Fallout

Chapter One

Chapter One

Tuesday, October 21

6:38 AM

Hoover Dam

Boulder City, Nevada

As dawn spilled through the tan rock canyons, Agent Craig Kreident rode in the front seat of the FBI rental car, buckled in and holding on tight as Jackson took the corners significantly faster than the maximum safe speed.

In back, dark-haired agent Ben Goldfarb had stopped his usual banter, leaving quiet and intense Jackson to concentrate on driving. Craig glanced at his watch, seeing the second hand sweep around.

As Jackson curled around another hairpin curve, Craig slid sunglasses firmly in place through his chestnut hair. Tapping his fingers on the seat, he stared out the passenger window beyond the guard rail, seeing the long drop down. The sun grew brighter, funneled through the narrow canyon cut by the Colorado River on the Nevada-Arizona border.

Ahead, Hoover Dam formed a cliff of concrete, a wonder of engineering that held back the waters of Lake Mead. The dam was a popular tourist spot, and Highway 93 across it was a vital lifeline between Nevada and Arizona.

If the radical militia group, the Eagle’s Claw, succeeded in blowing up the dam, repercussions from the resulting disaster would approach biblical proportions.

Craig tapped his fingers again, swallowing in a dry throat. He looked at his watch once more. The second hand still hadn’t completed a full circuit of the dial. The worst part was not knowing how much time they had.

Reaching the bottom of the grade where the road and Hoover Dam spanned the canyon, Jackson pulled smoothly into the empty visitor’s parking lot next to an old exhibit hall. He jammed the shift lever into park, lurching to such a sudden stop that Craig jerked against his seat belt.

Goldfarb popped open the back door, sliding out. Craig unbuckled, grabbed the small walkie-talkie on the seat, then pushed open the passenger side door. He reached in his jacket for his FBI badge and ID. “Let’s go!”

Two law-enforcement vehicles marked with Hoover Dam Police and one National Park Service jeep waited there. Three policemen and a park ranger stepped forward, ready for action. They seemed relieved to see the FBI. One policeman wiped a hand across his forehead.

While the spotty early morning traffic continued to drive by, curious onlookers turned their heads. Craig pushed his sunglasses against his face, adjusting the shoulder holster beneath his dark suit jacket. “I’m Special Agent Craig Kreident,” he said, “in charge of this operation.” Exchanging names like rapid gunfire, Craig introduced Ben Goldfarb and Randall Jackson, while the two policemen and the park ranger gave their own names.

“Is this all the backup we’ve got?” Jackson asked, shading his dark eyes and scanning the canyon walls as if searching for hidden snipers.

“For now,” one of the Hoover Dam policemen said. “More on their way, another dozen park rangers, plus three Boulder City police officers.”

“Park rangers?” Goldfarb raised an eyebrow.

The ranger settled his hat firmly on his gray-streaked dark hair. His face was tanned and leathery, as if he had spent his entire life under the desert sun. “We have minimal law enforcement at the dam itself, especially before the Visitor’s Center opens and the tours start. The National Park Service representatives at Lake Mead, Grand Canyon, and Death Valley are the closest Federal law-enforcement agents.”

“Good enough,” Craig said, fidgeting, anxious to get moving. “We’ll take all the help we can get, sir.”

“We’ve been here and vigilant since we received your message an hour and a half ago,” said the second policeman, flushing beneath his freckled skin, “but we don’t know exactly what we’re looking for.”

The other policeman looked more bothered by Craig himself than the threat of the explosives. “Agent Kreident, the Eagle’s Claw and their militia counterparts have been blabbing to the newspapers and radio stations for months. What makes you believe this one’s not just another false alarm?”

Craig frowned. “Because this one’s real in my opinion, sir.”

Goldfarb smiled and stepped into the conversation. He was a head shorter than Craig with deep brown eyes and a sunny smile; he used the smile as a weapon more often than his own handgun.

“I’ve checked up on the Eagle’s Claw,” Goldfarb said, “and I’ve read their collected letters in the evidence file—cheery reading, let me tell you. Typical right-wing militia organization, so patriotic they’re bloodthirsty. America for Americans and none of this ‘world policemen’ crap—that’s their own words. They want no more foreign aid, closed borders, protectionist trade policies. They hate the United Nations with a passion, because it ‘waters down American ideals and dilutes the sovereignty of our nation.’”

