Fallout

CHAPTER 3

Take charge. Think fast.

Craig Kreident couldn’t spend days pondering the ramifications of his decisions. Too many lives depended on his reaction time for him to hesitate. And he had to get it right the first time.

He pointed to Goldfarb, Jackson, and the other law-enforcement agents. “Fan out now. We’ve definitely got a bomb, but we don’t have a bad guy to help us track it down. The clock is ticking, people — move it!”

Garcia, the shift foreman, looked grayish and sick. He had seen the militia man throw himself backward into the churning water, and now he stared with disbelief at Craig’s pronouncement. “A bomb? For real?”

“Yes, sir,” Craig said. “Did you recognize that man?”

Garcia swallowed, then shook his head. “Didn’t look like anyone I know on shift.”

“Could have been an infiltrator,” Jackson suggested.

“Mr. Garcia, sir,” Craig said, trying to keep his voice calm; even a hint of uncertainty would rattle them all. “It’s time to evacuate your people from the dam. Get them away from here and up to safety. We don’t know how big the bomb is, or when it’s set to explode, or who could be hurt. Then I need you to help us out.”

With wide eyes, Garcia turned and ran for a facility telephone mounted in a utility shack.

Craig turned to the three Hoover Dam policemen. “One of you stop traffic on the highway. Get somebody up there to put up roadblocks. I don’t want anyone driving across this thing if there’s going to be an explosion.”

Robbins brightened as if he suddenly realized he would rather be stopping traffic than searching for a bomb. “I’ll do it.” He ran back to his police cruiser and leaped in.

“Jackson, where’s our backup? When is Explosive Ordnance Disposal going to get here?” Craig said, turning in a circle, trying to determine where best to begin their search.

Jackson glanced at the watch, pushing back the sleeve of his suit jacket. “The EOD team was on their way from Boulder City. Should be another fifteen or twenty minutes. We’ve got fifteen more agents coming in from Las Vegas, but we’re on our own for the time being.”

“Best we can do, I guess,” Craig said. “We have to be fast and efficient.”

Garcia trotted back up, cradling his yellow hardhat, his face flushed. “I sounded the evacuation,” he said, breathless.

Craig called out, “Mr. Garcia, help us think of where someone might place a bomb around here. Where would it cause the most damage?”

The supervisor looked up at the transformers, down into the channel of water where the terrorist had vanished, then up at the concrete expanse of the dam as though he couldn’t fathom anyone trying to destroy his precious machinery. “Do you want to cause structural damage, or knock out the power-generating capability, or flood water through the diversion channels?”

Goldfarb cleared his throat impatiently. “Hey guys, if I could make a suggestion while we’re looking inside — the Eagle’s Claw wants attention, right? They want to do something spectacular. They need to make a statement that’ll affect lots of people.”

“Like cracking the dam and flooding the southwestern United States?” Jackson said.

Garcia stuttered. “No way! You’d need to crash an airplane full of dynamite into the dam wall in order to cause that kind of damage.”

“Then it must be somewhere inside,” Craig said grimly. “Let’s move it.”

They spread out through the main generating floor. Craig raised his voice, shouting to be heard over the hum of the machinery. “Mr. Garcia, I spotted our suspect leaving that tunnel. Would you accompany me, please? Jackson, Goldfarb, you keep checking out the generator room. I looked at the first couple of turbines, but our guy could have rigged something else.”

“You bet,” Goldfarb said. The two agents set off at a rapid pace, while Craig and the shift supervisor rushed into the tunnel.

The tunnels ran through the canyon walls and the immense concrete dam like a network of blood vessels. Lit by garish round spotlights, the rock walls were rough and rugged, dusted with salty secretions. Haphazard sheets of corrugated plastic hung from the ceiling and walls to deflect dripping water that seeped from the rocks. Concrete gutters ran alongside the walkway.

“This tunnel goes to one of our main penstock pipes used for shunting the water in an emergency,” Garcia said. Perspiration covered his face.

“And if one of those pipes were to be breached?” Craig asked. “Would it flood out the entire dam?”

