there. Let's see if we can find a burger or sandwich place with a vacant lot next to it."

Lloyd looked over at Grant, surprised. "You want me to land the helicopter next to a fast food joint?"

"Sure, unless you can fly through the drive-thru. I haven't had anything since breakfast, and I'm starving."

Lloyd grimaced "It'll blow dust all--"

"I'll buy," Grant added.

"Why didn't you say that to start with?" The pilot smiled broadly.

"I'm in," Shauna said, from behind.

"Me, too," said the FBI agent.

Lloyd covered the five miles in a couple of minutes. "How about that one on the other side of the freeway? There's a whole field to land in behind it."

Grant saw it at the same time. "That'll work."

"I was kinda hoping for something cold, like a deli," Agent Williams said.

Lloyd glanced back at her. "They've got ice."

When the helicopter landed, Grant opened the door and hopped out. Turning back toward Lloyd he cupped his hands. "What do you want?"

Lloyd hung his headphones on the hook and opened his own door. "I'm coming too."

Grant saw that both women were already out. He instinctively crouched to avoid the rotors and jogged out from under the helicopter, meeting Lloyd on the other side.

As they walked across the sand toward the parking lot, Grant noticed a family standing next to their car. By the way they were staring, he guessed that helicopters did not often land next to hamburger places in Blythe.

Grant caught up to the pilot. "You could have kept the engine running, then we could have left when I got your food."

Lloyd held out his hands. "Driving with a cheeseburger and fries in my five-speed jeep is tricky, but if I were to try it in the helicopter, well let's just say you guys would be better off watching from a safe distance."

Grant nodded, realizing suddenly that both the pilots' hands were always occupied in a helicopter.

After they ordered and were seated, they ate in silence, all of them stuffing food in their mouths.

"Good idea," said Lloyd, with a mouth full of french fries.

Grant nodded a response. He glanced out the window and saw two men standing near the helicopter, looking it over. He swallowed a mouthful of food, and motioned to Lloyd. "Should I worry about the Lookie Lou's?"

Lloyd glanced up, then responded while still chewing. "Nah, people are always checking out the choppers. They won't hurt anything." He swallowed and rolled his eyes toward Agent Williams. "Besides, if they try something, the FBI here can put a bullet in 'em."

Agent Williams made a thumbs-up sign with her hand.

Grant swallowed, took a swig of his soda, and looked at the agent. "So what did Phil say?" Grant knew she called her boss just before they left the Palo Verde Diversion Dam, but he hadn't heard the result.

She took her time and finished chewing before responding. "It's hard to tell for sure what Phil's thinking, but it seems like he agrees with your delta theory."

"What about Mexico?"

She shook her head. "That, he was very clear about. We are not to cross the border. He's going to charter a jet from Hoover Dam to either Yuma or El Centro. He said he'd call the Mexicans while he waited for the jet."

"They can't get a jet from Hoover Dam," said Lloyd through a mouthful of french fries, "but a sea plane might work."

Agent Williams glared at Lloyd. "I know that. They're using the BoulderCityAirport."

Grant laughed, which caused the agent to glare at him too.

After a few minutes, when they were done with their hamburgers, both women excused themselves and walked to the restroom. Lloyd helped himself to both women's extra french fries. Grant glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were out of earshot.

"What kind of paperwork would we need to fly into Mexico?"

Lloyd stopped chewing. "Didn't the FBI just tell us not to cross the border?"

"I'm just asking a hypothetical question."

Lloyd raised his eyebrows. "Well, in that case, if we just wanted to fly over the border and look around, kind of an aerial tour of the delta, then nothing."

Grant glanced around again. "Nothing? No permits?"

Lloyd shook his head. "As long as we don't try to land."

"Good."

Lloyd held up a finger. "There are other issues, besides the Mexicans and pissing off the Feds. I don't think my chopper's insured in Mexico."

Grant hadn't considered insurance. "How much would it cost to replace?"

"More than I'll make the rest of my life," Lloyd said.

"How about we worry about that problem later?"

Lloyd lowered his voice. "We'll need fuel."

"Can you get fuel in Yuma?"

Lloyd nodded. "Sure."

Grant lowered his voice. "All right, when we get to Imperial Dam, you take off and get some fuel."

"Won't it look suspicious, leaving you guys at the dam?"

Grant saw movement in Lloyd's eyes and looked over his shoulder to see both women exiting the restrooms.

Grant rushed his words. "Doesn't it need gas anyway?"

Lloyd winked.

"Hey, what are you guys whispering about?" said Agent Williams.

Grant stammered, embarrassed about getting caught.

Lloyd filled the silence. "We were just talking about how flattering those FBI coveralls look."

Both women looked at Grant, not Lloyd, and he felt his face flush.

Lloyd smiled. "No. That's not what I meant. What we were saying is that they're very practical in this hot weather, especially if you don't wear anything under them."

Grant saw Shauna gasp while Agent Williams looked over at her, then both women looked at Grant again, although this time Grant sensed that they were not sure whether to believe Lloyd.

Agent Williams shifted her look to Lloyd. "Are you messing with me?"

Lloyd shook his head. "No, ma'am. I have a policy to never mess with anybody who's packing." He pointed at her forty caliber Glock.

Grant wondered if Lloyd was making it worse, but the pilot didn't seem nervous. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself. During the standstill, Lloyd reached over and stole a couple more of the uneaten fries from the special agent.

She stared hard at him. It made Grant nervous. Finally her expression broke, and a slight smile appeared. "You touch one more of my fries, and I'll gun you down right here."

The pilot looked nervous for a second, pulling his arm back, then suddenly lurched forward, grabbing her whole carton of fries. She reacted as if she were under fire, broadening her stance and grabbing the handle of her weapon.

Grant saw a man at the next table jump in his seat, his eyes wide, and mouth hanging open.

Agent Williams released her hand from the weapon and pointed at Lloyd, smiling wider. "You're just lucky my gun was snapped in, or my reflexes might have taken over."

The pilot stuffed the fries in his mouth and took a swig of his drink. "That's the story of my life with women, just one snap away from the action."

Grant was laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. After he regained control of himself, he stood and gathered the garbage from the table onto his tray. "Enough comedy. Let's head out. We got another 80 miles to Imperial Dam."

The two women pitched in while Lloyd refilled his soda. A moment later Lloyd held the door and they all headed back into the desert heat.

* * *

3:45 p.m. - Border between the United States and Mexico

The thin man passed from Calexico, California into Mexicali, Mexico. The security on the border reminded him of a two-way mirror, where you could see out, but not in. The entrance into Mexico was a straight shot; he hardly had to slow down. Yet cars were lined up for a mile going the other way, and he could see that each driver entering the United States was being stopped and questioned.

Before he crossed, he passed many stores that advertised Mexican car insurance. On all of his past trips he had always paid the money. He knew his normal car insurance wouldn't cover him in Mexico, and he'd heard the horror stories of Americans getting thrown into Mexican jails after an accident due to lack of insurance. It just wasn't worth the risk, not for twenty bucks a day.

But this particular trip was different. He had worried about all those things before when he couldn't afford to be locked up in Mexico. He could not afford to jeopardize his goal over a trivial issue such as car insurance. But this time when he pulled up to the insurance store, he sat in the car and wondered what to do. For the last year he had planned meticulously for this. It had consumed him. But today he realized that he had given no thought to his life after. To be honest, he was surprised to have gotten away with it, expecting to either be caught by the police, or more likely, killed. But he was not dead, nor incarcerated.

Sitting in the parking lot he realized that he didn't know what came next. One plan included heading farther south into Baja for a couple of days. He could camp and kill time until he felt safe crossing back into the U.S. But he had never spent any time thinking about the details, and realized now that he had no food, sleeping bag, or even water jugs for such an excursion. And what of the car insurance?

Realistically, the police would eventually track him down. He felt sure of it. Yet now that he had made it this far, he wondered if there were things he should have done just in case he was successful. Fake I.D. would have been a good start. Maybe even airplane tickets out of Tijuana or Cabo San Lucas. But where would he go? And what would he do when he arrived? He had no money for a life of exile. But he couldn't really go back to work on Monday either. Or could he?

In the end, he bought the car insurance, a seven-day policy. If he wound up wandering around in Baja, at least he wouldn't be thrown in jail for an auto accident. He laughed at the thought of the FBI finding him in a Mexican jail, being held for a fender bender. Actually, if he told the Mexicans that he was the one responsible for releasing the Colorado, they just might let him go. It was an interesting thought. But how would he tell them? He didn't speak Spanish.

A horn honking behind him brought him out of his daze. He was in the wrong lane. He waved his arm out the window and moved left to where he should have been. The street signs were just different enough to give him an uneasy feeling when driving in Mexico. He rubbed his eyes and focused ahead.

Mexico's Highway 5 headed south through Mexicali. After exiting the city, it would eventually run alongside the last of the Colorado River. Forty miles south of Mexicali, the river dried up completely. From there, the highway continued another fifty miles along the edge of the dried-up river delta, and eventually went through San Felipe on the coast of the Gulf of California. His map showed the road continuing south, finally linking with Highway 1 that stretched all the way to Cabo San Lucas, a thousand miles away at the bottom of the BajaPeninsula. But south of San Felipe, the line on his map was small indicating a dirt or gravel road. Maybe he would head south after tonight. Cabo sounded like a good place to get lost. But the road was unknown to him, and it reminded him how little preparation he had made for success.

He glanced at his watch. There was plenty of time. A news report on the radio estimated the floodwater was traveling about twenty miles per hour. Another station said twenty-five. Either way, the water should reach the delta sometime late that evening. It would be better to have firm time estimates, but that was a luxury he didn't have. He would reach it in time; that was the main thing. He would be there to see the delta restored.

CHAPTER 36

4:10 p.m. - North of Yuma, Arizona

From the helicopter, they could see the concrete structure of the Imperial Dam. Unlike the last two dams, Imperial was entirely concrete and stretched all the way across the small canyon, for a total length of over 3000 feet. In spite of its length, the dam looked unimpressive, only thirty-one feet tall in the middle, with slightly larger concrete head gates on both sides.

As they flew over the structure, Grant could make out three streams flowing from the dam. From west to east, the first and by far the largest was the AllAmericanCanal on the California side. Next to it, and only a third as big, was the remainder of the Colorado River. Then, on the far eastern shore, the GilaMainCanal flowed from gates into Arizona.

In the middle of the concrete structure, between the Colorado River and the GilaCanal, was a thousand-foot-long section that was twenty feet lower than the rest of the structure. Water constantly trickled over this entire section, creating a green carpet of moss on the concrete slope down to the river below. This lower middle section at Imperial Dam was designed to handle any overflow and therefore acted as Imperial Dam's spillway system.

Most people know that dams will eventually silt up as the river deposits its dirt and debris into the mouth of the reservoir. After hundreds of years, the silt will eventually fill the entire reservoir, leaving no storage space for water and rendering the dam useless. Although Imperial Dam was only built in the late 1930s, it was already completely silted. Being less than thirty feet deep, the dirty Colorado made quick work of the small reservoir. Grant heard that only three small channels remained in the reservoir, one to each set of head gates, though he couldn't see them through the murky water. What he could see, however, was a huge patch of reeds and other water plants growing right out of the middle of the lake, leaving no doubt as to the reservoir's depth, or lack thereof.

A quick visual inventory of potential damage spots indicated a small mobile home development on the east bank of the reservoir, but most of it looked to be located at high enough elevations so as to not be affected by the next two months of flooding. Below the dam, however, it was obvious that everything would be underwater. A flat gully almost three miles wide, littered with willows and other brush, marked the original Colorado River channel. The gully looked to be just over five miles long before it opened into the farmland just north of Yuma, Arizona. Access roads, both to the trailer park and to the dam itself, connected to a small highway in the bottom of the gully, and Grant knew that both would shortly be inaccessible. Both sides of the dam were littered with police officers and their patrol cars, as Grant had seen at the other dams upstream.

Grant pointed to a gravel patch near the main head gates on the west side. "Put us down over there."

The helicopter banked immediately before descending to the gravel. Before anyone could exit, Lloyd's voice could be heard in the headphones. "You guys hop out. I'll run into Yuma and get some fuel. I should be back in an hour."

Grant looked over at the pilot and they made eye contact. "Okay, we'll see you in a while." Grant looked at his watch, then added, "Things should look different when you get back."

"Will I be able to land here?"

Grant looked around, trying to predict what would be flooded. He pointed just west of the concrete structure. "If not, that little knoll oughta work."

"10-4," said the pilot.

Before Grant removed the headphones, he heard Special Agent Williams' voice. "Look around in the Yuma airport for the FBI team. They should be arriving pretty soon in a private charter."

Lloyd looked over at Grant, his eyes prompting a response.

"Just do what you need to do," Grant instructed Lloyd. "If anyone asks, tell them we expect our flood by quarter to five, and we'll meet them at the Yuma airport sometime between 5:15 and 5:30."

Lloyd nodded, and the three passengers opened the doors and hopped out. Grant crouched and jogged from under the rotors, and by the time he was clear, the helicopter had already taken off. Grant watched the chopper disappear into the distance.

A middle-aged guy in a suit and tie approached with a policeman alongside. "You from the Bureau?"

Grant reached out his hand. "Yeah. Grant Stevens." When they shook, Grant noticed the man's hands were sweaty.

"Name's Frank Kennedy. I'm the site supervisor for Imperial Dam."

"Nice to meet you, Frank," said Grant. He released the sweaty hand and wiped his on his pants. "What's happened so far at your dam?"

Frank pointed back toward the middle of Imperial Dam. "Well, in spite of how big that spillway looks, it ain't big enough for a half a million cubic feet." He looked up at Grant with an almost pleading look on his face. "You sure we're going to get that much water?"

Grant nodded. "Afraid so, Mr. Kennedy."

Frank glanced upstream.

Grant pointed north. "We just came from Palo Verde. We were there when they broke the dam. All that water's headed this way." Grant continued. "So your spillway won't handle it. What's the backup plan?"

Frank hesitated. "Well, our priority is to protect the canal and its desalinators." He pointed back toward the west end of the dam.

Grant's eyes were drawn to the head gates for the AllAmericanCanal, where the water was separated into three large ponds where the sediments were extracted. After the extraction, the sediment was flushed back into the Colorado River and sent to the Mexicans. He wondered if the Mexicans approved of the way the canal cleansed itself at the cost of dirtying their water. Kennedy had constructed a new dike almost ten feet high to protect the desalination ponds. Grant thought about the raging brown water racing down the riverbed below the Palo Verde Dam an hour before. Obviously, a ten-foot dike would not be nearly enough. He thought about telling Frank Kennedy, but decided there wasn't any point. It would just distract him from what Grant knew was a more important issue.

"What about opening up the dam a little bigger?" Grant asked.

Frank Kennedy looked back toward the middle of the structure, then back at Grant, a terrified look in his eyes.

"You did bring in some demolition guys like we told you to?"

"Yeah, they're here, but . . ." Frank couldn't finish the sentence. His eyes went down.

Grant shook his head. He felt the skin on his neck tighten. Nobody had guts anymore. He wondered if these guys would have reacted the same if they had seen the water pouring out of LakePowell, or if they had seen the bodies floating in the water below Parker Dam, or the flooding below Palo Verde. He tried hard not to lose control. "Well, Mr. Kennedy, get 'em out on both sides of the spillway right now and start planting the charges." He looked at his watch. "We only have about forty minutes."

"But Mr. Stevens -"

Grant couldn't hold back. His anger took over as he shouted at Kennedy. "No buts, Mr. Kennedy! Get 'em out there right now! Either you widen the dam, or the river will, and the river most certainly will not do it the way you want it. It'll tear it apart in the place you least want it to."

"Where exactly should I --"

"There's no time for exactness, Frank! You already pissed all your exactness time away. Get them to blow both sides of the spillway now." Grant saw the man look over at the dam with a blank look in his eyes. Grant couldn't stop himself. He reached out and grabbed the man's shoulder, a little too forcefully, and pointed to the concrete above the main river head gates. "There!" he said. He then swiveled toward the GilaCanal head gate on the other side. "And there!"

"But Mr. Stevens," pleaded the supervisor. "That will destroy both gates."

"I thought you wanted to save the AllAmericanCanal." Grant said, pointing back toward the settling tanks.

"Yeah, but what about the --"

Grant stretched out his hands. "You can't save it all, Mr. Kennedy." He hesitated for a moment. "You'll be lucky if you save anything."

Frank Kennedy slowly raised a radio to his mouth. He pressed the button to talk, but looked like he didn't know what to say. Finally the words trickled out. "Okay. Let's send in the demolition guys. Split 'em up. Both sides of the spillway. Open it all the way from the Gila to the main river gates." His voice trembled when he finished.

He looked back at Grant. "I hope you know what you're doing Mr. Stevens."

Grant looked over and imagined water pouring over the top of the Imperial Dam. He looked back at Frank Kennedy. "Frank, I'm not worried about doing too much." He shook his head. "I'm worried we're not doing enough."

