Earl spoke in his raspy voice, "I just got a call from the Feds. The L.A. office of the FBI just landed in Page. They want a meeting with me and you as soon as they get here."
The FBI wanted to talk to him? What could he tell them? He had enough things to worry about without having to deal with them. On the other hand, maybe they knew something already. Maybe they knew who did it. He saw no way to avoid the meeting. He nodded to Earl. "Fine, I'll be waiting."
He walked to the windows. It was hard to believe how fast the sight changed when he was away for a few moments. During the phone call to Hoover, Grant estimated that the cut in the dam had grown by twenty or thirty percent. Now, watermarks were visible on the canyon wall just upstream from the dam. The water level next to the dam had dropped almost ten feet. Farther upstream, there were no marks yet, meaning the water was dropping ten feet in just over a hundred yards.
He turned back to the group at the table. "How are the safety warnings going?"
Dan answered, "Downstream, the police have closed all access to Lee's Ferry and other roads down into the canyon. The rangers at the Grand Canyon have called tour helicopters in Vegas and asked for their assistance in flying through the canyon to warn hikers to climb to higher ground. I need to check with them to see how it's going."
Grant pointed upstream into Lake Powell. "What about there?" he asked.
Dan nodded. "Yeah, we called 'em."
Grant continued. "How come I don't see anybody? What if some boater wants to motor down by the dam? If a boat enters this canyon upstream from the dam, he'll get sucked through the hole."
The group looked around at each other.
Earl spoke up, "I guess we could park a boat about a mile upstream to keep people away."
Grant smiled, his first smile in a while. "Better make it a fast one. We don't want to see a police boat get pulled over either."
The man shut off the motorcycle and leaned it on its kickstand, then climbed off. Being an infrequent rider, nearly three hours on the road had taken its toll. His inner thighs and buttocks ached and his lower back wasn't much better. His fingers resisted straightening, preferring instead to remain in a gripped position. He fumbled while trying to unfasten his helmet strap; after removing his gloves, he was able to complete the task. He stuffed the gloves into the helmet, and left the helmet on the seat of the bike, unlocked. After all, this was St. George, Utah.
Entering the restaurant, he shucked the sunglasses and stuffed them in his pocket. Not waiting to be seated, he headed straight to the bar where the TV was located. Finding a bar with a TV in St. George had been no easy task, especially one open this early in the morning. On his previous trips, he had stopped at almost every restaurant on St. George Blvd. before finally settling on the small cafe just off the exit from I-15, which had a small bar and a television.
He climbed on a stool and looked up at the TV. He was glad to be alone at the bar. Unfortunately, the TV was tuned to a sports channel showing baseball highlights. A fifty-ish woman with gray hair, who looked like she would rather be anywhere else but waiting tables, walked up with a coffee pot.
"Coffee?" She laid a menu down in front of him.
He slid his cup toward her, an unspoken response to the question. While she poured, he pointed at the TV. "Can we put that on the news?"
She looked around the room, most likely to see if anyone else would care. After she verified the room was still empty, she nodded. "Sure. I'll get somebody to come in and change it for you." She left.
He picked up the menu and scanned it, but he was so anxious to see the news that he couldn't concentrate. Why couldn't she have changed the channel herself? He leaned over the bar and looked for a remote.
The waitress materialized beside him. "Ready to order?" Her voice sounded strange, as if she didn't approve of him leaning over the bar.
He dropped back in his seat and opened the menu again. There were pictures of omelets, eggs, French toast, and other breakfast specials. He didn't feel all that hungry. He just wanted to watch the news. "Is somebody gonna come in and change the channel?"
"Yeah. They'll be here in a minute. Do you need some more time?"
He scanned the pictures in the menu, not close to making a decision. "How about a couple of pancakes?" he said suddenly.
She pointed at a line in the menu. "Two or three?"
"Two," he said.
She wrote on her pad and continued talking without looking up. "Bacon, sausage, or ham?"
He didn't feel like any. "I'll take bacon."
She grabbed his menu. "Somebody'll be here in a minute to change the TV." She left.
He watched a highlight of someone hitting a home run, fans fighting in the grandstands for the ball. He hated baseball. What a boring sport — too much waiting. He looked at his watch. It had been three hours already. What if nothing else was happening at the dam? Maybe the news wasn't on to it yet. What if they figured out how to fix the leak?
"You want another channel?" A man in an apron, probably a cook, walked into the bar.
He pointed to the TV. "Can we see if there's anything on the news?"
"Sure." The man walked over to the TV, reached up, and started flipping channels. "Any one in particular?" he asked.
Which channel would be first to cover it? A local network, probably. He was about to say something when a picture of the Glen Canyon Dam, obscured in fog, appeared briefly then disappeared.
"Stop!" he yelled, holding out both of his hands. "Go back a couple."
The cook looked at him curiously, as if he was thinking he might pull a gun or something. The TV flipped back to the view of the dam.
"That's it." He stood and walked closer to the TV.
The view of the Glen Canyon Dam was taken from a helicopter. The whole area where the west elevator had been was gone. It had simply disappeared. Water poured from a football field-sized cut in the dam. His heart seemed to stop beating. This was better than his dreams. He couldn't stop a huge grin from stretching across his face.
The man in the apron stood next to him. "Is that the Glen Canyon Dam?" he asked, pointing toward the television.
The words "Glen Canyon Dam, Lake Powell" were written in bold across the bottom of the screen in bright yellow.
"Yeah," the man said, not taking his eyes off the TV. The camera panned downstream and showed the water rushing down the rock canyon. Brown water, obscured in mist, churned in constantly changing rapids, rapids that looked like they could swallow a whole house. He quickly estimated the water levels below the dam to be a hundred feet above normal.
"How did you know about this already?" The cook asked, without taking his eyes off the TV. "Did you hear about it on the radio or something?"
"Yeah," he answered, without thinking or looking at the man.
They both stared blankly at the television without saying anything. The camera showed the water line above the dam, and a close up of the water rushing through the break.
"What caused it?" the man in the apron asked. "Did they say on the radio?"
He heard the words, but at first he didn't realize they were directed toward him. He watched in amazement as a piece of concrete the size of a house broke off the dam and disappeared into the canyon below. He couldn't believe it. The scene seemed surreal, like a fantasy. He felt a large pit growing in his stomach.
The cook tugged at his arm. "Did they say what caused it? On the radio?"
He looked over at the man. "Huh?"
"What caused it? You said you heard about it on the radio."
He shook his head and motioned back toward the door, keeping his eyes on the TV. "I don't have a radio. I'm on a motorcycle."