“Uh-oh,” said Rahlson as he realized what Turbee was saying. “You don’t think that…”
“Well, yes I do. I couldn’t figure out how 4.5 tons of Semtex could take out the Hoover Dam. It’s just too well built, and you can’t really get inside of it, which is what you need to do, especially with the level of protection that exists around it right now. But if you took out the Glen Canyon Dam…”
“Turbee, that’s where your logic breaks down,” said Dan triumphantly. “If you can’t figure out how the Semtex could destroy the Hoover Dam, how can you say that the same amount could, in fact, destroy the Glen Canyon Dam? That makes no sense.”
“I’m not sure, Dan. It’s a different dam. It’s not as well built. I’m not sure, but maybe you should look at it.”
“Fine, I’ll pass it along,” Dan muttered, and began dithering with communications links that he didn’t fully understand. Other emails and telephone calls were made, but with Turbee’s equivocal answer and Dan’s hesitation, the new evidence of the involvement of PWS did not gain prominence until much later.
54
It was a runner’s dream. The early morning temperature on September 3 was in the high 60s. The sun was warm but not hot. The scenery was gorgeous. A different view of the huge reservoir appeared every couple hundred feet. Traffic and other pedestrians were nonexistent. Catherine Gray had what she called her “forever legs” on, clocking an easy, rhythmic 6.8 miles to the hour. After the first hour she was in the zone, and if it weren’t for the intrusive thought of an unfolding national catastrophe, the endorphin-laden cadence of her strides would have been perfect.
The sun was rising higher as she approached the cliff edge where Yousseff had ordered Ba’al to ditch the truck in the murky waters of Lake Powell. The guardrail was conspicuously swinging in the breeze, drawing attention to the mischief that had gone on there an hour earlier. Catherine paused for a few moments, looking down into the muddy water. The unmistakable outlines of a box van could be seen in the lake, far below. She would be telling the local police force or FBI about that at the earliest opportunity. With modern forensic science, a great deal of information would likely be found there. She carried on with her run. One hour became two, and two was pushing three by the time the first residence appeared: a mobile home just north of the Wawheap Marina and Campsite Complex. She pounded on the door, then looked at her watch, which had automatically reset itself to the local time zone. It was 8:45AM.
Duane Becker and his wife of forty-some years had been happily retired for ten years. They were enjoying their peace and quiet when the staccato knock, sharp and professional, came from the side door of their still-new-looking double-wide mobile home.
They had decided to retire here. They had spent most of their working lives in Las Vegas, he a janitor, she a waitress. Through all the dazzle and bling of that city, they remained true to each other, and both swore that they loved each other more now than they had when they first married. Three children had come, been raised, and left. Two stayed in Vegas, the third was in Los Angeles somewhere. They had spent many a weekend on Lake Mead, north of the Hoover Dam, but found that it was becoming too noisy for their taste. They had migrated north then, and had spent their share of holidays in the Wawheap area, where greater tranquility and more restful trips had become more and more welcome as they both passed 60. They finally decided to pull up stakes in Vegas. To their glee, they discovered that their small home, purchased for $50,000 so many years ago, was now worth $450,000. The couple took a small amount of what they considered to be a fortune, and purchased the isolated double-wide trailer, formerly owned by one of the Wawheap Camp caretakers. The balance of their money was carefully invested and, along with the combined cash flows from two small pensions, they now considered themselves to be fabulously wealthy and blessed.
They’d already finished breakfast, but the delicious smell of coffee and fried bacon still permeated the air. They seldom had company, other than their children and grandchildren, which was just fine by them. A knock at 8:45AM was unusual, especially after the tourist season had finished. Duane became more attentive as his wife reached for the door.
He lunged for the side cupboard the instant he heard her shocked gasp. He kept a loaded Mossberg 590 sawed-off shotgun, just for this kind of situation. At close quarters, the Mossberg would be a potent and lethal weapon. He hadn’t needed to use it yet, but now he thanked God he’d had the foresight to keep it ready.
“I’m there, hon, I’m there,” he yelled as he moved with a quickness that belied his age.
When he got to the door, Sandra Becker was standing absolutely still, staring in shock at the person standing on their front step.
“You’d best explain yourself, ma’am,” said Duane, pointing the Mossberg directly at the intruder’s midsection. “And no sudden moves. This gun’ll shoot you clean in half.”
Sandra backed up, and moved behind her husband’s ample frame.
“I’m Corporal Gray, of the RCMP,” Catherine said, breathing heavily.
“The who?”
“The Royal Canadian Mounted Police, that’s who,” replied Catherine sharply between breaths.
“Yes, of course you are. On an early morning patrol no doubt. Lose your way in Toronto?” Duane did not lower the Mossberg. “Lady, if you’re with the RC whatever, then I’m the tooth fairy. Show some ID, and slowly,” he said, his steady eyes not leaving hers.
It was then that Catherine came to terms with the true nature of the problem. In the past 48 hours, she had been locked in an underground room in a deserted coal mine, crawled through a filthy coal-black tunnel, multiple times, spent hours squatting behind more than four tons of plastic explosive, peed in a cooler, played cat and mouse in the pitch black with a furious terrorist/drug smuggler, and to top it all off, had just run a distance in excess of a marathon.
“I must look like hell,” she said, fishing around in her pockets for ID. Of course, at critical moments like these, passports, badges, and other forms of ID were completely lacking.
“Yes ma’am, you do. Now who the hell are you?” repeated Duane, lowering the gun ever so slightly.
“I’m a corporal with the RCMP. I’ve been following a stolen shipment of high-powered plastic explosive from Canada to here, and I’m not even sure where ’here’ is,” Catherine replied.
“We’re just north of Page, Arizona,” he replied. “We’re adjacent to Lake Powell, just over yonder.” He motioned with his head, still keeping his eyes firmly locked with hers.
“OK,” said Catherine. “Is there anything in the immediate vicinity that terrorists might want to destroy? Something big, something of significant national interest?”
“I can’t really think of anything,” said Duane. “No huge buildings, no airports, no nuclear power stations. Unless,” he added, “unless maybe it’s the dam itself.”
“Dam?” asked Catherine. “What dam?”
“Well Lake Powell is a reservoir, created by the Glen Canyon Dam, which is next to Page. The town was built when the dam was built.” The Mossberg was lowered again, but only slightly.
Catherine’s face grew still in horror. “I need to use a phone, right now,” she said quietly. “I think terrorists are going to blow the dam. I think it’s going to happen in the next hour or so. Please, I must use a phone.”
Duane stared at her in amazement. She did indeed look awful. She still had a residue of coal dust in her hair and streaked across her face. There were twigs and bits of bush in her hair and clothing from her cat and mouse game with Ba’al. Both her hands were still pitch black. She was now sweating profusely and, to her horror, realized that she did not smell all that good.