Forty minutes later Kennedy approached with his radio in his hand, his thumb on the button. "Okay. They'll be ready to detonate in a few minutes."

Frank Kennedy had changed in the last forty minutes. Once the decision was made to open up the dam, and the task switched from strategy to implementation, the man had acted like the supervisor he was. The indecisiveness was gone, replaced instead with pointing, directing, counseling, and tactical planning. Grant could tell the men respected Kennedy and responded to his directions. Obviously, the decision to blow up the dam, the dam he was in charge of, had been a little too much.

Grant was just about to respond, to tell them to go ahead and blast, when Shauna came running up. "Aren't you going to blow under the spillway? How come they're not putting any explosives there?"

Both Grant and Frank Kennedy stared at her for a moment before Grant answered. "What do you mean?" He motioned toward some dirt just downstream from the dam. "There?"

"No." She pointed at the center of the dam. "The spillway itself. If you blow the bottom out of it, the rest of the structure might survive." When both Grant and the supervisor mirrored blank stares, she continued. "You might not have to blow the head gates on both ends if you make the spillway deeper. It would be almost twice as deep," she added.

Grant felt confused. "But the dam is full of silt . . ." He realized his error as soon as he spoke. Yes, Imperial Dam was full of silt, but the floodwater would wash that out in no time. If they blew the bottom of the spillway, the spillway would be twice as tall, and would theoretically be able to flow well over 400,000 cubic feet per second. They could save the rest of the dam.

Grant looked at his watch, 4:50 p.m. Now they had less than an hour before the water arrived. "Shauna, that's brilliant. Where were you a half hour ago?"

Frank Kennedy shook his head. "That won't work. The dam's full of silt," he said, still looking confused.

"No, she's right," said Grant. "If we blow the bottom out of the spillways, the water will take care of the silt in no time. It would more than double the capacity of the spillway.

Frank nodded slowly, comprehension setting in. "She's right."

Frank lifted his radio to his mouth. He hesitated and looked at Grant who nodded confirmation. "Demolition team, hold everything. We have a last-minute change of plans. I need all available people to stop what they're doing, and instead, start planting explosives on the lower part of the spillway. We need the spillway to be deeper."

Grant heard a response from the radio, which he guessed was the guy in charge of the demolition team. "But Mr. Kennedy, isn't the water almost -"

Frank keyed the mike and shouted into the radio. "Yes, the water is almost here! That's why you need to hurry!"

"But if we're not done in time? Then we won't have blown anything."

Frank looked over at Grant.

"Have them leave a small team on the Gila side," said Grant quickly. "We can blow that as a backup."

Frank forwarded the instructions into the radio and almost immediately they saw the results as the men on the dam started hustling toward the center.

Grant looked anxiously at his watch again.

"I wish you still had your helicopter here so we could scout the water upstream," said Frank.

Grant nodded. He agreed. Hopefully Lloyd would be back soon. Grant wondered if the pilot had beaten the FBI to the airport.

The thought of sneaking past the FBI into Mexico was starting to bother Grant. What was driving him to do it? It wasn't his job to find the bomber. He had no expertise at apprehending criminals. But for the last two days, the FBI had shown no signs of solving this crime. They'd been two steps behind from the start. The FBI was better when they had time to do computer simulations, run background checks, and analyze information. This whole thing had gone down much too quickly. Grant realized it had been less than eighteen hours since the first bomb at the Glen Canyon Dam, and he was already over 500 miles from there. It felt like a lifetime ago.

And what about Mexico? It seemed like the FBI had no intentions of going past the border. Could they really trust the Mexican police to do this by themselves? What if Grant actually did sneak into Mexico and they found the bomber down there? The environmentalist would surely be there. Maybe they could follow him in the helicopter until the Mexican police could pick him up. But how could they communicate with the Mexicans on the radio? None of them spoke Spanish. What about Lloyd - did he? He had forgotten to ask the pilot. He wondered for a second what Roland and Howard and the other officers in the Bureau of Reclamation would think of his idea to go into Mexico after the bomber against the direct orders of the FBI. It was a line of thought that he did not want to explore. Frank's voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

"Will this floodwater hit hard at first, or gradually build?"

Grant looked up and saw the entire length of the spillway lined with demolition guys busy at work. He realized that even a small amount of water coming over the spillway would disrupt their efforts. He looked back and forth along the dam before returning his gaze to Frank Kennedy.

"Open all the other gates, the All American, the Gila, and the river gates. It'll give them a few more minutes warning." Grant looked back at the men working on the spillway. "Tell them not to wait to wire the explosives. If the water forces them to ditch, I want them to be able to blow what's already done."

Frank spent the next few moments forwarding the instructions. Almost immediately Grant heard the gates on the All American and the river raising.

Grant pointed at a small hill on the west side of the river, just upstream from the dam. "Can we post some police officers up there to watch for the floodwater?"

Frank nodded and keyed the radio again.

* * *

5:30 p.m. - Grand Canyon, Arizona

David and Judy sat on a couch in the South Rim visitor center. Afram paced back and forth. The visitor center had been closed to tourists and had been converted to a make shift crisis center. After the red helicopter dropped them off four hours earlier, the three had been fed, clothed in warm green sweats, and examined by doctors.

Throughout the day, every time someone walked by in green sweats, and there were many, David checked to see if they were his friends. At every opportunity, he asked the doctors or the volunteers if they had any information about Sam, Becky, or Keller. The answers were always the same. "I'm not sure, let me go check," or "I don't have that kind of information, you'll have to talk to somebody else," or "They might be at another facility," or "We are checking into it, somebody will get back to you," or "I'm sure they are fine, now just relax and don't worry."

At one point Afram had gone searching through the building, pulling back curtains where others were being treated and opening doors. But their friends were not to be found.

Finally, a ranger with an orange vest approached them. He had a somber look in his eyes.

"I understand you have been asking about your companions."

"You have some information?" Judy asked.

They crowded around the man. He motioned for them to sit. David and Judy sat, but Afram remained standing.

"Can you give me a description of them, and what they were wearing?"

"Are they alive?" David pleaded.

The ranger held out his hands. "I don't know. That's what I'm trying to figure out."

"Well, take us to them and we'll tell you," Afram said.

The ranger did not even look at Afram, ignoring the question. David had a bad feeling about how the conversation was going. He suspected there was a reason they were not taking him to see his friends.

"How many of your friends were there?" the ranger asked.

"Three," Judy responded quickly. "Two men and a woman."

The ranger looked confused. He pointed at them. "You ran the Grand Canyon with only six of you, in one boat?"

David looked over at Afram. "No. Actually, there were two rafts. If you count everyone, there were fourteen total. But we got separated."

The man wrote down the number in a notebook. "So there were eleven besides you three."

Judy nodded.

"And you say you were separated in the flood?" He looked at Judy. "Can I assume there were six in your boat and eight in the other when you split up?"

Judy nodded.

"And you were all with Colorado River Foam?"

David didn't remember telling anyone that. "How did you know that?"

The man reached in the pocket of his vest and pulled out a bright green emblem like the one from their life jackets.

David's stomach sank. Judy put her face in her hands.

"They're dead, aren't they?" Afram pointed at the emblem. "You found their bodies, didn't you?"

The man nodded. "We found some bodies wearing these life jackets, yes." He waited while it sunk in.

"Eleven?" Afram asked.

The ranger shook his head. "Ten. We found an eleventh jacket, but no person."

David felt perplexed. "Does that mean somebody made it?"

The man shook his head. "The straps on the jacket were torn out. It would take a very violent situation to do that. We don't believe it's possible that the person wearing it could have survived."

"So they're all dead then?" Afram said.

The ranger nodded.

Deep down David had known it already. He had known it since the night before. He felt no shock now, only disappointment at the lack of a miracle.

"The three of you were picked up just above GraniteNarrows. We can tell from watermarks that GraniteNarrows basically acted like a funnel last night. So anyone that went through during high water . . . Well, let's just say, they wouldn't have much of a chance. There was just too much water."

"We could hear it," Judy said. "Keller knew what it was."

The ranger looked confused.

"Keller was our guide," David said.

The ranger pointed at them. "You three were lucky."

David felt many emotions. He would return to Los Angeles and go back to work without Sam and Becky. He would always remember Keller and the members of the other raft. He knew it was a miracle to be alive, but he definitely did not feel lucky.

CHAPTER 37

5:47 p.m. - Imperial Dam, California/Arizona Border

Grant sat in a folding chair under a temporary shade canopy. His body felt exhausted, and his toe was aching again. He was reviewing the projected timelines with Shauna when Frank Kennedy interrupted them.

"They think the water is starting to rise," he said, pointing to the small hill where the police were watching the river upstream.

Grant stood. "Are they sure?"

He nodded. "Yeah, they said one of the rocks on the river bank, one they were watching, is now underwater.

"How are your demolition guys doing?" said Grant.

"I just called them. They said they only need a few more minutes."

Grant walked out from under the shade so he could look out at the demolition men. He saw a couple of them hustling away with tools and boxes of excess materials. A few remained in their working positions, but Grant couldn't see what they were doing from where he stood. He guessed they were still planting the explosive themselves, or maybe threading in the detonators.

"Did you tell them to finish up and get outta there?" he asked.

Frank nodded. "Already did."

Grant looked downstream from the main head gates to see if he could detect if the water had risen yet. He stared at the water for a while to see if he could see it rise. He finally looked up and saw that only about five men remained below the spillways.

"The water's rising!" yelled Shauna.

Grant's eyes moved back toward the river and he noticed the river had risen almost to the top of the wet marks in what must have been only a few seconds.

Grant turned to Frank. But the site supervisor was already on the radio urging the demolition guys to clear out. "We have to blow it now!" Frank yelled.

Grant heard the response in the radio. "I can't detonate until my men are clear."

"Then get them out now!" Kennedy retorted.

Grant saw the final guy drop what he was doing and begin to run. A moment later a fine film of water breached the top of the moss-covered face of the concrete spillway and streaked it dark gray.

"The water's there. Blow it now!" urged Frank into the radio.

"Not 'til my last man's clear," the radio responded immediately.

Grant saw the man, still running, turn his head to look at the spillway, and suddenly trip and fall down. He was still, not moving.

Grant cursed under his breath.

The man's head came up slowly. Grant could see two other men running back to help. The whole face of the spillway was now dark gray and covered with water. The flow downstream from the head gates had increased noticeably.

Grant tapped Frank on the shoulder. "Ask him if the water flowing over the spillway will screw up the explosives."

Frank relayed the question and the radio responded, "Yes, if we wait too long."

The men reached their fallen comrade and immediately started dragging him away.

"Now!" yelled Frank.

"Just a little farther," responded the guy on the radio.

Grant saw the water running over the spillway had increased. It now splashed when it reached the bottom and the boxes left by the demolition team were washing away. Grant looked back at the two men dragging the third. They were only a hundred feet past the spillway.

The explosion erupted behind them and knocked all three men down. Grant's hands went upwards to relieve the pain in his ears. With his hands still covering his ears he noticed that the lower spillway had a dozen huge openings of up to twenty feet in diameter. Some of the blocks of concrete could be seen downstream from the spillway. Muddy brown water now gushed around the new openings. As he watched, he saw the water open another huge hole, rolling a concrete block out of the way.

Grant saw Frank Kennedy yelling at him, but couldn't hear anything. Suddenly realizing why, he removed his hands from his ears. "What?" he yelled.

Grant saw a group of men splashing through knee-deep water to recover the three men knocked down by the explosion.

"He wants to know if he should blow the upper dam on the Gila side," said Frank.

Grant turned his head around. "Where's Shauna?"

She appeared suddenly from behind some of the policemen. He waved her over. "What do you think?"

Her face revealed a nervous smile. "Wow, that was scary. I was watching the men when it happened. I didn't expect it until they were farther --"

Grant interrupted. "Me neither. But what about the spillway? Is it enough?"

"Oh sure. I think the water will finish it off. No problem."

Grant felt the same, but it felt better that she agreed. "So, no need to open the dam wider?"

"Couldn't hurt," she responded.

It wasn't the answer Grant expected. Why blow up the rest of the dam if it wasn't needed? "But if you think that it's enough . . ."

"The spillway should have been wider from the start," she said quickly. "We might as well open it up like it should have been."

It made sense. He'd only been thinking of saving the original structure, not leaving it the way he would have designed it. "I think you're right."

He waved Frank Kennedy over and told him to have the demolition team unhook some of their detonators and only blow another 300 feet of the Gila side. That would leave another couple hundred feet of concrete to protect the GilaCanal head gate. The man on the radio said it would only take a few minutes.

The amount of brown water flowing through the shattered spillway had grown considerably. The water exited dark and soupy after carving through the years of silt deposited behind Imperial Dam. Although the concrete structure underneath was no longer visible, the general shape could be discerned by looking at the rapids, the higher points revealing the remaining structure. Grant noticed one large rapid move downstream and dissipate, which told him the water pressure had cleared another block of concrete.

While staring at the scene, he heard the sound of a helicopter. He looked up and saw the LAS VEGAS TOURS logo on its side. Lloyd was back.

"How long before the river level peaks?" asked Frank.

Grant looked at Shauna.

"A half hour, maybe forty minutes," she said.

They all watched as Lloyd set the helicopter down. As soon as the landing gear touched, Grant heard the engine begin to wind down with the rotors.

"You guys gonna leave now?" asked Frank tentatively.

Grant looked at his watch - 5:57 p.m. The water would reach the ocean in a few hours. He felt something powerful tugging at him, telling him to move on. The environmentalist was in Mexico, headed for the delta. He knew it. But the strong force tugging at him was pulling him away from his job. Leaving Imperial Dam before the water peaked, before they knew for sure if the demolition team succeeded, would be deemed irresponsible.

"No, Frank. We'll stick around for another half hour to see if we opened enough of your dam up."

Frank's shoulders relaxed a little and he smiled.

Lloyd walked up. "Did I miss all the action?"

Grant wanted to ask the pilot more questions about flying into Mexico, but couldn't. "No, Lloyd, we saved the second explosion for you. We should be ready in a minute." Grant nodded at Frank to verify the exact timing on the radio.

While he waited, Grant pointed south so Lloyd could see him. "Did you run into the FBI while you were in Yuma?"

"Nah, they didn't arrive at the airport until I was ready to leave. We didn't even talk."

Grant wondered if they had even recognized Lloyd's chopper as the one Grant was using. More likely that they were thinking about their own responsibilities and not what Grant was doing.

Frank walked over. "Cover your ears this time; he's going to detonate it in fifteen seconds." Frank turned and shouted for the policemen standing around to cover their ears.

Grant covered his ears and noticed that Lloyd and Shauna were doing the same. He suddenly realized he hadn't seen Agent Williams since they landed.

The explosion blew chunks of debris into the air. It hurt his ears even with his hands clamped over them. He watched a large portion of the concrete dam break off and move downstream. Grant guessed that at least half of a football field length of the dam was displaced and that the water would have no problems finishing the job.

"Awesome," Lloyd said.

* * *

6:25 p.m. - Imperial Dam, California/Arizona Border

Grant, Lloyd and Shauna stood next to the helicopter watching the water do its thing. The level had risen steadily since the first explosion. Now it seemed to have stabilized at about four or five feet from the top of the original dam. There was no doubt in Grant's mind that the decision to blow the 300 foot section on the Gila side saved the dam from being topped. In all, counting the spillway and the extra section, a 1300 foot section of the dam was now flowing full blast. As Grant had predicted, the ten-foot dike constructed to protect the settling ponds of the AllAmericanCanal had been breached almost fifteen minutes before. They'd have to wait sixty days for the water to drop before they tried to dig out the mud and attempt to restore them.

The small highway below the dam was underwater. The rushing water had flattened what previously had been an impenetrable mass of willows in the riverbed below the dam. Grant saw no evidence that they had ever existed. Looking downstream, the river had spread out to almost a half mile wide, then steadily flowed downhill for three or four miles before it emptied into the valley of farmland below.

"Unbelievable," said Lloyd.

Grant looked at Shauna. "You know what the bright side of this is, don't you?"

She looked up at him with a confused look on her face. "No. What?"

"It will only take a few days of this to un-silt the dam. It'll be cleaner than it's been in seventy years."

She looked back at the water and nodded. "I'm not sure anybody's going to be celebrating."

As Shauna spoke, Agent Williams walked up to where they were standing. She was covered in concrete dust and her knees were wet and dark.

Grant shook his head. "Well, look who you see! I was starting to think you blew yourself up."

"Not likely," retorted the agent.

Lloyd pointed at her. "So, what do ya like better? Digging around after explosions looking for clues, or blowing stuff up yourself?"

She glared up at the pilot.

"It's okay. You can tell us," Lloyd prodded.

She pointed at him. "This had to be done. It had to be done right."

The pilot's eyes bored into her. "That don't mean you didn't get off doing it, does it? Look, I know you loved watching it blow up. I can see it in your eyes. I liked seeing it. I can admit it."

Grant tried to hide his smile as he watched Lloyd push her buttons. He felt like interjecting, saying something to stop the harassing, but then her composure changed and she finally smiled.