“Not really,” Garcia said. “The pipes are dry now. We’ve only used the shunt once, ten years ago, when there was a flood condition in Lake Mead.”

Craig scowled. “Any other ideas where he might plant his explosives?”

Garcia screwed up his face. “Agent Kreident, this place was built to last two thousand years. I don’t believe there are any single points of failure.”

“Even if somebody blows up the generators?” Craig said, glancing at his watch again.

“We’ve got eight generators on this side alone,” Garcia answered, nervously rubbing his hands together. “Arizona has nine on the other side. You could blow up one or two of the turbines, I suppose, but it still wouldn’t cause immediate and irreparable damage.”

“Unless whoever planted the bomb didn’t know that,” said Craig, looking around at the enormous machinery.

The two men jogged through the passage, looking at the power conduits and side storage chambers, but Garcia dismissed all those as being unlikely targets. Craig began to wonder if the terrorist had managed to set up his explosive after all, or if he had merely been lying to cause a panic. The bomber could have a last laugh at the FBI’s expense, knowing the agents would frantically close down the dam and search fruitlessly for hours.

But Craig couldn’t believe the militia man would be willing to die for a practical joke.

The worst part was not knowing how much time remained. The bomb could explode in the next ten seconds… or the terrorist could have set the bomb to detonate hours later when hundreds of tourists streamed through the Hoover Dam.

Every sound made Craig tense. What if more than one saboteur had crept into the passages that morning? Craig grabbed the small walkie talkie, which he had switched off during the shootout, and turned on the speaker.

Goldfarb squawked at him in a highly agitated voice. “Craig, dammit, why don’t you answer? We’ve found it! The bomb’s down here.”

“Acknowledged, Ben,” he said quickly, covering his surprise. “Tell me the details — we’re on our way.”

“Here in the generator room. It’s hooked up to the first two main turbines. It looks homemade, but complex. You know how touchy those things can be.”

“EOD should be here any minute,” he said. “Is there a timer? Can you see how much we’ve got left?”

“Six minutes, Craig. Piece of cake.”

“Six minutes!” Craig felt his heart leap. He started running, then stopped. “Mr. Garcia, maybe you’d better just get out of here.”

The supervisor didn’t need to be told twice as he raced for the high-speed service elevator. “Just don’t let my dam get ruined, Agent Kreident,” he called over his shoulder.

Without answering, Craig raced down the tunnel back to the main generator room. Goldfarb crouched beside one of the enormous turbines while Jackson stood tall and stern like a traffic-crossing guard, motioning Craig to where the bomb had been planted.

Goldfarb looked up, his swarthy face flushed, his skin speckled with perspiration around his normally infectious grin. “Five minutes flat, Craig,” he said quietly, whipping his palm across his brow.

Craig bent to inspect the device tucked under the generator cowling, connected to a similar home-made bomb linked to the second generator.

“If those Explosive Ordnance guys don’t get here soon, I’m going to start yanking out wires,” Goldfarb said. “Or would you prefer to have the honor, Craig — you’re the senior agent.”

“I don’t have a clue how to disarm a bomb,” Craig said, squatting beside the other agent. For anything other than simple plastic explosives, Bureau policy was ‘Leave it to the professionals.’ “I always meant to learn one of these days.”

“Well, here’s our chance for on-the-job training,” Goldfarb said bleakly. Craig saw that his partner’s hands were shaking.

“Yo!” Jackson said as the elevator doors opened. Two men wearing helmets, visors and heavily padded olive-green body armor sprinted out.

Craig stood up, feeling a wash of relief. “Step lively — you’ve got five minutes left on the timer.”

“Uh, four minutes,” Goldfarb said.

The first EOD expert whipped out a pack of tools from his side and dove to the bomb as if he were sliding into home base. With his clear visor down, he pushed himself to within inches of the device, studying the wires. The second man moved to block Jackson, Goldfarb, and Craig from the explosive device. “Please get out of here, gentlemen. We need to work alone.”

“I’m staying here,” Craig said firmly.

“No, sir — that wouldn’t be smart. If something goes wrong, everyone is at risk. There’s nothing you can do except get in the way. Don’t waste time arguing with me.”

