“Hon,” Duane said to his wife, “grab the portable phone for this person. I’m not letting you in just yet,” he said, half to his wife, half to Catherine.
The phone arrived, born by a tremulous Sandra Becker. She handed it to Catherine, who immediately dialed Indy’s cell phone. Two rings and he answered.
“Indy here,” came his terse greeting.
“Indy, it’s Catherine. I know—”
He cut her off. “Catherine, where the hell are you? Are you OK?”
“Indy, be quiet and listen very carefully. I’m near Page, Arizona, in the US. There’s a huge dam nearby, and they’re going to blow it. This information needs to get to the American Intelligence and military people. Can you connect me?”
“Stay on the line, Cath. I’m at the Heather Street complex. The officers here just talked to an American Intelligence outfit called TTIC a few hours ago. They’re the people who are tracking this. Do not hang up.”
At the moment, Indy was indeed in his crowded little cubicle of an office. Blackman was sitting across from him. They’d just been on the phone for what seemed like hours, connected to various Intelligence Agencies, and to TTIC in particular. Indy was ecstatic to finally be hearing from his partner again.
“It’s Catherine,” he said to Blackman. “She’s in northern Arizona someplace. She knows where it’s going down. What’s the number of that TTIC outfit?”
He punched a series of numbers, and got Johnson at TTIC on the first ring. “This is Indy. We know where the Semtex is. We know the target.”
“Have your guy call this number,” Johnson answered.
Indy relayed the information to a sweating, filthy Catherine Gray. “I’ve got to call this number. It’s the TTIC control room,” she told the Beckers as she started dialing.
“What? The who?” asked an astounded Duane Becker, putting the Mossberg down completely.
“Honey, let me get you a cup of coffee,” exclaimed Sandra, darting back to the kitchen. “Cream? Sugar?” She suddenly became the perfect hostess.
And so it was that an RCMP corporal, covered in sweat, twigs, leaves, and coal dust, sat down at the kitchen table of the Beckers, and explained what had occurred to a rapt TTIC audience.
Dan did most of the talking. He pressed her again and again. Describe the sub. What was that other device? Where was she exactly? How much Semtex, and again, where did you say you are? Had they known what was occurring 300 feet under the surface of the nearby lake, neither would have fiddled for so long with the nonessentials. Rhodes and Rahlson were both reaching for their individual telephones. This was taking too much time already.
Frustrated, Catherine finally handed the telephone to Duane. “Tell this dumbo where we are,” she said.
Duane gave the details. “You know where Page is? Guess not. Well look at the map. You guys got a map?”
In distant Washington, George smiled. “A map, you say? Have we got a map?” Within seconds, he had a map centered on Page, Arizona, some 30 feet in size, displayed on the Atlas Screen. The dam was clearly labeled, as was the huge Lake Powell reservoir and the Grand Canyon. For added measure, he displayed a large photograph of the Glen Canyon Dam on the central 101.
“OK,” said Dan. “We’re looking at a map. We have Page. Where are you in relation?”
“It’s not complicated,” said Duane. “You take Lakeshore Drive north to Wawheap Marina. Go past that. There’s an old mining road winding north along Lake Powell. We’re about ten miles beyond that. Technically we’re over the line, in Utah.”
“Are there any residences or structures beyond that?” asked Dan.
“Yes,” replied Duane. “Go another 20 miles up and there’s a couple of buildings. It’s a testing facility of some kind, owned by some Californian company.”
“Thanks. Can you put the Corporal back on the line?”
Catherine accepted the phone, and the coffee that Sandra had poured. Duane glanced at his wife, impressed that she was still holding up. This was more excitement than the Beckers had seen in years. Yet Sandra was calmly pulling the little bits of twigs, moss, and leaves from Catherine’s hair, the picture of warm maternal concern.
“Corporal Gray,” said Dan, firmly in charge, “we’ve got General Odlum from Army Intelligence sitting here. Can you describe the other piece of equipment that you saw? Not the submarine, but the container that they were packing the Semtex into.”
“It was a very strange device. It looked highly machined, highly polished. Very precise. It was made of different metals. Maybe steel or nickel alloys, maybe molybdenum. It had a very odd shape, almost like an ancient ship. High in front, and in the rear, but very short in the center.”
“Was there a ribbon of different metal running along its crest, perhaps even gold?” asked the general sharply.
“Yes, I think so. They were taking their time packing the Semtex into it too,” said Catherine.
“Shit,” was all General Odlum said.
“Corporal Gray, please stay by the phone. We’ll probably have more to ask you in a minute or two.” That was all Dan said. The line went dead.
Catherine and the Beckers looked at each other. “They’re going to take out the Glen Canyon Dam,” said Catherine, as she continued to pick coal dust out of her ears, and twigs and dirt from her clothing. “Enjoy your waterfront view. You may not have it for too much longer.”
“Would you like some bacon and eggs?” asked Sandra. “You must be hungry. And let me get you some damp towels. Honey, you are a mess.”
Duane smiled. His wife had always thought that a cup of tea would solve even the most dire of problems. She always managed to take the edge out of a tricky moment. But they’d never been in a situation quite like this one, and Duane was quicker to realize the possible danger here. He was also more to the point. “This is the Semtex that was stolen out of Libya, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. Yes, I think so,” Catherine answered.
“And terrorists really have commenced an attack on the dam, haven’t they?”
“Yes, I think so,” Catherine responded quietly. “I’m pretty sure. The attack is probably under way right now. It’s taking place many hundreds of feet below the surface.”
The agitation in the TTIC control room had quickened after Turbee’s announcement, and heightened still further once Corporal Gray divulged her story. General Odlum, from Army Intelligence, wanted the floor.
“What is it, General? What are you thinking?” asked Dan.
“The description the Corporal gave,” said the aging General. “It’s a shaped charge explosive. If they do it right—”
Dan interrupted him. “Who knows more about these types of explosive devices than anyone on the planet?” he said. “We need to talk to this person. We also need to get more information.”
“If it’s what I think it is, then it’s like a bunker buster,” said the General. “If that’s what it is… Johnson, can you get me Livermore Labs on the line? There’s a guy there, name is Sandilands. Dr. William Sandilands. He knows more about this stuff than anyone on the planet.”
“Johnson, get him on the line,” barked Dan to his sidekick. “Now!”
“Why do we need to talk to this guy?” asked Lance, nervously tapping his desktop. “We’ve been just behind whoever is orchestrating this every step of the way. The seconds are precious. We need to call the cavalry now. Let’s >just assume that it’s powerful enough to blow the dam. We can worry about the fine details later.”
“No, Lance. I’m the one in charge here,” Dan snapped. “We need to get the facts straight first. We can’t just be pulling assets from the Hoover Dam and Las Vegas. Johnson, get Sandilands on the line, NOW.” The word “now” was emphasized with his fist striking his desk. He did not see that most of the TTIC personnel were feverishly talking on cell phones already.