"Okay, it was impressive to watch," she said. "Since it had to be done."

Grant smiled, happy the attack was over. He liked Lloyd, but the pilot scared him sometimes, especially the way he talked to the FBI.

Both the special agent and Lloyd looked up at Grant. He could see that Shauna was also looking at him too. He knew they were waiting for his decision. He looked over at Imperial Dam. The massive stream of water plowed through the huge opening. Downstream a mile-wide river ran into the Yuma farmland, but the water level was stable, he couldn't deny it. He listened for the voice that had been nagging him into Mexico. For some reason the urge had dissipated. But then again, the urge could have subsided because it knew he had already given in to it.

* * *

6:30 p.m. - Lake Powell, Utah

Finally, it was their turn. The boats that had been beached above the Mastercraft were gone. Greg had already backed the trailer down the long ramp, and it was waiting for the boat to be lowered onto it.

In the early afternoon, two cranes had been brought in from Las Vegas to lift the boats. They were unlike anything Julie had ever seen before. They reminded her of a military Hummer, in that they were low, flat, and looked heavy. Each had tires bigger than truck tires, and each had a large telescoping arm right in the middle, with the logo CARRYDECK inscribed on the side. One was slightly larger than the other, and Greg told her it would lift 20 tons, not that Julie knew how that related to the boats they were lifting.

But Greg and Paul could not stop talking about how the cranes were perfect for the job at hand. The large crane lifted the boats on the left side of the ramp, and the smaller one lifted the ones on the right. As soon as they had placed a boat on its trailer, they moved the cranes down a boat length, parked and began lifting the next boat. Two helpers wearing hard hats attached special harnesses that slipped under the bow and stern, then once they lifted the boat in the air, the operator could put it wherever he wanted.

When the Mastercraft was hoisted up, Julie couldn't help being scared that they would drop it, but she had nothing to fear. The crane operator lowered the boat down onto the trailer in a slow, gentle motion. Greg and Paul hurried to tie down the boat, and when they were finished, the two men in hard hats removed the harness and the crane moved to the next boat. Since there was a line of trailers waiting to replace the Crawfords on the ramp, Greg motioned for everyone to get in the truck and they pulled the boat to the top of the hill out of the way.

In the parking lot, Greg pulled over next to Paul and Erika's SUV and turned off the engine. They climbed out of the truck and Greg and Paul began securing the boat for the journey home.

Erika looked at Julie, smiling.

"What?" Julie asked.

"Nothing. Just that we're done. We can go home."

Julie looked at her watch. She tried to remember which day it was, and saw that it was Wednesday. Originally, they had rented the houseboat until Friday. "I guess we're leaving a few days early, aren't we?"

Erika laughed. "I think we left at just the right time."

They both turned and looked down the hill to where WahweapBay had once been. It no longer looked like a bay. Most of the water was gone, replaced by a thin stream of water running down to merge with the Colorado River. It was how it must have looked before the dam was built. The entire dock structure of Wahweap Marina including the floating store, gas station, rest rooms, and of course, hundreds of houseboats, were all grounded on the shore. Julie was saddened by the sight. What a waste. LakePowell had been one of the most incredible places in the world.

"Let's go home," Greg said.

* * *

6:40 p.m. - Hoover Dam, Nevada

Fred Grainger stood on top of Hoover-Two and stared out over the water of Lake Mead. He was uncomfortable. He tried to visualize the scene over a hundred miles upstream where the Colorado River exited the Grand Canyon and emptied into the huge reservoir. What was happening up there? Until the floodwater entering the lake fell to less than what Hoover was dumping from both spillways and all the head gates, the level of Lake Mead would continue to rise.

Over the last hour, since 5:00 p.m., the lake's steady rise upward had slowed, but it had not stopped. And the water was now at crest plus 13 feet 3.2 inches, which was almost a foot higher than Shauna had projected. Fred wondered how much higher it could go.

He was not worried that the water would actually breach the dike. The Hoover-Two dike was twenty feet high, and he knew the water wouldn't go that high. But the crest was never designed to hold horizontal pressure. With the additional weight of the thirteen feet of water, the entire wet surface of the 600 foot dam, from the top to the bottom, had an additional 850 pounds per square foot pressing against it. Fred was no longer worried that Hoover-Two would hold. Now he was worried that the concrete in Hoover-One would hold.

"Level?" Fred called out.

"It's still holding at 13 feet 3.25," one of Fred's technicians responded.

Fred considered that. It had been the same for the last twenty minutes. Had it stabilized? He hoped so. He wished it would start dropping. But he wondered if that was unrealistic. If only Shauna were here. She would know what to expect. Why couldn't Grant have left the analyst at Hoover? Wasn't Hoover more important than any of the other dams downstream?

"3.24!"

Fred looked over at the technician. Had he heard correctly? "What did you say?"

"It dropped a little. 13 feet 3.24 inches."

"Watch it for a few minutes," Fred ordered. "I want to make sure it's really stable."

Fred looked at his watch, 6:45 p.m. He felt a wave of energy radiating from somewhere deep inside. Hoover-Two. They had done it. They had saved Hoover Dam. Governor Jenkins and Commissioner Blackwell had told Fred to notify them immediately when it peaked. He wondered where the two politicians were. They were probably eating dinner in the visitor center someplace. He needed to find them and tell them. They would likely call another press conference and stage another photo for history. Fred was so happy that he didn't even mind.

"Level?" he asked.

"Still 3.24," the technician said.

Fred headed for a telephone. The governor could wait. He needed to call Grant.

CHAPTER 38

6:45 p.m. - Yuma, Arizona

Grant could see the Yuma airport ahead from the helicopter. It was larger than he expected, with four runways. Many small planes were tied off to the side of the runways. Past that was a row of metal hangars where the best planes were stored.

Grant rested his head back against the seat, feeling tired. The pilot and both women in the back must have felt the same, because no one had spoken since they left Imperial Dam. The all-nighter from the night before was definitely catching up to him. He had that urge again to lay down.

One advantage to being a paper pusher was the lack of abnormal hours. Compared to that, the past two days were from a different lifetime, a lifetime that, in spite of the chaos, had been in some ways satisfying. Whether he could sustain that type of lifestyle seemed doubtful. Besides, what kind of career would provide the same kind of action he had lived through for the last eighteen hours? A policeman? An FBI agent? He didn't think so. Even those jobs were probably 90% paperwork and 10% action. No, the reality was that the last two days were an aberration, and he knew it.

His stomach told him the helicopter was descending and he opened his eyes, which he hadn't realized he had shut. He saw a jet parked away from the other planes. Lloyd brought the chopper in next to the isolated jet. This time, Grant resisted the temptation to jump out of the helicopter. He let his head rest against the seat back until the rotors had completely stopped. He heard one door open and shut, which told him Special Agent Williams had climbed out.

Grant heard Lloyd's voice in the headphones. "What's the plan?"

"Still working on it." Grant felt butterflies in his stomach. He hesitated before finishing. "We'll have to let it play out, see what happens."

Grant saw Shauna lean forward from the rear seat. "What are you guys talking about?"

He felt guilty for keeping Shauna in the dark. "We're deciding what to do next."

"I thought the FBI wanted to talk to you about your theory," she said.

"I mean after that," said Grant. "We're thinking about going into Mexico." He turned and looked into her eyes. He wondered why he was telling her.

Her eyes grew noticeably. "I thought the FBI specifically denied that?"

"They did," Grant stated unemotionally.

The rotors of the helicopter had stopped. The three were enveloped in silence. Grant recognized Phil and a few other special agents from Hoover Dam talking to Special Agent Williams.

Shauna sat back in her seat before talking. "I see." There was a moment of silence before she continued. "Aren't you afraid of getting fired or something?"

Grant rested his head back on the seat again. "I should be." He knew Shauna probably thought he was crazy.

Her response shocked him. "I'm going with you."

He sat up and turned, facing her. "No. There's no reason to."

"I'm going, Grant. They can fire me too if they want. We're in this together, to the finish."

Grant wanted to argue and tell her she couldn't go, but they were interrupted when one of the agents opened Grant's door. "Can you guys come out here for a second? Phil wants to ask a few questions."

Grant nodded and removed his headset. Climbing out of the helicopter took more energy than it should have. He hoped Shauna wouldn't spill the beans. After they exited the helicopter, Grant walked toward the FBI agents.

Phil shook his hand. "I would have been better off if I'd told my agents to follow you around for the last two days. You seem to have a nose for the action."

Grant smiled. "It was logical that the water trouble would keep moving downstream. It's where I needed to be." He caught Shauna looking at him.

Phil looked around before continuing. "So tell me how you came up with this environmentalist theory."

Grant shook his head. "None of the other theories worked - the mad boater, the middle-eastern terrorists, the anti-recreationalists. After GlenCanyon, maybe, but not after the attempt at Davis. They just didn't fit. But I knew there was a common denominator, ever since this morning at Davis Dam."

"I remember that. You were sure of yourself. So, what was the missing piece?" Phil prompted.

"The delta." Grant remembered the feeling when he put it together. "I knew the Colorado River dried up before it reached the ocean. But I never thought about it. I knew it, but I never considered the ramifications." Grant looked around and realized he was rambling.

He continued. "Finally, this afternoon, I realized when they closed the AllAmericanCanal what the common denominator from all the bombings was. All the bombs were intended to send more water downstream. That's why it didn't matter whether the poison was real or not. We had to shut down the canal either way. Mission accomplished." He looked over at Shauna. "It was Shauna who reminded me what was downstream in Mexico. That delta is dried up. Dead. The river hasn't made it that far in years. All of a sudden I knew why the bomber wanted all the water to go downstream. It made perfect sense."

"It made perfect sense to blow up the Glen Canyon Dam to restore a dried-up river delta?" asked Phil sarcastically.

Grant locked eyes with the FBI agent. "It makes perfect sense if you're an environmentalist, if you've spent years demonstrating for Greenpeace, or the Sierra Club, or the Glen Canyon Institute. If you've fought to elect liberals like Clinton and Gore, but were forced to watch when even they gave the environment lip service, establishing a few monuments, but avoiding the real issues, the issues that might offend the farmers who receive subsidized river water, or the populations of Los Angeles, Las Vegas, and Phoenix, who plant palm trees in an environment more suited for scorpions or rattlesnakes. If you had dedicated your whole life to restoring the Colorado River and one of the most amazing deltas in the world, but deep down you knew that nothing you'd done, or ever would do, would even matter."

When Grant looked up, he saw that everyone was staring at him, some with wide eyes. He felt his hand trembling.

Phil spoke softly. "Wow, Mr. Stevens. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were the bomber."

Grant glanced around. He saw that Lloyd was smiling broadly. Grant shook his head. "I'm not your bomber, Phil. I don't condone what was done, or the lives and property that were lost in the process. But I understand it. And actually, I'm surprised that nobody ever tried it before."

Phil looked down for an instant. "Relax. I bought it. We forwarded your theory to the Mexican authorities over an hour ago."

"And?" said Grant.

"And there's nothing else we can do. It's their problem now."

"Did they discuss their plans with you?"

Phil shook his head. "They said they would get back to us. We told them we would stay here, at the airport, at their disposal, if they need us."

Grant didn't like it. He knew the Mexicans would be in over their heads. "Can't our president do something? Make some calls--"

Phil shook his head. "We have no jurisdiction down there, Grant. It's their problem now."

Grant pointed toward Mexico. "But they don't know what to do. They have no idea how much water is headed their way."

"We told them," Phil said. "They are getting ready."

Grant wanted to argue further, but stopped himself. The silence felt awkward.

Phil broke the silence. "So we wait. Maybe they'll call. If so, we'll be ready."

"I guess, if that's the only option," Grant mumbled. Grant felt the tugging again. He knew the water was already past the border. He couldn't hang around here much longer. If he was going to go, it needed to be now.

"And what about you, Mr. Stevens?" asked Phil. "Can you stay here with us? I'm convinced that you know how my bomber thinks better than anyone else. If the Mexicans need anyone, it's probably going to be you."

Grant looked at his watch, then over at Shauna and Lloyd. Shauna looked nervous and Lloyd looked perfectly calm, as if he didn't have a care in the world. He locked eyes with Phil. "Sorry, Phil, we need to head back north. All five dams are running beyond capacity. I need to monitor them over the next twenty-four hours." He hesitated to strengthen his lie. "But we can stay available, via cell phone." He held up the phone that the FBI had given him that morning. "We can be back in a flash if they need us."

Phil stared at him, making Grant wonder if he knew. The uncomfortable silence remained for a few moments before Phil finally nodded.

Grant reached out to shake again. "So, unless you guys have any other questions . . ."

"Good luck, Mr. Stevens," Phil said. "Your knowledge and instinct have been indispensable during this investigation."

Grant nodded. Too bad all his knowledge hadn't done any good. Grant turned and started walking toward the helicopter. His heart was racing, expecting any moment he might be tackled from behind. He resisted an urge to break and run. Finally, he reached the chopper and climbed quickly into his seat and put on his headphones. He stopped only then to exhale the air he'd been holding. Shauna and Lloyd climbed in after him. He heard Lloyd start the turbine and felt the rotors begin to turn.

He felt terrible for lying to Phil, not just because Phil represented the FBI and the investigation, but because he liked him. He was a good man. Phil would be furious when he found out Grant had lied to him. It wasn't the way Grant liked to leave things with people. Grant looked south over the trees toward Mexico. The environmentalist was down there. He could feel him. There was no choice. The FBI couldn't go, but he could. There was no other way.

When he looked back, he saw Phil talking to Special Agent Williams. Although Grant couldn't hear, he could tell that Phil was yelling to be heard over the helicopter. Then Grant saw something that made him feel sick. Phil yelled something at the special agent and pointed at the helicopter. She nodded and sprinted in a crouch toward them. Grant heard the door open quickly then shut. He felt the chopper move slightly when she climbed in. Lloyd looked over at him.

Grant waited until she had her headphones on. "What's up?"

"Phil thought I should hang with you guys, just in case."

"Just in case what?" Grant asked.

"Just in case you were wrong and something else happens upstream." She buckled her seat belt. She continued, "In case he's not in Mexico. In case he blows up more stuff where you're going."

Grant felt sick. He wanted to argue but did not know what to say. Lloyd looked over at Grant again and Grant nodded to take off. The helicopter lifted and the agents on the ground waved to them. Grant returned the wave. Lloyd headed north, back toward Imperial Dam.

Agent Williams continued talking. "Phil says the action seems to follow you, that we need to cover that base too, just in case."

Grant let the silence linger for a moment. Ahead he could see the mountain range that housed Imperial Dam. He looked down and realized that half the valley below was flooded. Brown water flowed everywhere. Where a country road had been swallowed by the flood, he saw six or seven cars parked, their passengers standing at the edge of the water. Grant knew what they were feeling. Maybe it was their posture, or their mannerisms, but ultimately it added up to lack of hope.

As they approached the mountain range, Grant spoke into the headphones. "Put her down over there." He pointed to a spot around the edge of the hill where they wouldn't be visible to anyone watching from the Yuma airport.

"Why are we landing?" Agent Williams asked, sounding surprised.

Grant hesitated, then, "We need to drop you off, Agent Williams."

"What?"

"You can't go where we're going."

"Why? Where are you going?"

"Don't worry about it," Grant said. This was turning out to be tougher than he expected.

"Wait a minute. You guys aren't thinking about flying into Mexico, to the delta?"

"Wherever we are going," Grant said, "you can't come with us."

He felt her hands on the back of his seat, pulling herself toward him. "You can't go either, Grant. Phil explicitly said that --"

"I'm well aware of what he said, Agent Williams, but we are going. That's why we have to drop you off. Phil left me no choice when he sent you with us."

"I can't let you," she stammered.

Grant turned and saw her punching numbers on her phone. For an instant, he wondered what to do, but then he saw Shauna do something completely out of character. She reached over and snatched the phone from the agent's hands.

The agent yelled into the headphones. "Hey you can't . . . Give me that back!"

Shauna tossed it in Grant's direction and it fell to the floor in the front seat. Grant wondered if both he and Shauna had crossed the line.

Lloyd set the helicopter down on a flat meadow above the riverbed. As soon as the landing gear touched, Grant jumped out, shut his door, then opened the agent's door directly behind his. "Get out," he said, yanking on her arm.

She glared at him. "No! I won't get out, and you can't make me."

He tossed her phone on the ground twenty feet away where she could see where it landed. He hoped she would go after it. She didn't move.

Still holding onto her arm, he felt the muscles. He was a desk jockey and she was a trained spy and assassin. He suddenly realized he couldn't make her do anything. He relaxed his grip on her. "Get out."

"No."

He had no idea what to do next. Maybe if all three of them tried, they could drag her out of her seat. But it didn't feel right. Besides, she had a gun. She could use it if she wanted to. Another idea finally occurred to him. "So, you're going with us?" he asked.

"Nobody's going into Mexico," she said.