Robbins, the skeptical policeman, took off his wire-rim glasses and swiped them across the front of his shirt. Craig noticed beads of sweat on his forehead. “People around here are a bit more conservative than in San Francisco,” he said. “Isn’t that where you’re stationed, Agent Kreident?”

“I’ve been assigned to this case, sir,” Craig said firmly. “Where I live has nothing to do with this morning’s operation. Even militia members are entitled to their own opinions, so long as it doesn’t spur them to violence. I think that’s what’s going to happen this morning—violence, and a lot of it.”

“But what evidence do you have?” Robbins said, hooking his eyeglasses over his ears and straightening them. He squinted toward the dam’s broad expanse of gray-white cement. The waters of the river far below and the Lake Mead reservoir above looked deep blue, peaceful in the morning.

Craig responded matter-of-factly, forcing himself to stop fidgeting for just a moment. “We … received a note.”

The FBI had been keeping tabs on various militia groups, especially since the Oklahoma City bombing and the Freemen standoff in Montana. During their investigations, they had increased surveillance on certain ones they considered most dangerous. Though the Eagle’s Claw spent most of its time on propaganda and misinformation, the FBI had sent an undercover agent, William Maguire, to join the militia and investigate their activities. For two years Maguire had submitted regular reports, which grew sparser but grimmer in the recent six months.

Unlike their frequent letters full of empty threats, the Eagle’s Claw had issued no warning, promised no action against Hoover Dam or the hydroelectric generating station. But yesterday Maguire had been found dead in his house trailer on the outskirts of Boulder City.

It might have appeared to be a simple heart attack—though Maguire submitted himself to regular physical exams, and no prior inkling of a health problem had ever been found. But then a hidden note had been discovered next to the phone on an innocuous-looking pad of message paper, five sheets down. Maguire’s house cleaner, also an FBI courier, knew where to look.

According to the scribbled message, the Eagle’s Claw intended to strike Hoover Dam this morning, planting explosives in strategic positions. Maguire had been prepared to call in a full-fledged FBI assault—but he had died of his convenient “heart attack” the same evening.

“What’s so special about another note?” Robbins said sourly. Craig could see that the man liked wearing his uniform but didn’t like to be called upon to do his duty.

“I’m inclined to believe this one, sir,” Craig said, then turned smartly, cutting off further conversation. “We don’t have many men, but we have to act now. Have we contacted the foreman of the redeye shift?”

The second policeman nodded. “Yeah, a man named García. He’s standing by for further instructions from you.”

The park ranger looked up as a heavy truck crossed the dam and rattled past, heading up into the hills toward Las Vegas. “I hope we don’t have to blockade this highway. This’ll be a monumental mess if we can’t wrap it up before the Visitor’s Center opens at nine.”

“We’ll take care of it,” Jackson agreed tersely, standing tall and dark under the morning sun, not sweating a bit.

Seeing a gap in traffic, Craig jogged across the narrow highway and looked down to the generating stations, the heavy transformers and turbines far below at the bottom of the dam next to a set of administrative buildings.

“All the hydroelectric machinery’s down there, Agent Kreident,” the ranger said as he approached. “If somebody wants to cause mischief, there’s your best bet. They can’t do much to damage the dam itself. It was designed to withstand a 6.9 earthquake and made with enough concrete to construct a highway from San Francisco to New York and still have some left over.”

“It would take an atom bomb to wreck that,” Goldfarb said.

“Be thankful the Eagle’s Claw doesn’t have one of those,” Craig said. He pointed to the generating station and a single-lane roadway on the Nevada side of the river. “How do we get down there?”

* * *

Silver-painted Frankenstein machinery hugged the canyon wall—conversion transformers that took the power from hydroelectric turbines and changed it to alternating current, sending it through high-tension electric wires that ran across the river up to naked trestles on the canyon rim above.

On the opposite side of the river, rock alcoves contained more heavy machinery, needle valves that had once been used to shunt the flow of the river during the construction of Hoover Dam. From beneath the dam and the hydroelectric generators, the swirling cold currents of the tailrace eddied where water sloshed out from the churning turbines.

The shift supervisor came out to meet them, moving furtively, as if he didn’t want anyone to see him there with three FBI agents. Craig took the initiative and stepped forward. “You’re Mr. García?” He extended a hand.

The compact man had wiry gray hair beneath a yellow hardhat. His face wore a wizened expression, and his brown eyes flickered between fear and indignance at the suggestion that one of his workers might be involved in a conspiracy to destroy the dam.

