He pried open his eyes when he felt the helicopter lean forward and accelerate. By then they were headed north across the glimmering black surface of Lake Mojave. He stared at the blackness ahead and rested his eyes again. The rhythmic thump of the rotors felt so relaxing. This time when he closed his eyes, Grant Stevens slept.
The truck cut through the desert air at 70 mph and the radio blasted George Thorogood's "Bad to the Bone." The skinny man sang along enthusiastically, "… I'm here to tell ya honey, that I'm bad to the bone. B-B-B-B-Bad, B-B-B-Bad, B-B-B-Bad to the bone." When the song ended, he laughed out loud. He slapped the dashboard and yelled as loud as he could. His neck and shoulders tingled so he shrugged them a few times. He didn't remember ever feeling this much energy. It felt wonderful. A road sign shot past on the side of the road. He was getting close. Reluctantly, he turned off the radio and tried to relax. He didn't want to miss the turnoff.
Since he had planted the bomb at Davis Dam, he had traveled back to Vegas for more supplies before heading south again. His ammonium nitrate supply was almost depleted, but then again, who would have ever thought he would be able to accomplish so much with so little. Back in Vegas, it had taken only forty minutes to restock the truck. He almost stopped at McDonalds before realizing that this could possibly be his last meal. So he drove on, and instead chose an all-night restaurant, with a steak and jumbo shrimp, the big ones, not those little dinky ones they give you on the all-you-can-eat special. He put the whole thing on the card. Why not?
By the time he gassed up the truck and bought a Big Gulp for the road, it had been almost 1:00 a.m. After driving south for several hours, he had turned west away from the Colorado River on Highway 62. That had been almost twenty minutes before. If he continued that way, he would eventually end up in Palm Springs, but for now, he had another destination in mind.
Ideally, he would have loved to stop and blow up Parker Dam, but he figured by then it would be heavily guarded, along with all the other dams on the Colorado River. They would be on to him by now, and a little less trusting of white pickups with explosives.
On the desert highway, with no traffic, he drove with the brights on, and easily spotted the gravel road on his right. He slowed and turned onto the bumpy road and headed up a slight incline for a quarter mile. Up ahead, barely visible in the night, was a string of four large culverts stretched across the top of the road, causing the road to dip to get under them. He slowed, turned off the gravel road, and pulled up alongside the culverts and shut off the truck. He opened the door and climbed out into the desert air. When the door light extinguished, it was just him, the moon, and the stars. He took a few steps away from the truck, unzipped, and drained his radiator while his eyes adjusted. By the time he was done and had zipped up, his eyes were more dilated, and with a little help from the moon he saw the outline of the hills clearly, and could even pick out sagebrush on the hillside. He spun and looked back toward the Colorado River and Lake Havasu, over fifty miles away, and scanned for lights. But he saw nothing, which was not surprising since there were hills in between.
He took a few minutes and looked around, allowing his eyes to further adjust. He could just make out Highway 62 as it carved through the small valley. Finally, after he procrastinated as long as he could, he walked to the back of the pickup and grabbed a shovel and his cowhide gloves. He pulled on the gloves and carried the shovel over to the first of the four large metal culverts. The culverts were eight feet in diameter each and carried the water from the huge canal over the gravel road. If he had continued driving straight, he would have driven under them. Each one was almost thirty feet long.
He moved under the culverts, until he found a spot where the dirt angled down enough to give him a couple of feet of clearance to dig. When he dropped the shovel head to start digging, he heard a distinct buzzing sound. He jumped back, but after his nerves settled, he returned, bending down for a better look. The moon and the stars did not provide enough light under the culvert, so he reached the shovel where the sound seemed to be coming from and swept it out. He got it on the third sweep. Without a flashlight, he couldn't be sure it wasn't a Mojave Rattlesnake, but considering the location and the size of the snake, he felt confident he was looking at a Western Diamondback, almost a four-footer. Shaken from getting dragged out of its hiding place, the snake took a moment to coil again and resumed rattling. With the gentleness of a mother, he carefully scooped up the snake in his shovel, carried him over to the sagebrush in front of the truck, and let him go. No sense killing the poor thing.
He returned to the spot and started digging a hole under the culvert. When the hole was approximately two feet in diameter and eighteen inches deep, he moved to the second one. This hole ended up being slightly more difficult, the dirt being harder for some reason. He continued working and finally, with all four holes dug, he walked back to the truck and drank some of the melted ice and water in his Big Gulp. He took off his t-shirt and wiped sweat off his face. In the distance, he saw the lights of a car coming down Highway 62. He rested a moment while he watched the car get closer and finally pass by. They would never be able to see him up here on the hill, he knew, unless he turned on a light.
He carried two of the white buckets over to the culverts, uncapped them, and dumped a bucket of ammonium nitrate in each of the first two holes. A second trip for two more buckets and all four holes were done. A blue bucket of diesel was next. He poured it on top of the ammonium nitrate. The one bucket was enough to douse all four holes. He put all the buckets and lids back in the truck. He returned and poked one of his detonators in each hole, and wired them together with strands from his spool of wire. Finally, he hooked up the batteries and the small timer. Again, he felt tempted to set the timer short so he could witness the destruction, but Davis Dam had been too close for comfort. He stuck with the plan and set it to twenty minutes, enough time to get miles down the road. Long before anyone figured out what happened, he would be deep into California.
He pushed the button, causing the red light to illuminate and the timer to start counting backwards from 20:00. He walked quickly back to the truck and was just about to jump in when he saw car lights in the distance. He knew if he opened the car door and jumped in, the lights would give him away, so he had no choice but to wait. Unlike the car he had watched earlier, this one seemed to take forever. When the car finally passed, he considered jumping into the truck immediately; maybe they wouldn't be watching their mirrors. He felt glad he didn't, however, because he saw another car behind. This time his heart raced as he watched it slowly get nearer. He thought about stopping the timer, but he didn't. His heart beat loudly when the car appeared to slow in preparation to turn onto the gravel road. But when the car passed, he realized it had only been his imagination.
He only waited until the car was a few miles down the road before jumping in the truck. Let them watch their mirrors. He started the truck and slammed it in reverse, backing it under the culverts. He pulled it into drive and sprayed rocks everywhere as he accelerated back down the gravel road. The truck jarred as he bounced onto the highway and headed west toward Los Angeles. They would be watching for him if he stayed too close to the Colorado River. His plan was to take the long way through L.A. down to San Diego, then back east to the river.