He pointed a finger at her face and he felt his emotions burn. "We are definitely going into Mexico." He motioned at the river. "The guy who did all this is down there, waiting."

"It's not our problem," she said, without much conviction.

"It is our problem!" he yelled. "We're the only ones who know where he's going. Think of all the people this guy has killed and how much damage he's caused."

She pursed her lips. "Don't be so arrogant. You're not the only one that can catch him."

Grant took a step back from her. He motioned at the chopper. "We are going to Mexico, right now. If you don't get out, you are choosing to go with us. So Special Agent Williams, are you going or staying?"

She stared at him with anger in her eyes, then floored him. "I'm going."

His jaw dropped. "Are you serious?"

Her eyes went down for a second before returning to his. "Phil told me to stay with you."

He looked down at her gun. He suddenly pictured her holding the gun to Lloyd's head to prevent them from leaving the country. "You're not going to use that on any of us, to make us turn around?"

She looked down at the weapon. "No."

"I don't trust you," he said.

She unsnapped it, spun it around, and handed it to him, butt first. "I trust you, Grant."

He felt uncomfortable holding her gun. He held it so the barrel pointed at the ground by his feet. "What about Phil? Your job?" he asked.

"What about yours?" she responded.

He didn't know what to say. "You're doing this willingly?"

She smiled. "No, you beat the crap outta me and made me come with you," she shrugged. "I'm supposed to stay with you guys, remember? That is my excuse. Besides, you need me." She pointed at the pilot. "He's the only one of you that's ever tried to sneak up on a bad guy, and that was a million beers ago."

Lloyd smiled, nodding his agreement.

Grant couldn't see another alternative. He couldn't make the agent get out. She'd kick his butt if he tried. "All right then, but no funny stuff. We have a job to do and we need to get going." He took a step backward, and motioned toward Mexico with his thumb. "Lloyd, let's go find our environmentalist."

He glanced at Agent Williams and she nodded. He closed her door. Not that he didn't trust her, but, he didn't trust her. He kept the gun and left the cell phone in the dirt. He climbed back in his seat and Lloyd took off. The helicopter headed east to minimize the chance they would be detected. After a while they turned south. They passed silently over the border from the United States into Mexico about twenty miles east of Yuma.

* * *

7:20 p.m. - Mexico

As Grant looked down over the small shacks and lean-tos that housed most of Mexico's rural population, he felt privileged to live in the United States. He noticed that, just like in the southwest, down below in Mexico, any un-irrigated land had reverted to barren desert.

Like the Americans, the Mexicans diverted as much water from the Colorado as possible. Ditches and canals criss-crossed the entire landscape below. Grant was surprised to see so much irrigated farmland east of the river. It had been his understanding that the bulk of the Colorado River was shipped west from the Morales Dam toward Tijuana. He wondered what had become of the Morales Dam. He felt guilty for not trying to save it, as he had done for the American Dams. He hoped the Mexicans had gotten the message and had taken some sort of action. But if the American managers were any example, then he doubted the Mexicans would have the heart to destroy their own dam, even if that was the only way to save it. In the long run, it probably wasn't that important, since the Americans would end up bankrolling the reconstruction with foreign aid as penitence for allowing an American criminal to cause the damage.

Since they had entered Mexico so far east of Yuma, they had not yet encountered the Colorado River. But as Lloyd headed west, they saw the destruction ahead. The whole area below was covered with brown water. Debris, that Grant could only assume were the remains of living shelters, covered the surface of the water. A woman and six or seven children had sought refuge in a tree. A few old cars were half submerged. In one place, a dozen people were standing on a rooftop of one house.

He knew things would get worse and his fears were realized when Lloyd motioned toward a couple of bodies floating face down near some trees. He felt a knot in his stomach and heard some sniffling in his headphones, but nothing was said. The destruction was everywhere. Grant tried to focus ahead instead of below. Fifteen minutes later, they passed ahead of the flooding.

An unmistakable snaking line of green trees in front of them marked the original channel of the Colorado River.

Grant pointed toward it. "Follow it south."

He knew river levels ahead of the flood would be low, but was still shocked at the actual sight of such a meager stream of water in the Colorado River. It became so small that the trees completely closed the gap as if they lined a creek.

They followed the river southwest until it converged with a small mountain range running north and south. At that point, the river ran almost straight south, paralleling the mountain range. Highway 5 paralleled the river, running along the base of the mountain. During those miles where the river skirted the highway, it ceased to flow, but instead widened into standing water surrounded by reeds and willows. The area seemed more like a marsh than a river. Grant saw a few rundown huts between the river and the highway. One of the huts had a sign that said "Resort." But the grounds looked nothing like any resort he had ever seen.

They followed this marsh for almost five miles until it slowly turned southeast away from the highway and the mountain range. During the five-mile stint, Grant saw run-down dories tied up to trees along the sides. At one point he saw a man in a small boat with an outboard motor winding through the maze. A few miles from where the river cut away from the road, a gravel access road aimed toward the river. Two rundown police cars were parked just off the highway.

"That must be the Mexican FBI," said Lloyd.

Grant pointed at them. "With them parked out in the open like that, he'll drive right by. They'll never catch him."

As the marsh turned away from the highway, the landscape between the mountains and the river was flat and gray with no vegetation for as far as the eye could see.

They traveled a few miles over this flat barren land, keeping the river on their left, before Grant pointed at a spot. "Put her down over there for a second, would ya?"

Sand sprayed in all directions when Lloyd brought the helicopter close to the ground, making it hard to see. Grant waited until the rotors slowed and the dust settled before he opened the door. He stepped out onto the surface. It felt like walking on the beach in California. White flat objects about the size of a quarter littered the sand. He picked one up and rolled it through his fingers. It was a shape that even a small child would recognize. He picked up a half dozen more as they were everywhere. He looked south and the landscape didn't change for as far as he could see. According to the map, this flat surface continued for another forty miles.

Grant climbed back into the helicopter.

"What were you looking at?" asked Shauna.

Grant turned in his seat and handed one of the white objects to Shauna, then to Agent Williams. When he swiveled back, he handed one to Lloyd.

"Seashells?" said Agent Williams.

The pilot swiveled in his seat, holding the shell up. "This whole area used to be underwater, didn't it?"

Shauna's hand came to her mouth. "The delta?"

Grant swept his hand over the landscape. "This is it, the Colorado River Delta. A century ago it used to be a thousand square miles of marshes. Now look at it."

Grant nodded at Lloyd and they lifted off. When they were back in the air, they followed the dwindling stream southeast into the center of the dry delta. Only a mile or two later they came upon a series of square lots bordering the water. They were dirty and separated by wire fencing or rickety wood. Most of these lots looked abandoned, but a few housed small trailer houses or wood shacks. Two Mexican police cars were parked in the last lot.

"And you thought they weren't taking this seriously?" Lloyd said.

"If they saw the destruction and flooding we just saw, they wouldn't be parked there," said Grant. "Not without a boat."

"Hopefully somebody'll warn them on the radio," Special Agent Williams said from behind.

"What is this place?" asked Shauna.

"I saw a sign back there that said Campo," said Agent Williams. "I don't know if it means anything or not."

"Whatever this place is or was, it looks like everybody's either gone or going," said the pilot.

"The water's too salty," said Grant. "Probably very few fish and bad water."

After they passed over the small lots called Campo, the pilot struggled to follow the river. It wound back and forth through the reeds and willows, disappearing for a while, only to reappear later. At this stretch, the once mighty Colorado River had dwindled down to a stream the size of a small ditch, a ditch you could step over.

"Where'd it go?" asked Agent Williams.

"I lost it," Lloyd said.

Lloyd flew the helicopter back and forth across the dense willows for almost ten minutes while the four scanned for the Colorado River. At one point they backtracked to where they lost it, but again they could not locate the river past that point.

"It's gone," Shauna said.

Lloyd hovered the chopper and looked over at Grant, waiting for instructions.

Grant wasn't sure. It had seemed clear to him back when they were in Yuma, that all he needed to do was fly south to find the environmentalist, but now the thought seemed absurd. He looked south over endless miles of barren desert. They could fly around all night and never see anyone. The sun was sinking in the western sky. It would soon fall behind the mountain range bordering the delta's western shore. Grant looked southeast and saw that the dense willows continued for another mile or so. After that, the dry delta stretched in all directions. Vaguely he remembered from a map a small channel where the Gulf of California encroached into the dry delta during high tide. He wondered if it was really there, or if it too was a lie, like the millions of western maps showing the Colorado River draining into the Gulf of California.

Grant pointed in a southern direction where he thought the ocean might be. "Head that way."

* * *

7:50 p.m. - The Colorado River Delta, Mexico

The skinny man slowed and stood on the pegs of the quad. He had ridden east for almost an hour from Highway 5 where he left the pickup. He knew the Gulf of California extended up into the delta for twenty miles. He had taken a tour a few years before where they boated up the small channel. So riding to it on an ATV seemed simple enough. It would be the perfect place to watch the river flow into the ocean again.

He had traveled east much farther than he expected, and he still couldn't see it. Staring at the heat radiating out of the desert for so long while riding made it seem like a constant mirage. Many times he wondered if he was going the wrong direction, but the setting sun behind him was as good a guide as any. He wished he had brought a compass, and wondered if he had aimed slightly too far north and missed the inlet completely.

He rode on. He was moments from giving up and changing direction when he finally saw it, a smudge of green in the distance. It had to be water. Otherwise, nothing could grow. He accelerated. Five minutes later he arrived at his destination. It was water, but it was not the Colorado River. He didn't need to touch it to know the brown water was salty, and came north from the ocean during high tides. It wasn't the Colorado River, but it soon would be.

Shutting off the engine, he climbed off. He felt sore from the long ride and his mouth was dry. He stripped off the helmet, then fished around in the rear compartment and brought out his water bottle. The water was warm. He took a long swig and looked at the bottle. He felt like an idiot for not bringing more. He had spent way too much time hiking in the desert to be this short sighted. It was just another reminder that he had not expected to get this far. The first few explosions were meticulously planned to the finest details, but this afternoon had been rushed, and he knew it. He felt damn lucky to be in the right place at the right time.

He left the bottle on the quad and clomped over to the water in the awkward riding boots. If it were cleaner, he would jump in. He definitely needed to rinse off the dust and sweat from the long ride. However, when he reached down and touched the water it almost burned his hand. The water had to be well into the nineties. The thought of jumping in made him cringe. He could imagine the salt on his back after he dried off in the heat.

No matter. He looked north into the dry desert. The Colorado River was coming. He expected it within an hour or two. It would change everything. When the river arrived he wouldn't be able to drink it, but he could definitely bathe in it. He stared at the horizon and tried to imagine what the water would look like as it traveled toward him.

He looked across to the opposite shore of the salty stream and realized there would be far too much water to fit in the channel. He looked back at the quad and wondered if he should move it farther away. If only there were a small hill nearby, where he could watch the water approach. Unfortunately, this place was as flat as a pancake for miles in every direction. He thought about the AllAmericanCanal, and how much water was in it. It had seemed large, sure, but not much larger than this channel. He admitted to himself that the canal had to have been much deeper. When it came down to it, he had no idea how much water would be coming from the north. But he felt sure that the water would arrive gradually, then build up slowly, giving him time to escape on the quad. Of course, that was all a guess, since he had not been able to witness the floods at any of the dams.

CHAPTER 39

8:05 p.m. - The Colorado River Delta, Mexico

They had been flying across the delta for almost fifteen minutes before they saw anything. Grant saw it first, far on his right, which meant they had aimed too far east.

"Over there." Grant pointed.

"Yeah, I see it," said Special Agent Williams.

The helicopter banked right toward what looked from a distance like a muddy lagoon with weeds growing around the perimeter.

"We almost missed it," mumbled Lloyd. "We could have been flying around all night looking for it."

As they approached, Grant saw a group of people standing around two dune buggies. His first thought was, "why so many?" He expected the bomber to be alone. Could the events of the last thirty-six hours have been a group of environmentalists? Why hadn't he seen the signs? When he decided to fly into Mexico, it had been to find a single person. Although he had no details in his head, he had thought they could potentially apprehend the guy, or at least draw attention to him so the local authorities could get him. But if the perpetrator ended up being a group, not an individual, what, if anything could they do by themselves? Grant had always felt he would recognize the man if he saw him. Now he realized that expectation had been absurd.

"Hey, what are they doing?" Shauna yelled from behind.

Grant looked and saw some of the group pointing at the approaching helicopter and a group of men scrambling toward one of the dune buggies. For an instant he thought they would jump into the vehicle and attempt to escape, but he saw them reach into the truck and retrieve something approximately five feet long and round. As they swung the item around out of the truck toward the helicopter, Grant felt sure it must be some kind of missile launcher. They intended to blow the chopper out of the sky.

Now the folly of this trip, against the direct orders of the FBI, became blatantly obvious. His mind raced. They would all four be killed, because of him. He thought quickly of his wife and children. He loved his wife more than he had ever realized before and ached for her. She would be forced to raise his kids as a single mother. It was tough enough to be a kid without having to deal with a parent's death. He didn't have enough life insurance, he realized. They would suffer.

"Look," Shauna said, pointing.

The group had taken the round device from the dune buggy, and laid it on the ground. They proceeded to unroll it. It was white.

"It's some kind of banner," Shauna added.

When the group finished unrolling, they spread themselves along the banner and lifted it up, revealing the message THE SIERRA CLUB supports the Restoration of the Colorado River Delta. The group held the banner high and shuffled their feet to pivot it slightly to align it with the helicopter.

"Want me to land?" asked Lloyd.

Grant didn't know. As they approached the group, he could see some of their faces. A man with a bushy black beard held the banner at one end. A blond girl with a headband and ponytails stood next to him. Both wore worn clothes. Something told him that neither was the bomber. They both looked like demonstrators, or at least like the ones he'd seen on TV. The girl looked like the type to live in a tree. He could easily imagine the man laying down on the tracks in front of a train transporting nuclear waste, or handcuffing himself to the blade of a bulldozer at the site of a new highway.

The helicopter had reached the group now and Lloyd circled around them. They rotated themselves to keep the sign visible. Grant scanned their faces, but the banner obscured some. He could clearly see two blond guys and four women. Grant felt nothing as he scanned for some sign, some indication. What if they got closer? There were too many of them. It would be impossible to get a good look at all of them from the helicopter. He looked back at the man with the black beard and decided he couldn't rule him out as the bomber.

"You want me to land?" asked Lloyd again.

Grant looked up. The pilot was waiting for an answer. "Yeah, okay."

The helicopter sprayed the sand in all directions as it landed. The four passengers waited until the rotors were almost stopped and the sand settled to open the doors. When Grant opened his door he saw that the group holding the sign had approached the helicopter and he could hear them chanting something like: ". . .orado". When he heard it the second time, he understood.

"Restore the Colorado. Restore the Colorado," they chanted.

As Grant and the others climbed out of the helicopter, the rhythm and energy of the chant seemed to increase. "Restore the Colorado. Restore the Colorado." The group seemed energized by the chopper's arrival and Grant realized that the four of them were likely the first audience for this protest.

A few more steps and both groups stopped, facing each other. The pace and volume of the chant increased. Grant recoiled as they began to thrust the banner at him in rhythm with their voices. He waved his arms in the air for them to stop, but it only increased their energy. He scanned the group and focused on a few faces. A blond man directly in front of him, also sporting a full unkempt beard, reminded him of a picture he'd seem on one of the tabloids of Brad Pitt when he grew a beard for one of his movies. The man's eyes looked mean and uncivilized. Could he be the bomber?

A girl to Grant's left caught his eye. She was a beautiful brunette with big eyes and long straight hair over a white t-shirt. She was young. She was chanting like the others, but without the hostility. He would be shocked if she was older than fifteen. He felt sure she had not masterminded the explosion at the Glen Canyon Dam.

Farther left, Grant spotted a man wearing a white polo shirt. Unlike the others, he was clean-shaven and professional looking. He looked more like the sort who just got off work than a protestor. Lacking was the urgency in his eyes like the rabid blond guy directly in front.

Grant wondered how, or if, the stalemate would end. How long could they go on? But he sensed the energy of the group was dying. When he scanned back to his right, the black bearded guy he'd first seen from the helicopter had stopped chanting and was motioning with his free arm for them to stop. It took a while for Black Beard to quiet them, but after a few half-hearted attempts, they stopped.

"Why is the FBI traveling in a tour helicopter?" yelled the blond guy in front.

The question caught Grant off guard, and he instinctively turned to look at Agent Williams. He saw her blue coveralls with the insignia on the breast pocket and realized how they'd made the connection.

He looked back at Black Beard and waved his hands back and forth. "No. No. We're not FBI, we're--"

The blond cut him off, pointing. "That's a lie, we can see her. . ." He didn't finish, but emphasized his point at Agent Williams by shaking his finger.

"What I meant to say," said Grant, "was that we are not all FBI. We're . . ." He stopped and looked back at his group. Lloyd, with his beard and clothing, could easily blend in with the protestors. Shauna, who looked terrified, looked the part of the analyst she was. Special Agent Williams, with the coveralls, well, there was no doubt about what she did. Grant wondered what the protestors thought he looked like. He realized he needed to be careful about what he told them about the group. He didn't want to force the bomber undercover.