Craig blinked, abashed, and realized the EOD man was right. “Sorry.”

“We’ve got two bombs,” the first EOD man called out. “Actually more than two — this pair of explosives is hardwired to the timer, but there’s also a transmitter, maybe to broadcast when the timer goes off. I’ve got to work on disconnecting both of them, and we’re running down to the wire.”

“Please leave,” the second EOD man said again. “We’ve got to concentrate.” Then he turned, ignoring the FBI agents.

“You heard the man,” Craig said. He and Goldfarb and Jackson strode outside to the narrow access road below the dam, next to the rushing water where the militia man had plunged to his death. The park ranger and the first Hoover Dam policeman had already climbed into one vehicle and started their engine.

Jackson raced for the front seat of the car, with Goldfarb following close behind. “Come on, Craig!” Craig paused, though, as he stood beside the transformer towers and high-tension lines extending across the canyon.

Garcia’s words echoed in his head about blowing up the turbines, how generators on the Arizona side or other turbines on the Nevada side could easily pick up the slack. However, if all the towers were destroyed and the power cables severed, electricity would certainly be cut off. Enough to black out major portions of several states.

Adjusting his sunglasses, he scanned the base of the metal towers; a rugged handhold and foothold path led to where the steel support beams had been anchored to the rock.

Then he spotted the block of grayish-blue substance affixed to the base of a power transmission tower.

Another bomb. Crude and simple — but still destructive.

A naked wire strung to the next tower and the next one down the cliffside. Craig drew in a breath. There were three of them. That must be where the detonation signal inside the dam would be transmitted. “Oh, great!” he whispered.

Climbing over the concrete barrier, Craig wildly began to scramble up the rocks, painfully aware of how little time remained. His tie and jacket flapped as he bent over, clambering up the incline.

“Hey!” Goldfarb shouted, hanging onto the car door. “We’ve got to get out of here.” Then he too noticed the claylike blocks of plastic explosive.

Craig reached the base of the first support tower, and then his foot slipped from the granite outcropping. He reached out with his left hand and grabbed the metal support of the high-powered transmission tower — hoping too late that the metal itself wasn’t electrified. He held on, swinging himself up, scrambling with his feet for purchase.

He saw the plastic explosive. Words had been scrawled on its side with a black magic marker. FOR VICTORY AND FREEDOM ON OCTOBER 24!

Craig had less than a minute remaining, perhaps only a few seconds. If the EOD people didn’t prevent the detonator signal, this explosive and the others linked to it would blow up.

He didn’t have time to call the other EOD man. He didn’t have time even to get out of the way. Craig gritted his teeth, swallowed hard. Simple plastic explosives didn’t have complex machinery. He just needed to remove the initiator. If he disconnected the detonator, it would not trigger the bomb. Probably not.

Sure, it would be simple.

He reached out to grab the wires. The first lead came out with a pop, severing the electrical connections thrust into the soft explosive. He tugged on the other wire, pulling the connections from the next block at the second power-transmission tower. The others were just part of a series circuit.

Craig stood looking at the detonator in his fist, his heart pounding. Then he tossed it away from him as if it had turned into a snake — even the detonator cap would take off his hand if he was holding it when it went off.

Finally, slumping, he saw Jackson and Goldfarb hurrying up to the cliff wall, calling to see if he was all right.

The EOD men emerged from the generator room removing their helmets, beaming. “A minute to spare,” the first one called. “We could have done it twice.”

“These are the other explosives,” Craig said, slumping down, suddenly weak. Now he finally had a chance to reconsider the words written on the soft substance.

FOR VICTORY AND FREEDOM ON OCTOBER 24!

It had been standard practice for military men to paint names or messages on their bombs before dropping them on an enemy, whether it be Saddam Hussein or Adolph Hitler. In Dr. Strangelove the two atomic bombs had been named “Hi There!” and “Dear John.”

But for all the planning the violent members of the Eagle’s Claw had intended, Craig couldn’t believe they had made such a stupid mistake as to get the date wrong. He glanced at the calendar function on his watch, checking just to be sure, then he shook his head.

October 24th was still four days away.