"We're here to mitigate some of the damage of the impending flood." He saw that many of the group's eyes remained on Special Agent Williams. Grant pointed to her. "The FBI sent a demolition expert in case we found any other bombs."

"Who do you work for?" asked Black Beard.

Grant hesitated, worried about the effect of his answer. "The Bureau of Reclamation."

The blond in front went nuts and thrust his arm forward, pointing at Grant. "You're the bastards that built the dams. You guys are the ones that killed the river. This delta's dead because of you."

The words stung. He looked straight at the blond guy. "Those dams were built before you or I were even born," he said defensively.

A woman pointed at him. "Well, the river's free again now. The delta's gonna be alive again." She looked behind her to make sure she had their support. "And we're not gonna let the government put it back again. You're not going to re-build GlenCanyon. That dam is history." Grant heard some rumblings of support from the group.

"What are you guys looking for down here, on the delta?" asked one of the protestors.

Grant knew he was on dangerous ground. "We've been following the flood waters. We just came from Imperial and flew over the flooding in northern Mexico." He saw some looks of concern from the crowd.

"How bad's the flooding in Mexico?" asked Black Beard, sounding genuine.

Grant looked around at the now-attentive group. "It's bad, actually terrible. When we flew over, it looked like the river was flooding for miles in every direction." By the positioning of their vehicles, he guessed the protestors had driven down the east side of the river through the farmland. They would have seen the makeshift shacks and huts. "It looked like many of the small homes were decimated."

"We saw some bodies floating in the water," Shauna added, from behind.

Grant saw some heads drop and some shoulders sag.

"What about upstream?" asked the blond guy, who had calmed and now almost looked civilized.

Grant looked around. "Well, Headgate Rock Dam in Parker, Arizona failed, the Palo Verde and Imperial Dams were intentionally broken to prevent breach, but we don't know about the Morales Dam in Mexico."

The blond man's eyes flared. "We don't care about your dams."

Grant considered the rebuff. "How about the destruction we saw south of Parker Dam, and the bodies we saw floating there? How about the areas below Laughlin where a whole community of houses and buildings were washed away? Or what about the trailer park below Headgate Rock Dam that was totally destroyed when the flood carried them downstream and piled them up against a railroad bridge? How about yesterday in the Grand Canyon, when hikers and float trips were caught in the flood? We don't have the death toll from that yet."

"That's not our fault," the blonde said tentatively.

"Oh? I thought that's what you were here celebrating," said Agent Williams.

Grant stared into their eyes, the ones that were still looking up. Most showed compassion. The young brunette looked like she might cry.

"We're here to celebrate the freedom of the river," Black Beard said. "That doesn't mean we're happy about the people who died."

Grant thought they were getting close to the issue. "But you support what was done?" asked Grant. "Blowing up the dams? Isn't that why the Sierra Club sent you?"

Black Beard hesitated.

"Yes!" yelled the blond. "It had to be done."

Grant saw heads nod, but none as enthusiastic as the blonde. Black Beard's face showed concern. Others turned and looked at the blonde as if he were crazy. Grant scanned back and forth quickly to assess how many true supporters of bombing the dams there really were. He guessed that most of this group, like in similar groups, were followers. Although passionate about the environment, they would never consciously kill people to achieve their goals. Even Black Beard seemed reluctant to kill. Only the blonde and one of the women had enough hate in their eyes.

Black Beard spoke. "We're members of The Sierra Club, but they didn't send us out here or make the sign. We did that on our own. I don't know whether the Sierra Club supports the bombing, but a spokesman on the news this morning said the attack was inevitable. It was only a matter of time. We would have preferred the river be restored peacefully, but we all know that's impossible."

"Look!" someone shouted. "Another helicopter."

The conversation was forgotten as both groups turned and looked into the sky.

"Get the sign turned around," said Black Beard, motioning with his arm. "It might be the news."

Grant looked ahead and saw the approaching helicopter. As it approached, he noticed it was in fact a media chopper. A tethered cameraman hung from an open door. The words Channel 4 News, San Diego, were printed on the side.

The chant, "Restore the Colorado. Restore the Colorado," started again.

Grant, Shauna, Agent Williams, and Lloyd were suddenly standing alone, having been abandoned by the protestors.

"What now?" asked Lloyd.

Grant scratched his head. "I don't know." He looked over at the group holding the banner. "I don't think anybody in that group is our man."

"What about that tall blonde guy?" Shauna asked. "He scared me."

Grant shook his head. "I don't know. He's got the passion for it, but --"

"He's not smart enough," said Lloyd. "These guys are just a bunch of hippies that decided to drive out here and get on TV." He pointed toward the group who were shuffling their feet to keep the banner aligned. "Look at 'em."

"Restore the Colorado. Restore the Colorado," they chanted enthusiastically.

"I hate to say it, but Lloyd's right," said Agent Williams. "I don't think he's in that group. He'd look different. He'd be different."

"There was one guy who did look different," said Shauna. "He was dressed better, cleaner."

"The guy in the polo shirt," Grant said.

"Yeah." Shauna nodded.

Lloyd shook his head. "Did ya see what Polo shirt he was wearin'?"

They all looked at the pilot. Grant shook his head.

"Dirty Devils," said Lloyd. "It's an off-road accessory store. He's the guy they recruited to bring the dune buggies." He pointed at the vehicles, then back at the group. "You think those bozos could get out here by themselves?"

While they were talking, the news helicopter had made a full circle around the banner. Grant saw that the cameraman then pointed his camera at the Vegas Tours chopper, not the protestors.

The pilot nudged Grant. "I think your secret mission into Mexico is now being viewed nationwide by 20 million cable subscribers."

Before Grant could respond, the helicopter broadcasted a message from its PA system. "Attention below! Floodwater is approaching. We recommend everyone leave this area immediately. Repeat. Floodwater is approaching quickly from the north. Please vacate this area while it is still possible."

Grant shielded his eyes from the setting sun and scanned in a northwest direction. How far out was it? He wondered if the news helicopter could actually see the water, or whether it was still a few miles out. Unfortunately, they wouldn't be able to tell until they got back up in the air.

The warning message had confused the protestors. A few released the banner and were running back toward the dune buggies. At least six or seven still held the banner as if nothing had changed. Eventually, they released it, but stood next to it arguing about what to do. The chant stopped. One of the runners was the guy in the polo shirt whom they guessed owned the buggies. He now waved frantically for the others to follow. Grant guessed that he had no intentions of donating his vehicles as martyrs to the Colorado River.

Grant looked at Lloyd. "Why don't you get on the radio in the helicopter and ask them how far --"

The other helicopter interrupted them. "Flood water is estimated to be less than four miles away". The guy broadcasting the message broke out of his formal tone and raised his voice. "This whole area will be underwater shortly. Please hurry to your vehicles and vacate immediately."

"Never mind," Grant said.

Without speaking, he turned and headed for the helicopter and the others followed. While still walking, Grant glanced back at the protestors. Only two remained at the banner: Black Beard, and the blonde. They were stretching it out on the ground. The rest sprinted across the sand toward the waiting dune buggies. A moment later Black Beard and the blonde abandoned the banner and ran off.

Lloyd reached the helicopter first and the turbine was already starting before Grant climbed into his seat. Lloyd flipped switches on the dashboard. When Grant pulled on his headphones he heard Lloyd talking. "Vegas Tours calling Channel 4 News. Do you read?"

"We read you, Vegas Tours," they responded.

"Do you currently have visual on the water?" Lloyd asked.

By now the rotors were turning fast enough to blur. Visibility was obscured by sand being blown in every direction.

"Negative, Vegas Tours; four miles was only an estimate from when we--" Grant heard another voice from the news helicopter, a woman's voice. "I can see it. Over there."

The first voice came back, "Affirmative, Vegas Tours. We now have visual on the floodwater. Looks to be about 2.5 miles northwest of here."

The helicopter lifted off. After they climbed out of the swirling sand, Grant saw that most of the protestors were loaded into the dune buggies. One of the vehicles had already turned around and faced east. Grant searched the northwest horizon as they gained altitude. The glare from the sun setting over the mountains on the west made it difficult to see. Finally, Grant noticed what looked like a gray line across the top of the sand. "It doesn't look like it's two miles away to me," said Shauna from behind. "More like a mile and a half, or less."

Grant pointed at the flood line. "Let's fly over it. I wanna see it." The helicopter accelerated in response.

"Vegas Tours, this is Channel 4 News." It was the woman's voice. "We couldn't help but notice the FBI coveralls. Can we assume that your party is affiliated with the U.S. government?"

Grant covered his mouthpiece with his hand. "Can they hear everything we say?"

Lloyd shook his head. "Not unless we hit the transmit button."

Grant didn't want to tell the reporter they were official government, especially since it wasn't true. Then again, he didn't want to say they weren't either. A "no" answer, coupled with their sighting of Agent Williams, would communicate some sort of secret mission. The last thing he wanted them to think was that the mission was confidential. It was a sure way to guarantee being broadcast nationwide immediately.

"Vegas Tours, this is Channel 4 News, do you copy?"

Grant swiveled and looked behind at the special agent. "What can I say to get her off our back? She knows we're government."

She stared back at him and shrugged. "I don't know. Denying it could be even worse."

Lloyd spoke. "How about you play it down a little? Tell 'em you're just inspecting damage or something."

Grant looked at Agent Williams and she shrugged again and held out her hands. Why hadn't he thought to make her change or something? That was the second time the FBI coveralls had sent the wrong message. It was a little hard to sneak into Mexico anonymously with an agent in uniform. He turned back into his seat and removed his hand from the microphone. Lloyd pointed to a transmit button on the dash.

Grant pressed the button. "Channel 4 News, we read you."

The woman came back immediately. "You are a US government party, correct?"

Grant could imagine her with her notebook and pencil ready. He wished he had a written statement in front of him. Ad-libbing didn't seem like the way to go on this one. He pressed the button. "We are on an inspection mission only. We're here in an unofficial capacity."

Silence, then, "Can I ask you a few questions?"

Lloyd shook his head. Grant agreed. "Negative, Channel 4. We are not at liberty to talk with the media." Grant grinned; that felt good.

"Mind if we tag along for a while?" she asked.

Grant looked and saw the news helicopter was already following them. "How do I get rid of her?"

"You want me to try and lose 'em?" asked Lloyd, grinning.

Grant stared at him. "Is that possible?"

"Sure. This thing's got way more horses than theirs. I should be able to out run 'em in a straight line, without even swerving around. Besides, they can't go too fast with that cameraman hanging out the door."

"Okay. Let's do it, then."

Lloyd banked and headed east. Grant noticed that they had dropped and were now only about ten or fifteen feet off the ground, traveling at an alarming rate.

"Vegas Tours, this is Channel 4, where are you headed?"

"We need to look around over on the east side," responded Grant.

Grant lifted his hand off the transmit button and looked over at Lloyd, who was in deep concentration. "Why are we so low?"

Lloyd responded without moving his eyes from below. "Just in case they've got radar."

"Vegas Tours, we are unable to keep pace with you." It was the pilot's voice.

Grant smiled at Lloyd, but remained focused ahead.

"How long will it take?" asked Grant. The speed felt comfortable when he wasn't looking down. But looking down made him sick. He imagined Lloyd sneezing and the landing gear digging into the sand, consequently flipping the helicopter into endless summersaults of wreckage.

"Just a few more minutes," said the pilot, without looking up.

Grant realized his hands hurt from clenching the sides of his seat. He forced them to relax. The helicopter swerved right and he clenched the seat again. Lloyd headed south at the same speed and altitude for a while. After a few minutes he swerved again, turning back west into the sunset. "Vegas Tours, we've lost you. Please give us your location," begged the newswoman, but they could hear the lack of hope in her voice.

Grant wasn't even tempted to respond, nor did he think they expected it. He saw that the sun had now dipped completely below the mountains. It would be dark in less than a half hour. The group sat in silence as the helicopter flew into the sunset.

* * *

8:40 p.m. - The Colorado River Delta, Mexico

The skinny man looked at the mountains to the west. The sun had already set and the sparse clouds contrasted ever so slightly with the dim orange sky behind them. He sat on the sand, propped back against a tire of his four-wheeler. Where was the water? He had over-estimated its speed. It should have reached him already. And he should be on the way back to his truck. The thought of it arriving after dark scared him. He might get caught in it.

He couldn't wait much longer. His four-wheeler had no lights. Not that it would've done any good in this desert, since there wasn't anything for them to illuminate. He scanned the sky for the moon, but saw nothing. He hadn't even brought a flashlight.

Something had been worrying him for the past half hour. When he drove out on the delta, he almost missed the lagoon. When he headed back in the dark, how could he possibly find his truck? Just a few degrees off and he would miss it by miles. And he would have no way of knowing whether he'd aimed too far north or south.

He craved another drink, but there was precious little water remaining. It had to be saved. He had spent enough time in the desert to know that things could get worse before they got better.

He pulled himself up and clomped in the boots over to the edge of the lagoon. The water was gone; only dry mud remained. This observation startled him until he remembered the lagoon was connected to the ocean. The explanation was simple enough; the tide had gone out in the last forty-five minutes. But it had gone so quietly he hadn't even heard it. He looked north and wondered if he would hear the floodwater approaching. Maybe not, he realized. All the more important to keep his eyes focused. With the sun already down, it would get dark fast, making it harder to see.

He walked back to the four-wheeler, vowing to wait only a few more minutes. The thought of having to leave before seeing the water arrive made him angry. After all he had done in the last two days, and after so many months of preparation, he deserved to see it. He deserved to take his time and frolic in the water, to feel it running between his fingers, and taste it. He licked his dry fingers as the fantasy passed through him. In hindsight, he should have detonated the bomb at GlenCanyon a couple hours earlier; it would have given him the time he needed.

Walking back to the four-wheeler, he stopped. What was that sound? He cocked his head. There, very soft, almost imperceptible. It wasn't a water sound, though. It sounded more like a broom being dragged through sand, a kind of swishing noise. His head shot up and he scanned the northern horizon. At first he saw nothing, only the endless gray sand. Then he noticed the top of the gray was alive - moving toward him. All at once he knew he had made a terrible mistake. This was much more water than he had anticipated. The entire horizon was pulsating. He sprinted to the four-wheeler and jumped on. He swiveled out the kick-starter and started kicking as hard and fast as he could. The engine turned over, but wouldn't fire. His heart raced. Not now. How could this be? He suddenly remembered the ignition switch between the handlebars. He turned the key and started kicking again. This time it almost took, then nothing. Had he flooded it? He gave it full throttle and kicked it twice to clean it out, then released the throttle and kicked again and it finally fired.

Looking back over his shoulder he saw the water less than 50 yards away. He slammed it in gear and gave it some throttle. As the quad took off, he felt the helmet and goggles, which he had left sitting on the rear rack, roll off the back. He considered stopping for them, but decided it wasn't worth it. It would soon be too dark for goggles anyway. He headed west toward his truck, knowing that the water would soon intercept him. But he couldn't resist. He had to see it. So he veered north toward the oncoming flood. He reached it almost immediately and veered southwest to stay just ahead of it.

The leading edge was small, only a few inches deep. It was traveling much slower than the twenty miles per hour he had heard on the radio. Of course, that was due to it spreading out on the delta. It meandered around small humps before rejoining itself. He was easily able to stay just out of its reach even in first gear, although jogging would have been a challenge. Tempting fate, once he allowed the water to catch his back tires, but when he accelerated, they spun and he wondered if he would be able to extract himself. He had to rock back and forth while feathering the throttle to get back ahead of it, and he felt lucky to have done it.

After a few minutes he saw water to the west, ahead of him. He felt stupid for screwing around. His only choice was swerve south, and go fast enough to get around it. He shifted to second, then third and applied full throttle. He rode that way for a few minutes. Eventually he could not see the water anymore. It was still coming, though. That he knew for sure.

He headed back west toward his truck, not straight toward it, because then the water would intersect him again, but at a southwest angle that would put him miles south of his truck. He rode this way for only a few minutes before he again saw the contrast of oncoming water. This panicked him and he veered directly south. The water was coming too fast for him to cross in front of it. He accelerated, but the four-wheeler bounced uncontrollably over the small dunes and he almost crashed. He slowed slightly and settled on what he considered top speed for the terrain. He knew it was not fast enough, though, and he had little hope of reaching his truck. After gaining some distance, he veered slightly southwest again, just in case.

CHAPTER 40

8:50 p.m. - The Colorado River Delta, Mexico

Grant looked ahead from the helicopter, but it all looked the same, and it was getting too dark. What if the environmentalist wasn't here? He had led this wild goose chase across the border for nothing. They would fire him for sure, and he would be the laughingstock of the Bureau. What if the Mexican police had already apprehended the man? Grant had never really given them a chance, but now he realized he might have underestimated them. They could have him in custody right now. Either way, Grant would look like an idiot, hijacking a helicopter and crossing the border against direct orders from the FBI. What had he been thinking?

"What's that up ahead?" Lloyd asked through the headphones.

Grant jolted in his seat. "What? Where?" He scanned the horizon for a person or some sort of vehicle. Maybe the environmentalist was driving a dune buggy like the protestors.

Lloyd motioned southwest of the helicopter, then quickly returned his hand to the controls. "Looks like bushes or something, in a line."

Grant saw what Lloyd was talking about. It was a line of bushes stretching north and south. At over a hundred miles per hour, the helicopter approached quickly and Grant saw that it was actually two lines of bushes with an expanse of dark sand in the middle. He recognized it immediately as the lagoon coming up from the ocean just south of the delta. The lagoon was mostly dry with only a few puddles, which told Grant the tide had withdrawn.

Lloyd slowed the helicopter. "Where now?"

Grant looked north. "I wonder how far the water is. It should get here pretty soon." He saw nothing, but it was dark and he knew the water was out there on the horizon, coming very quickly.

The helicopter hovered over the empty lagoon.

Grant pointed to the west shore, at the bushes on the shore. "He would be on that side."

"What makes you say that?" Special Agent Williams asked.

Grant considered the question. He had just assumed that the environmentalist would come from the highway on the west. He had no reasoning for it. In fact, the protestors had come from the east. "I don't know. I just figured --"

Lloyd interrupted. "You want to follow it north or south? We don't have much longer until we won't be able to see a thing."

Grant wanted to follow it north. He wanted to see the floodwater, but Shauna pointed out the front of the helicopter.

"Look!" she yelled. "The water."

Grant saw it too. A long, dark line moved toward them over the gray sand, both in the lagoon and outside of it. They all watched it come, mesmerized.

"How fast is that?" Shauna asked.

Lloyd answered. "It's slow, not much more than ten miles an hour." The water passed under the helicopter and Lloyd swiveled it so they could watch it flow downstream.

"Follow it," Grant commanded. He pointed toward the west shore. "Over there."

The helicopter moved forward and they angled southwest. They followed the water for several minutes. Visibility had dropped to less than a hundred feet.

"How long do you want to keep this up?" Lloyd asked.

Grant didn't know what to do. Part of him wanted to tell Lloyd to accelerate off in some direction, any direction. But what good would that do? They were looking for a needle in a haystack.

Just ahead of the helicopter the lagoon widened in front of them. To stay over dry sand the helicopter veered west for a few minutes. Then, as they rounded the wider section of the lagoon, Lloyd again aimed southwest.

"What was that?" Agent Williams' voice boomed through the headphones.

Grant scanned underneath the helicopter. "What?"

"Over there."

Grant couldn't see where she was pointing and had no idea where to look.

"There it is again! It's somebody." She touched Grant on his right shoulder. "He's on your side. He's in front of the water."

Grant finally saw him. It was a man riding a four-wheel off-road vehicle. The man looked like he had his hands full trying to keep the vehicle under control as it bounced over small clumps of sand and dodged the sparse weeds and brush that grew throughout the dry delta. The man swiveled his head as if he had just noticed the helicopter, then swerved hard right and disappeared into the darkness.

"He's gone," Agent Williams yelled.

The helicopter moved in the direction where they had last seen him. Grant felt a wave of excitement. Could this be him? It made sense, except for the fact that this guy seemed so - he couldn't think of the word - well, weak. Or was he overreacting to how skinny the man was?

"Give me my gun back," Agent Williams said from behind.

Grant flinched. That thought had never occurred to him. Was she going to just shoot him from the air, without even finding out for sure if he was the right guy? Grant reached down on the floor between his feet and carefully brought the gun up and handed it over his shoulder to the special agent. He heard the mechanical sound of her checking the chamber.

Lloyd swept the helicopter back and forth along the front of the slow-moving line of water, but they saw nothing. They searched for what Grant thought to be five minutes, but he didn't trust his sense of time with his heart racing. It was almost completely dark. The man could not have gotten away. There was no place to go.

"There he is!" It was Shauna's voice. Grant saw her reach up and point over Lloyd's left shoulder.

The helicopter banked left. Grant saw him again. They were almost on top of him. The skinny man looked up at them for an instant, craning his neck. The quick look nearly cost the man, as the four-wheeler hit something and he was almost bucked off. He must have lost the accelerator in the motion because the helicopter passed over him and they lost him again.

"There he goes!" Agent Williams said. "Due west."

The helicopter swerved and Lloyd positioned himself approximately three car lengths behind the bouncing four-wheeler, enough space to react. The next time when the driver jigged left, Lloyd followed.

* * *

9:10 p.m. - Colorado River Delta, Mexico

He couldn't believe it. How had they found him? He swerved east again and applied full throttle. He bounced over a mound of sand and sagebrush and nearly crashed, which forced him to back off the throttle. The loud whopping sound of the helicopter told him that they were right behind him. He veered south. They were still there.

He applied more throttle and prepared for another swerve to lose them. He scanned ahead, but his visibility was almost nil. Up ahead he saw the lagoon widen in front of him. He was too far east. He would get trapped. He veered southwest and tried to close the gap before the water trapped him. When he finally rounded the corner of the lagoon, the floodwater had only been ten feet away. He stayed in fourth gear full throttle and aimed again in a southwesterly direction. He had to try to get around it. After running in the same direction for a few minutes and no longer able see the water behind him, he swerved west. The helicopter was right behind him.

Since his angle of due west was perpendicular to the direction of the water, he knew he couldn't hold his heading long, or the water would catch him. He was preparing to turn when unexpectedly the four-wheeler spun around in a huge spray of water. He grasped frantically to hold on. He was instantly soaked and he blinked to clear his eyes and gasped for air. He knew in no time at all the water would be too deep for the quad, so he slammed it down one gear and goosed the throttle, aiming in the direction he thought was south. The tires spun. He relaxed the throttle slightly and they bit. He felt the water behind him almost shoving the vehicle ahead. Miraculously, seconds later he was back on dry ground. The helicopter was still right behind him. He aimed due south, forgot the swerving, and accelerated. He needed some distance from the water before he tried anything else.

He maintained a fairly straight course for a few minutes, veering only to miss a clump of brush. Although he hadn't completely given up, he knew that the chances of losing the helicopter were slim. The pilot was too good. And even if he could lose the chopper, the water was going to force him so far south that he would never get back to his truck. He would miss it by twenty miles. A thought occurred to him. How would they be able to apprehend him, with the water encroaching so fast? They couldn't set the helicopter down, or it would get washed away too. Although he saw no exit for himself, the thought that the people in the helicopter had no clear option either gave him a sliver of hope.

With his eyes watering and the lack of light, he didn't see it at first. When he did, it was too late. In a fraction of a second he saw the ground in front of him raise a couple feet into a hard crested bank, then drop off abruptly into a flat wet sandy area. He knew immediately it had to be the north tip of the Gulf of California. At over thirty miles an hour, the quad hit the raised area like a ramp and it shot him into the air over the wet sand. Releasing the throttle at the last minute had only worsened the trajectory of the vehicle, making it land in a severe front-down position. His body was launched forward onto the handlebars by the abrupt landing, causing the quad to veer sharply. The motion was too severe and he was thrown off an instant before the quad rolled. He thought he had landed clear, but felt the quad roll over his leg. The impact only lasted a second, but he felt an unmistakable snapping sensation.

His body slid to a stop, and amazingly he felt no pain. He was lying in a puddle of wet sand. His tongue tasted salt. He struggled up on his side and looked at the quad. It was upside down with a front tire still spinning. He looked at his leg and saw it jutted awkwardly to the side, still with no pain. He needed to get up and get going. But even if a miracle occurred to roll the quad back over, how would he start it with a broken leg?

He looked north toward the crest just in time to see the gray floodwater roll over the top and head toward him. This was it. He laid his head back and relaxed. He had no regrets. A small miscalculation would end his life, but not before a string of successes that would be talked about for generations. The fact that he would be a victim of his own destruction seemed to fit somehow. It was not the way he planned it, but compared to getting caught and living the remainder of his life in prison, it was the preferable alternative. He was ready to die, and wondered how long it would take for the water to reach him. He didn't know much about drowning, or how bad it would hurt, but he welcomed it.

The loud whooping noise of the helicopter was still there in the background. But he didn't care, and tried to ignore it. The noise, however, increased in intensity until it became almost deafening. He was buffeted by the wet spray and sand from its rotors. He turned his head and held his arm up to shield the spray. He tried to roll, to escape from the turbulence, but his leg protested with intense pain. A blindingly intense light illuminated him from the helicopter.

* * *

9:15 p.m. - Gulf of California, Mexico

"Did you see that?" screamed Shauna from the rear seat. "He's probably dead."

The quad had abruptly swerved left when it hit the beach, and then rolled multiple times before stopping upside down. It was hard to focus in the dwindling light.

"The water'll reach him any minute," said Agent Williams.

Lloyd motioned at the silver handle on Grant's right. "Use the spot."

Grant spun the handle and saw that it maneuvered the spotlight just outside the cabin. He aimed it down and flipped the switch to illuminate below. He swept it wildly for several seconds while he got the feel of it. He found the man lying on his back, his right leg bent awkwardly to the side. The man seemed dazed.

Lloyd brought the helicopter in close and the man lifted his hand up to shield his eyes. Grant only saw his eyes for a second, but it was enough. It was him, the bomber. Here was the man who had blown up the Glen Canyon Dam, and the Colorado River Aqueduct, the same guy who tried to blow up Davis Dam and poison the AllAmericanCanal. Here was someone who would stop at nothing to restore the Colorado River, even if it meant killing innocent people. He was seconds from drowning in the flood he had created, seconds from being buried in the delta he had tried so hard to restore. What justice did he deserve? If they rescued him and took him back to America, his trial would be a media circus. Lawyers would line up to defend him. The liberals would scream for a presidential pardon. It would divide the country, Grant was sure of it.

But even in that fraction of a second, Grant had seen something else. Although Grant did not agree with what this man had done, he understood.

There was no decision to make. Grant shucked the headphones, opened the door and jumped from the helicopter, which was now only six feet from the ground. He landed off balance, fell, and rolled in the wet sand. Disoriented from the dark and the rotor turbulence, Grant stood, shielding his eyes from the swirling wet sand. His knees and arms were wet from the beach. An instant after regaining his feet, he felt water run over them. The floodwater.

The floodlight swept erratically after Grant released it. With the light moving back and forth, he searched for the environmentalist. The water had risen almost to his knees. Finally he caught a glimpse of him, and slogged in that direction. When Grant reached him, he was on his back in the water flailing his arms. Grant grabbed his shoulders. He yelled to the man. "Who are you?"

The man stared up at him before reaching for Grant's hand. He didn't answer.

Grant pulled him up and put the man's arm around his neck. The man grimaced in pain, then looked into Grant's eyes. Grant asked the question that was burning in his mind, although he already knew the answer. "You're him, aren't you? You're the one who's been blowing up the dams?"

The man nodded in affirmative, then his eyes rolled up into his head as if he might pass out. The water was rising quickly and was almost to their waists. The man's eyes came back to life and Grant tried to move him toward the helicopter.

"Hurry!" warned Lloyd from the helicopter.

As Grant dragged the man forward in the rising water, he saw the helicopter moving to meet him. They were close when Grant tripped and both men went down. Grant went under. The water felt gritty. He hoisted himself back to his feet and grabbed the environmentalist again. He wondered how on earth they would be able to get the man to the helicopter, but then noticed that Lloyd had positioned the landing gear right in front of them. The pilot kept the chopper close and dipped the landing gear in the water. Grant grabbed on, and helped the man loop his arms over also. The water behind pressed them against the chopper for a second before Lloyd lifted and both men were pulled out of the water. Although Grant had both arms over the landing gear at his armpits, his body and wet clothing felt heavy and he wondered how long he could hold on.

He looked over and saw the other man was struggling. He had the look of pain in his eyes. Grant shouted to be heard over the noise of the rotors. "Hold on!"

The man nodded, but he didn't look like he could go much longer. He looked back at Grant, and stared for a moment.

Grant repositioned his arm over the other man's shoulder to help. The helicopter smoothly accelerated and they skirted the gray water. Grant wondered if Lloyd could find a place to set them down. He knew he couldn't last very long. He saw the environmentalist's eyes roll into the top of his head again, then his eyelids close for a while. The helicopter jerked and the man's eyes opened and focused on Grant's. Although the noise of the rotors made communication impossible, Grant's eyes and the environmentalist's locked. "Who are you?" Grant mouthed.

The man shook his head. Grant thought his lips mouthed, "It doesn't matter."

Grant agreed. It didn't matter. Although he already knew the answer that all of America wanted to know, Grant asked the question anyway. "Why?"

Grant saw recognition in the other man's face. The man looked down at the black water below the helicopter, then he stared upstream at the blackness that obscured the Colorado River Delta. The man stared back into Grant's eyes and smiled. Not a funny smile, nor an evil or mischievous smile. It was subtle and reserved, and communicated satisfaction and happiness. Grant felt the muscles in the man's arms relax. Grant tensed and stared into his eyes.

"No!" he shouted. "Don't!"

But the man just looked back at Grant. He let himself slip down until he was holding the landing gear with only his hands. Grant lunged and put his arm over the environmentalist's hand. The man stared at Grant for a brief moment, then closed his eyes, and released his grip. Grant tried to hold him so he wouldn't fall. He didn't want to let him go. He didn't want to let him get away. He didn't want him to die. But he felt the man's hand slipping out from under his arm. He grabbed at his wrist, but the dead weight was too much. The man fell, still looking up at Grant, still with that subtle smile, still with those haunted eyes, dropping into the black water below. And then he was gone.

They searched for him. The helicopter swerved back and forth where the man dropped. Lloyd circled, and Special Agent Williams swept the spotlight back and forth. Grant hung on to the landing gear, and focused downward, afraid to blink. But he saw nothing. He knew they wouldn't find him. He was gone. And so finally they gave up. Agent Williams opened the door and encouraged Grant while they flew him to a dry spot where they could land safely. Grant's arms ached from holding on, but he knew he would make it.

Looking down, there was only darkness, an endless expanse of black water, water that might have been in LakePowell only the day before, and now flowed into the Gulf of California. The fresh water mixing with salt for the first time in seventy-five years.

EPILOGUE

September 10

9:30 a.m. - Highway 89, East of Kanab, Utah

Grant had not been back to LakePowell since the disaster over two months before. For part of that time he had not been allowed. The two-month stretch since the bombings would always be remembered by him as a period of high highs and low lows, a period when sometimes he hated the world, and other times he could not believe his good fortune.

The previous day, Fred had retrieved Grant from the Las Vegas airport for a day at Hoover, then a drive to GlenCanyon. Hoover had changed dramatically since June when Grant had last seen it. Gone forever was Hoover-Two and the thousands of sandbags that had created her. Gone were the high water levels. Gone were the throngs of National Guardsman. Gone were the FBI special agents in their blue coveralls. All of these had been replaced by a new white high water mark on the rocks around Lake Mead, a testament to the height of the flood that would last for generations.

To Fred's question of whether anything looked different, Grant had responded that it almost looked like nothing had happened at Hoover. Fred had laughed and took Grant to see the spillways. On the way to the Nevada spillway, Grant noticed that two buildings, the snack bar and the gift shop, both which had been on the water side of Hoover-Two, were missing. Fred had explained that the water damage had been severe enough that they would both need to be rebuilt.

The Nevada spillway itself had changed dramatically. The round spillway tunnel dropping into the hillside had been severely eroded. It was no longer round. The concrete had been stripped off the bottom showing exposed jagged rocks. The shape was almost square now, except for the bottom left, which looked like it had a deep tear in it. Deeper in the mountain, Grant could see more places where the concrete was completely gone and where large openings expanded beyond his vision. Inside the concrete retaining walls where Grant had authorized demolition, the ragged concrete edges had been worn smooth by the water. Only a small stream, maybe three or four feet deep, still flowed down the spillway, as the water in Lake Mead had almost dropped below the spillway openings.

Grant asked Fred if the Arizona spillway was worse or better. Instead of explaining, Fred drove him over. Although the erosion seemed less severe inside the spillway itself, the concrete arch bridge spanning the Arizona spillway had been weakened enough to warrant future demolition and replacement.

Fred explained that in a week or two, after the water in the dam had lowered enough to completely dry out the spillways, inspection crews would descend on ropes deep inside. They expected to find huge caverns hollowed out by the forces of the water.

After the tour at Hoover, the two men had headed northeast on I-15 toward St. George, Utah. The two-hour journey and dinner afterwards had given them ample time to rehash the events of the two dramatic days in June. Although Grant had known Fred for years, June had changed their relationship. They were bonded by the experience, and both knew they would be close friends for life.

During the conversation over dinner, Fred asked if Grant had heard from Roland Blackwell. Fred had smiled when he asked the question, knowing the answer. Of course he hadn't heard from Roland, nor would he ever. Roland and Grant had become bitter enemies in the aftermath of those two days. Fred had joked that they should make up and spend Thanksgiving together. Grant laughed and agreed that the only time the commissioner would be allowed in his home would be when Grant had a carving knife in his hand.

Back in June, when Grant and the others had flown back from Mexico into the United States, without the environmentalist, and had told their story to the authorities, federal charges were filed against Grant for illegal pursuit across international borders, illegal border crossing, and even abetting a felon. Although all charges were eventually dropped, Roland and the Bureau of Reclamation had placed Grant on disciplinary suspension while they conducted their own internal investigation. To add insult to injury, the Bureau had filed a restraining order against Grant preventing him from approaching within ten miles of any dam or edifice controlled by the Bureau of Reclamation.

As part of the suspension, Grant had been warned not to talk to any media representatives, or he would be immediately terminated and his pension would be forfeited. Although Grant had thought the treatment was unfair, he had tolerated it, thinking that eventually the truth would be known. However, when the Bureau publicly blamed Grant for the failures of Head Gate Rock, Palo Verde, and Imperial Dams, Grant had heard enough. In mid July, he agreed to a series of interviews on television to clear his name. He told the truth, including the Bureau's lack of support for Hoover-Two, which experts agreed had saved Hoover, Davis, and Parker Dams. Governor Rally Jenkins of Nevada appeared on Larry King Live and backed up Grant's story. The Bureau of Reclamation fired Grant in retaliation. Grant reported his treatment on national news. The public believed Grant. A media circus followed, and editorials around the country screamed for the government to throttle management at the Bureau of Reclamation. The Bureau became a public example of big bad government. A week later, Roland Blackwell resigned, saying that he wanted to spend more time with his family. The next day, Grant was reinstated at the Bureau, and the President of the United States flew to Colorado and held a press conference, publicly thanking him for his heroic efforts at Hoover and the other dams downstream. The helicopter flight into Mexico was never mentioned.

No, Grant and Commissioner Blackwell would never be friends.

After dinner in St. George, Grant and Fred retired to separate rooms of a small motel on

St. George Blvd.

They awoke early, ate a quick breakfast, then drove toward LakePowell. They talked continuously and marveled at how the country had reacted to the bombings.

After the dust settled in late June, the environmentalists went crazy. There were parades in Las Vegas and Los Angeles. T-shirts were sold by the thousands. Many showed a picture of the Glen Canyon Dam being blown up by a mushroom cloud of fire. The Los Angeles Times and other prominent newspapers across the country showed a front-page color shot of some pelicans swimming in the restored Colorado River Delta in Mexico. Environmentalists dominated TV talk shows and speculated how fast the delta would recover. They hypothesized how many birds would return, and guessed at how many fish would nest in the delta next year and the year after. There were environmental theories in abundance and the media seemed willing to oblige them all.

By the fourth of July, a rumor took hold that the bomber had survived. Many claimed to have seen him. Some said he was short, some tall, but all described him as a skinny guy with a limp from his broken leg, both of which had been reported in the news. Some said that he was living in Mexico, but the majority opinion had him moving to Oregon where he was preparing to single-handedly do something to stop deforestation.

For the first few days after the incident, helicopters had flown grid patterns over the Gulf of California searching for his body. They found the four-wheeler, but not the environmentalist. The missing body fueled the rumors that he was still alive, but Grant didn't believe it.

By early July, the FBI had raided the RV storage facility in Page and confiscated the first white pickup. They had already retrieved the second truck, parked just off the highway in Mexico. From the two vehicles, they figured out the bomber's identity, which led them to cell phone records of the phones used to detonate GlenCanyon, credit card receipts for food and gas on the bomber's route, and a rundown house in East Las Vegas with traces of ammonium nitrate fertilizer in the back yard. They also found some unused homemade detonators in one of the kitchen cabinets. The license plate on a motorcycle parked in the garage matched one that passed through a roadblock in Utah the morning of the first bombing. They released the name of the bomber (more commonly referred to in the media as the environmentalist) as Jeffrey Calhoun, an electronics technician employed by a large lighting contractor in Las Vegas. Co-workers described him as a social recluse with no close friends, but very smart, especially with electronic devices. Neighbors described him as private. Most of his acquaintances were aware of his environmental concerns, and in fact many considered him fanatical. An elderly woman next door said that Calhoun refused to water his lawn, eventually converting the landscaping to cactus, and encouraged her to do the same. She refused, however, maintaining a healthy green lawn, which had seemed to irritate Calhoun.

At the public release of the perpetrator's identity, the environmental community vacillated back and forth on whether to embrace or vilify him. The Sierra Club, Greenpeace, and the Glen Canyon Institute all confirmed he had once been a paid member of their organizations, but that his memberships had lapsed. Greenpeace, in a widely attended and televised ceremony, announced an honorary lifetime achievement award to Jeffrey Calhoun and installed him into their hall of fame for positive environmental actions. The Sierra Club, on the other hand, tried to distance itself from him, claiming that they believed Calhoun was not the perpetrator, but had been framed by a right-wing conspiracy cooked up by the federal government. They had no explanation for why Calhoun had not been seen since those two days in June.

As Grant and Fred started getting closer to LakePowell, Grant started to feel giddy. He knew that seeing the remnants of the dam would bring back strong emotions. The image he saw when the Gulfstream had flown over the dam back in June, where a huge column of water sprayed out of the face of the dam, would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Fred interrupted Grant's thoughts. "Look at that," he said, pointing up ahead. "I thought they weren't going to tell anybody about this."

Grant saw a bunch of cars parked off both sides of the road. "They weren't," he agreed. "There must've been a leak."

When Fred reached the other cars, he had to weave through them like a gauntlet. The crowd converged on the car and yelled. What they were saying was impossible to decipher. One girl held a sign that said "DON'T DROWN GLEN CANYON AGAIN. LET IT LIVE." Grant noticed that a couple of the vehicles were Volkswagen buses. He wondered what was up with environmentalists and the Volkswagen bus. How could someone claim to care about the environment then drive a car that belched out blue smoke?

After passing through the protestors, Fred stopped at a police roadblock. While a policeman checked Fred and Grant's credentials and marked their names off a list on his clipboard, Grant looked back at the group. Among the waving signs, he saw a small girl, who couldn't have been older than ten, waving a sign that said, "DAMN THE DAMS."

The policeman waved them through.

"Wow," Fred said. "They must think something's up."

In the days following the bombings, environmentalism had reigned. The media was flooded with calls for legislation to assure that none of the dams on the Colorado be rebuilt, and that the delta be guaranteed an allocation of water for fishery and waterfowl habitat restoration. Public opinion, at least temporarily, seemed to support the environmentalists. The Democrats in the House of Representatives wrote a bill that would permanently outlaw any repair or rebuilding of GlenCanyon, Head Gate Rock, Palo Verde, or Imperial Dams. Additionally, they suggested that the United States immediately negotiate a treaty with Mexico, prohibiting Mexico from rebuilding the Morales Dam. The legislation would essentially leave Hoover as the only major dam on the Colorado. Initially unnoticed, deep inside the bill, was buried text that would have prevented repair of the California Aqueduct.

Although the press initially lauded the legislation as "exactly what this country needs," the farmers in Mexico, the farmers of Imperial Valley, native Americans of the Colorado Indian Reservation, and farmers in the Palo Verde Irrigation District all immediately announced opposition to the legislation, saying it would ruin the lives of hundreds of thousands of farmers on the lower Colorado. A little slower to react were the communities in California, Arizona, and Mexico, who would be starved of their allocations of culinary water from the California Aqueducts, Central Arizona Project, and the Mexican diversions.

The last and most surprising opposition to the bill came from recreationalists. Although millions of middle class Americans loaded up their boats every weekend and headed for the nearest body of water to fish, water-ski, jet-ski, sun bathe, gamble, camp, ride motorcycles, stay in house boats, hike, skinny dip, consume alcohol, and ogle the bronzed flesh of the opposite sex, they had historically been an easy target, legislatively speaking.

Over the years they had endured closures of lakes for endangered fish, restrictions on speed, closures to off-road vehicles for tortoises, closures of hunting areas, no wake zones, restrictions on motor size, restrictions on oil type, elimination of personal watercraft in certain areas, closures of sand dunes to protect milkweeds, restrictions of two-stroke outboard engines, etc. However, the draining of LakePowell, a mecca for over three million recreationalists a year, had struck a nerve.

In late July, the Sierra Club organized a celebration at the site of where the Glen Canyon Dam had been. Thousands of environmentalists attended. However a much larger group of recreationalists, estimated at over thirty thousand, showed up to communicate their displeasure. Police staffing had been grossly underestimated. The two groups came together and communicated passionately. With virtually no law enforcement present, and a fifteen to one advantage, the recreationalists won handily. Hospitals in St. George, Utah reported treating over a hundred fractured noses. The Glen Canyon Massacre, as it would be known, shifted the momentum. The media took an anti-recreationalist bias, calling the boaters "thugs", and in retaliation, a million newspaper subscriptions were cancelled across the country. A movement began and congressmen and senators were called, emailed, written, and faxed. Republicans wrote a trillion-dollar appropriations bill to rebuild the Glen Canyon Dam and restore LakePowell, more than a thousand times its original construction cost. The debate was on.

Environmentalists argued that the Colorado River had been overly regulated and diverted, the evidence being a sand dune-swept river delta that no one in the United States had known about two months before. Recreationalists, city dwellers, farmers, Mexicans, and Native Americans, argued that God and the U.S. government had given the river to them for their use, and they had a right to use it. The country was split.

On September 1st, two months after the bombings, the Republican President of the United States, who some called a liberal, and others called a right wing fanatic, flew Air Force One to Yuma, Arizona, where he, along with a smattering of senators, both Republican and Democrat, boarded six helicopters. They first flew to Mexicali, Mexico, to pick up the newly elected President of Mexico, then south over the delta - a place none of them, including the Mexican President, had ever seen.

Although no media representatives were present, a leak in the President's staff described the tour as eye opening. The delta was much bigger than anticipated, covering a thousand square miles. What appeared to be hundreds of thousands of birds, but easily could have been millions, had already returned to the delta in huge flocks. Judging by the activity in the water, millions of fish had migrated upstream into the shallow water. At one point a helicopter flying lower than the others had spooked a flock of birds, forcing the chopper to take evasive action to avoid, at the very least, an embarrassing incident, if not an actual crash.

As a surprise to the entire group, and speculated to have been decided on the spur of the moment, the main helicopter with the two Presidents hovered at water level, and both presidents hopped out with bare feet and their pants rolled up to their knees. The water could not have been more than a foot deep. The helicopters backed off and let the two men wade around and talk about whatever they were talking about. The leak estimated they were in the water for about twenty minutes. Pictorial evidence of the wading party was not released by the White House. The trip had been ten days before. The White House said nothing of the event. No press conferences. No statements to the press. Nothing. However, in the week since the trip to Mexico, the President had been meeting with key members of Congress and the Senate, both Republicans and Democrats. Details of the meetings were not shared with the press, and remarkably, all congressmen and senators declined questions. The media and the entire country knew the subject of the talks, however. Unnamed sources revealed they were talking about appropriations bills to rebuild the dams on the Colorado River.

Environmentalists were not happy. TV, radio, and newspaper editorials called for the President to back off. A million-environmentalist-march was scheduled in the capital. Recreationalists, who now called themselves "working citizens with boats", farmers, Native Americans, and a mixture of smaller groups that stood for all kinds of things from hydroelectricity to culinary water rights, demonstrated all across the country. The number of supporters for the pro-dam movement was respectable, and surprising to many.

As Fred rounded the last turn, and the view opened to what should have been the Glen Canyon Dam, Grant first noticed the roadblocks on both sides of the canyon stopping motorists from driving off the cliffs where the silver arched GlenCanyonBridge had once been. Although partially obscured by the visitor center, a glance to Grant's left showed the empty expanse where the dam should have been, lined by shards of severed concrete still hanging from the rock wall. Across the canyon and up on the hill was the small city of Page, which was now isolated from the west by the missing bridge.

As Fred pulled the car to the entrance of the visitor center parking lot, they were stopped again. Their ID's and names were carefully checked. Grant was surprised to see that when the man flipped pages on the clipboard, the sheets contained photos of each invitee. They were checking pictures of every person. Grant had never heard of that. Finally they were waved through and told where to park. The front lot was almost full, the rear cordoned off and completely empty. Grant noticed five TV vans behind yellow tape in the corner of the front lot, one from each of the three national networks, one from Fox, and another from CNN. The little guys had obviously not been invited.

Grant and Fred straightened their ties and retrieved their jackets from the back seat before walking into the visitor center. Luckily, the air conditioning was running full blast, as the Arizona heat was much too hot for suits, even in mid September. After his eyes adjusted, Grant recognized Governor Rally Jenkins of Nevada over by the windows in conversation with a group of other men. When the governor saw Grant, he politely excused himself from the crowd and walked over to meet them.

The governor shook Grant's hand firmly. "Mr. Stevens. Nice to see you again."

Grant nodded. "Governor."

The governor winked at him. "You seem to have survived the challenges to your reputation."

Grant nodded. "I appreciated your comments." The governor's statements had gone a long way in swaying public opinion.

The governor looked around to verify that no one else was listening, then leaned close. "Well, off the record, if Roland Blackwell and those other morons had been making the decisions, we would have lost Hoover Dam. And, as you know, things would have been a lot worse downstream."

Grant knew the governor was right.

The governor stood up straight. "So what do you think about what happened in Washington last week?"

Grant shrugged. "I've never seen politicians be so secretive. Usually somebody spills the beans."

The governor laughed. "I agree. The President must have some serious leverage we don't know about." He glanced around nervously. "You guys work for the Bureau. What's going to happen here today?"

Grant smiled. He was going to ask the governor the same question. "We only know what you do. An important press conference. Mandatory. Be there."

The governor nudged Grant. "Come on. A week of political jockeying, followed by a press conference at the site of the Glen Canyon Dam. What else could it be? He's got the votes."

Grant nodded, but held out his hands. "Sounds logical, but then again, this President goes both ways. Who would have expected the trip to Mexico? He might announce that he agrees with the environmentalists, and he's going to let the river run."

The governor smirked. "Are you kidding? This guy has never voted for anything environmental in his life. None of those whackos voted for him, and none of them ever will, no matter what he does. And he knows it."

Grant agreed with the logic, except that none of the Democrats in Washington were talking about the secret negotiations, which meant they had something to gain. Of course, the Republicans weren't talking either, which made it even more confusing. Grant was trying to think of an answer when the governor saw someone else and quickly excused himself. They watched him go.

"At least we're not the only ones in the dark," Fred said.

Grant saw a contingency of managers from the Bureau of Reclamation over by a buffet of hors d'oeuvres. Bruce Godfrey of River Hydraulics was among the group. Grant and Fred walked over and joined them. Bruce was uncharacteristically quiet and nervous. Grant wondered if Bruce had heard something. For the next half hour, the crowd in the visitor center continued to grow. Although Grant didn't know most of them, he recognized many as Washington politicians he had seen on TV. Finally, a few minutes before 11:00 a.m., a helicopter could be heard. It landed in a vacant spot in the rear parking lot. The crowd was ushered outside and to the rear lot, where Grant noticed a small platform had been erected on the edge of the canyon. A podium with a half dozen microphones had been placed in the center of the platform. On each side of the podium were two large easels covered with canvas.

The President of the United States exited the helicopter surrounded by a throng of Secret Service personnel all wearing dark sunglasses. As he worked his way to the podium, he greeted the Senate Minority leader, a Democrat, and they shook hands and smiled at each other, although the entire country knew the two men despised each other. The pack of people from the visitor center jockeyed for good spots close to the podium. Grant and Fred remained farther away under the shade of one of the few sparse trees in the lot. The national news networks had set up their cameras about five car lengths from the podium, so they could get the steep canyon walls and the Colorado River in the backdrop.

When the President approached the platform he was followed by the Senate majority leader, a Republican, and the Senate minority leader. Right behind them were the top-ranking Republicans and Democrats from the House of Representatives. An aid with a clipboard gave them all last-minute instructions. He pointed at the microphones and then at one of the covered easels, raising the canvas slightly, but not enough to uncover the display under it. The president nodded repeatedly. The two Senate leaders were positioned next to the easel on the left side of the platform, and the two representatives next to the one on the right. A woman touched up the President's hair, and brushed something off his cheek. Another aid stepped to the microphones, tapped one a couple times then said "test" until somebody gave him a thumbs up. Grant noticed that almost all the networks were already filming, their news anchors most likely speculating on what the President might say. Grant wished he and Fred were closer so they could listen. By 11:05 a.m., the anxious crowd had waited long enough. The President finally stepped to the microphones.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I speak to you today from the great state of Arizona, the exact site where two and a half months ago a terrible act of terrorism dramatically changed the canyon behind me and caused massive destruction for hundreds of miles downstream. I am joined today by leaders of both parties. . ." He turned and motioned to the four politicians behind him. ". . . on this important day."

"As you all know, this unique period of time since those two disastrous days in June has been eye-opening. Passion has been unleashed by many organizations, factions, communities, and races. Some would have us leave the Colorado River un-dammed and uncontrolled. Their voices have been loud, and amplified by many in the media. Others would have us rebuild these dams immediately, to restore their livelihoods, recreational areas, and in some cases, their drinking water." The President leaned forward and glared into the camera. "Unfortunately, many citizens of our country and the world are celebrating this act of terrorism, in spite of the staggering loss of life and property. I myself will not tolerate anyone celebrating the destruction of property and loss of human life for their own interests."

Grant wondered what the solution would be, since the President had just painted both sides of the argument as extremes, rebuilding the dams and not rebuilding them. Would he propose rebuilding only some of them?

The President continued. "First I'd like to say a few words about these dams and life on the Colorado River before them. According to historians, each spring as snow melted in the Rocky Mountains, the Colorado worked itself into a frenzy for three to five months. North of Black Canyon, for the most part, the river was trapped inside the rock walls of the Grand Canyon and GlenCanyon. However, south of BlackCanyon, the river spread out and flooded everything from what is now Laughlin, Nevada all the way to the ocean in the Gulf of California. Nothing was safe. Farming was nearly impossible with too much water in the spring, then almost nothing in the late summer. A typical year on the Colorado was three to four months of floods, followed by a dry river for the remainder of the year."

"In the pre-dam years, Imperial Valley farmers in California discovered fertile soil and built a canal to their farms. With water, their farms flourished. But in 1904 a spring flood caused the canal to break, and the Colorado River changed course, diverting itself entirely into the Imperial Valley where it flowed for three years before the Southern Pacific Railway finally diverted it back into its channel and back to the ocean. That flood filled the valley with water, and refilled the Salton Sea."

"The dams dramatically changed life on the Colorado River. They completely eliminated the spring floods. They averaged the flow and allowed farmers to water year round. They allowed water to be stored and used to sustain life in desert cities like Las Vegas, Phoenix and Los Angeles, none of which could survive without water diversions. The electricity generated by these dams powered the west. The dams have also created recreational areas enjoyed by millions of people each year. Only fanatics would argue that the dams are bad. Only fanatics would argue that we should go back to the way it was before. It would eliminate some of the most fertile farmland in the country, and necessitate the relocation of millions of people."

"The Colorado River is the only large river in the southwest. We have a choice. We can let it run wild, flooding and eroding the landscape, then dumping into the ocean, without harnessing any benefit for man, or, we can completely control it, use it for drinking water, electricity, farming, and recreation for the citizens of the southwestern United States and Mexico."

The crowd cheered, interrupting the President's speech. Grant saw that even the two Democrats on the stand clapped, although not as enthusiastically as the Republicans next to them. He wondered how the President had swayed them to his side. What about the environmentalists? Why weren't the Democrats siding with them? The President held out his hands and waited for the applause to subside.

"So, my friends in the House and the Senate will send me a bill to rebuild the Glen Canyon Dam." He turned and motioned into the dark red rock canyon where the dam had been only a few months before. "And we will restore LakePowell."

The crowd clapped and cheered enthusiastically again, forcing the President to wait. Grant knew why the press conference was a private event and the environmentalists were not allowed past security. There would have been booing. There would have been people rushing the stage. Under the right circumstances, Grant knew that the environmentalists would kill the president if they could, for what he had just said.

The President pointed downstream. "The bill will also contain funding to repair the California Aqueduct, Head Gate Rock Dam, the Palo Verde Irrigation Dam, and Imperial Dam. Although Hoover, Davis, and Parker Dams survived, their spillways were extensively damaged by the sustained high flows. They will also be repaired."

Clapping followed, but this time more subdued.

"As a result of this catastrophe, our neighbors in Mexico also suffered deaths and extensive property damage, including the destruction of Morales Dam. This bill will send relief money to Mexico to help them rebuild as well. Senators--" He pointed at the easel and the two senators pulled the cloth off, exposing a map of the Colorado River with the dams marked that would be rebuilt. "This map shows our plan to restore all the dams."

Grant clapped unenthusiastically. He couldn't believe it. This was a rout. The Republicans were getting everything, and the environmentalists nothing. Although Grant wanted the dams to be rebuilt, he had expected concessions. This felt wrong. How had the President convinced the Democrats?

The President waited until the audience was completely quiet. "Now, let me admit something. The Colorado River catastrophe has taught Americans something we did not know, a secret that has been hidden for almost a century. Even most of the environmentalists didn't know about the Colorado River Delta. Over the years, more environmentalists protested to save the Salton Sea than the Colorado River Delta. The delta was just beyond our borders. It was on every United States map we've seen since elementary school. But none of us really knew what had happened to the delta. At the turn of the century, the Colorado River Delta covered thousands of square miles and the sky sometimes turned dark due to the clouds of birds. Historians report that jaguars, cougars, and bobcats patrolled the shores, and the water was teaming with schools of fish and swarms of shrimp. However, all that changed. For decades now, the delta has been reduced to wind-swept sand dunes, as dry as a bone. Our ancestors dried it up before most of us were born. When they killed the delta in the early 20th century, there were no environmentalists. There were no protests. No signs. No lying down in front of bulldozers. I personally feel that killing the delta was a travesty."

It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Grant saw that many mouths were gaping open. These were not the words they expected to hear from a conservative President.

"I'm aware that my political party gets a bad rap for its stance on the environment. And in truth, many times we find ourselves on the wrong end of environmental arguments. I would argue that it is because those disagreements generally pit 100% environmental agendas against compromises. I maintain that Republicans do not want to kill the environment, they are only searching for a compromise that they feel protects the environment while simultaneously serving the nation and the communities."

The President waved his hand back and forth.

"But we are not here today to debate party politics, or how parties are perceived. We have a crisis that necessitates a solution. Many in our nation think the Colorado River should be returned to the people, where 100% of the water is diverted to farms and cities and the delta dried up again, like it has been for the last century. We are not going to do that. Others want the river to be completely freed, where 100% of the water would flow into the ocean. They would advocate that the farms be shut down, and the citizens of the desert cities like Los Angeles and Las Vegas be relocated back to the east coast where there is more water. We are not going to do that either."

The President leaned forward and gripped the pulpit with both hands. His brows furrowed and his lips pursed.

"I believe that neither of those alternatives is the correct solution. They are both short-sighted and fanatical. What is needed here is a compromise, a way for the citizens to use water from the Colorado without killing the river. That is why I have been meeting with members of both parties in Washington."

He motioned at the other politicians on the stand.

"And that is why I also met with the new President of Mexico. I believe we all want the same thing here."

The President smiled mischievously. "Even the Democrats don't want to shut down Las Vegas and move everyone to Florida." He turned and casually pointed at the politician behind him. "Do you, Senator?"

The senator was obviously not prepared for the question. His face flushed and he stammered for a second before subtly shaking his head back and forth. Snickers could be heard from the audience, which made the senator blush even more.

"Of course not," the President continued. "So we needed a solution, a compromise that would satisfy both goals. Compromises always require sacrifice, and this situation is no exception. Sacrifices will be required from both sides."

The President gripped the podium with both hands again, and paused. His eyes swept the crowd. All were intently waiting for the finale.

"In 1922, the delegates of seven states - California, Nevada, Utah, New Mexico, Colorado, Wyoming, and Arizona signed the Colorado River Compact, an agreement to allocate an estimated 17.5 million acre feet of water from the Colorado River. A provision to ensure that 1.5 million acre feet per year reached Mexico was later backed up by an international treaty. Although history has shown that the original estimate of 17.5 million acre feet was too high, those two legal documents have guided water allocation on the river ever since. Both documents will be amended over the coming months."

"A small environmental group called The Sonoran Institute, one of the few groups focused on restoring the delta, has maintained over the years that if just 10% of the Colorado River were allowed to flow into the ocean year round, the delta would be largely restored. Our compromise will include that number."

Grant nodded. He looked around and saw that many others in the crowd were smiling.

"Our treaty with Mexico will be amended to double the allocation of water from 1.5 million to 3 million acre feet per year. Mexico will agree to allow half of their allocation to flow freely into the delta. Additionally, Mexico has embraced a plan to create a new entity called the Colorado River Delta National Preserve. They have been told it will be popular with American tourists."

The President pointed to the second easel, which the two congressmen uncovered. "Here is our plan for restoring the delta." The display showed the map of the delta including blue shading where water would cover the delta.

The crowd erupted in applause. The President motioned to the other politicians behind him who bowed and tipped their heads, obviously proud of what they had done.

The President held out his hands to quiet the crowd. "As I said before, compromise requires sacrifice. The allocations to all seven western states will be reduced, some more than others. Although many will be tempted to fight this decision in courts for years to come, I admonish all citizens in these states to accept this compromise, to adopt water rationing and recycling programs, and I promise you the water will do what you need it to do. One of the greatest sacrifices will be losing wonderful sites inside GlenCanyon again when we refill LakePowell. I recommend that everyone interested come and see them now, while they are still accessible. Last time it took five years to build the dam and eighteen years to fill LakePowell, so you have a while. But don't wait too long."

The President hesitated, taking a moment to glance at the four politicians behind him. "Although my colleagues and I would like to stay, we have a lot of work to do back in Washington. All seven states' legislators will need to ratify the new Compact, so they will also be busy. Besides, we have a new dam to build, so let's get this stuff cleaned up and get started. Oh, and by the way, we have a new commissioner of the Bureau of Reclamation, the organization that will rebuild all these dams. His name is Bruce Godfrey."

The President waved to a cheering crowd, then walked off the stand and started shaking hands. The news correspondents jumped in front of their cameras and gave commentary. The crowd milled around congratulating each other. Grant and Fred stood quietly under the tree.

Grant could not believe what the President had said at the end. Bruce Godfrey would head up the Bureau? That was awesome. No wonder Bruce had seemed nervous before the press conference. Grant glanced over at Fred, who nodded with raised eyebrows.

"Amazing," Grant mumbled.

"Looks like you guys are going to be busy for a while," Fred said.

Grant glanced down in the canyon and wondered how long it would take to rebuild the Glen Canyon Dam. In some ways the hard part was already done, with the foundation still in place from before. While Grant was thinking, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He thought it was Fred, but turned to see Bruce Godfrey.

"Already planning how you're going to rebuild it?" Bruce said, smiling.

Grant's eyes widened. "What do you mean? Are you saying . . ." He didn't dare say it.

"Well, haven't you dreamed about this your whole life?"

Grant glanced at Fred who was smiling broadly.

Bruce continued. "Of course you'll have to convince your wife and kids into moving out to the desert for a while. You could live in Page, but St. George is a little more civilized. But that would be a tough commute." Bruce tapped his index finger on his chin as if he were perplexing about the decision.

Grant wanted to hear the words. "What are you saying, Bruce?"

Bruce smiled. "I'm saying that I want you to be in charge when we rebuild the Glen Canyon Dam. Do you want the job or not?"

Grant was speechless. He wondered how many men it would take. He needed to put a rough schedule together. And what about the budget? He would need some help with the financials.

"Well?" Bruce asked impatiently. "You want me to get somebody else?"

Grant looked back at Bruce. "No. I want it!"

"Good. You're the man." Bruce turned to leave, then stopped, looking down into the canyon. "Oh, Grant. I want a better design this time. I don't want this dam to crumble for any one-man shows."

"Yes, boss," Grant said. He smiled as he watched his friend walk away. And as far as ideas for improving the dam, Grant Stevens thought he already had a few.

AUTHOR NOTES

Since WetDesert was my first book, and since I was in my forties when I finished, it means that I have either been writing for my whole life without success, or I had a mid-life crisis and decided to write a novel. In my case it was the latter.

As an electrical engineer by trade, I do not remember attending any creative writing classes. I never planned on writing a book, although I occasionally wished I were smart enough to write one. When I wrote emails, memos, or manuals for work, I considered myself a blunt and clear writer. But, I read fiction at every opportunity.

In the early nineties while working as an engineer in California, I perused a friend's copy of the June 1991 edition of National Geographic and saw a story about the Colorado River. It was one of those stories where the author spends months traveling from one end to the other and meets people along the way. One of the pictures showed the remains of the Colorado River seeping into the sand and dying miles from its destination at the Gulf of California. I did not know before that moment that the river never reached the ocean. It shocked me, and I realized that it must really piss off the environmentalists. Not long after, I started telling my friends that someday I would write a book about an environmentalist taking matters into his own hands to restore the river. The only problem was, I had no idea how to write a novel.

I began collecting research and even visited Hoover Dam. But, I did not write. I didn't know how to start. After eight years, I started waking in the middle of the night thinking about the plot. Originally, my protagonist was to be a team of FBI agents, like Tommy Lee Jones' posse in the "Fugitive" and "U.S. Marshals", but the more research I did, the more I felt my character should be an engineer. In the summer of 2001, I was sorting through the mail and came upon a class listing for SaddlebackCollege. Instead of tossing it, I scanned it for a Spanish class. But, I found something I was not expecting: "How to write a fiction novel." I enrolled immediately for my first college class in over ten years.

When I arrived that first night, I noticed the bulk of the class were not college kids, but old farts like me. It looked as if I was not the only person having a mid-life crisis. The teacher's name was Shelba Robison. She had crutches and a bum leg, so she did not stand. It was obvious she knew some of the other students, but it was not until she began talking that I learned many of the students had attended before, and the ones she didn't know, like me, were referred to as "newbies." She told us very clearly that if we were not writing a book, we were in the wrong class, and that we must all have a specific book in mind and be ready to write. On the first night, two students brought chapters for us to take home and review. All newbies were required to write a two-page outline of our book's plot, and meet Shelba in her office during the week to discuss whether the class was right for them.

I left the first night invigorated, and wrote my two-page outline in a couple of hours. After almost a decade of research, it came easily. When I met with Shelba, she eyed me skeptically, then asked to see my outline. I waited while she read it. Without finishing it, she looked up and asked if I knew enough about dams to write the book, and I told her about my years of research. She nodded and asked me if I was committed to the project. I responded that I was. She asked if I had a family. I confirmed that yes I was married and had four young kids. She grimaced and said the best thing would be to convince my wife I was having an affair until the book was done. I guess I convinced Shelba I was serious, because she let me stay in the class.

I started writing on Aug 30, 2001. I handed in my first chapter the next week. On Sep 12th, the day after the bombing of the World Trade Centers, the class sat in a circle and gave me feedback on my writing. Although I had thought my ten-page chapter was a masterpiece, my peers found it riddled with passive verbs, confusing points of view, and plain vanilla characters. But, my classmates liked the story, and they argued enthusiastically about the plot. After a few minutes, Shelba interrupted them. She said, "As you can see, Gary has a very interesting story to tell; unfortunately, his writing is getting in the way of him telling it."

Over the next eighteen months, I repeated Shelba's class twice, and had a dozen chapters reviewed by my classmates. I would like to go on record now that Shelba Robison and my fellow authors from SaddlebackCollege taught me what little I know about the craft of writing. I owe this book to them and wish I could name each of them individually.

Although many gave good input to my story and my writing, I would like to name six who made significant contributions: 1) Bruce Spencer, a pilot friend who flew me to Lake Powell, edited the entire manuscript, and gave invaluable insight into airplanes, helicopters, and houseboat life on Lake Powell, 2) Tom Glazier, a district attorney who edited the entire manuscript and helped with fishing scenes, law enforcement, and houseboats, 3) Uncle Earl Jolley, a lifelong heavy equipment operator who provided key information about bulldozers, building earth dams, and sandbags, 4) an anonymous engineer at the Bureau of Reclamation who helped me with water velocities in floods which established the timelines for flooding on the river, 5) my mother, who read the whole first draft and because she's my mom, saw virtually no problems, 6) and finally my wife Becca, who helped in all phases of the project, who read the manuscript out loud to me during editing, who corrected my grammar, who never gave up on me, and who put up with my fanatical focus through this entire ordeal over the past fifteen years.

Although it seems a little weird to thank God for helping in the creation of a novel about a terrorist, I can't deny that I was inspired to pursue this project, and motivated along the way. Maybe someday I will know why.

Since I began my research in the early nineties, things have changed dramatically on the Colorado River. Almost a decade of drought has lowered the reserves in both LakePowell and Lake Mead to critical levels. As of midyear 2005, LakePowell was down over a 130 feet and classified at under 45% of capacity. Lake Mead was also very low. If the Glen Canyon Dam were to fail under those conditions, Lake Mead would be able to capture the entire flood and make my story non-plausible.

As far as the explosives are concerned, I have done enough research to know what steps to leave out of the formula so as to prohibit someone using the book as a recipe. If the book seems real in spite of the fiction, then it means that at least in that regard, I accomplished what I wanted.

Lastly, I'd like to thank you for reading my book. I hope you liked it. Since the story is now published, and I have survived my midlife crisis, if you wonder about me, I will be perusing old issues of National Geographic to see if other stories need to be told, and to see if I learned enough writing craft from Shelba Robison to write a second book.

Gary Hansen

www.wetdesert.net