“I’m not keen on the idea of accusing my crew,” he said. “I like to think they’re trustworthy enough to hold their responsibilities, or they shouldn’t be working here in the first place.”

“I’d like nothing more than to be proven wrong, sir,” Craig said, brushing his suit jacket, glancing at the dam, adjusting his shoulder holster. “But unfortunately we must take precautions. Can we get everyone into a secure area without arousing their suspicions? That’ll give us the freedom to inspect for sabotage quietly. At the moment, they don’t know we know.”

García nodded. “I’ve called a meeting of Team B. They should be waiting for me in our conference room, and I’ve telephoned the five maintenance and support workers. They’ll be in my office and not at their stations. The other workers are all in the administration structure beneath the main dam, where it’ll be easy to keep track of them.”

“Excellent, Mr. García,” Craig said, trying to be firm, yet supportive, thankful that the supervisor hadn’t lost his cool. “Keep your people busy, hold your meeting, tell the others to wait. We’ll search for evidence of explosives or any other kind of sabotage.”

García bolted to do as he had been ordered, holding his yellow hard hat. Craig gestured to the others. “Jackson, Goldfarb, go take the admin offices, make sure somebody’s in every room. Keep a tally.” He directed the three policemen and the park ranger to take other levels inside the warren of tunnels within the dam and the cliffside, the upper machinery rooms and the hydroelectric stations.

Craig himself took the main generating floor. The echoing chamber was like an enclosed football stadium, an airplane hangar filled with horizontal turbines each the size of a circus tent, thrumming and whirring. The Colorado River poured through spiral intake pipes that spun flywheels. Atop each generator, a white light indicated which turbines operated and which ones sat idle.

Craig moved uneasily, walking across the sealed cement floor. The sound of his footsteps vanished in the throbbing vibration of the turbine generators. The vast room had the atmosphere of a high-tech haunted house. He felt as if someone might be there, watching him, though García claimed to have accounted for all of his employees.

Craig crept slowly around, studying the turbines, looking for any sign of tampering, loose access plates, boxes or packages that could have been explosives. He didn’t know what he expected to find, but he had to keep moving. He glanced at his watch once more.

After he had circled the third generator and bent toward the fourth, he saw a man emerge from one of the many tunnels that connected elevator shafts, access halls, and river bypass tubes. The stranger wore the jumpsuit and hardhat of a dam worker, but he moved with a furtiveness and quickness of purpose that did not mesh with someone just going about his daily duties.

Craig stepped out of his hiding place, withdrawing his 9-mm handgun and his badge. “Federal agent,” he shouted. “FBI. Remain where you are, sir.”

The stranger stepped backward and froze, then he spun into action. Though Craig had been prepared, he didn’t react fast enough when the stranger snatched a small revolver from inside his overalls, c****d it, and fired in a single swift motion.

Craig dove behind the shelter of the turbine. He heard the man running, heavy work boots echoing in a humming background of main generators.

Pulse pounding, Craig snapped up his own Beretta, but the stranger fired quickly three times in succession. Bullets ricocheted off the curved metal hulls of the hydroelectric turbines; one bounced with a high-pitched whine from the solid stone wall.

Craig cautiously peered around the curve of the tall turbine, ready to jerk back, hoping he could react fast enough the moment he saw a muzzle flash. The terrorist knew his location, but Craig had lost track of where the stranger had fled, where he might be hiding. He yanked out his walkie-talkie. “Goldfarb, Jackson, all officers—I need backup down at the main generator room. I’ve found our customer.”

As the others rapidly acknowledged, Craig switched off the speaker; it wouldn’t do to have a squelch of static or an unwelcome voice coming at the wrong time.

The tunnel was empty now, and Craig couldn’t tell if the terrorist had ducked back through the labyrinth of passages, or if he had hidden himself somewhere in the cavernous main generator room.

Craig hustled cautiously, keeping low. By the book, he should have called out and demanded that the man surrender—but those procedures were better left for fairy tales. This man wouldn’t surrender unless he had absolutely no other chance. Fanatics were fanatics, whatever the motivation.

He heard a scuffed footstep, saw a steel-toed work boot—then the man sprinted out the open doorway to the outside at the base of the dam, by the spillway and the turbine outflow that became the churning tailrace beyond the generators. Perhaps the terrorist had a getaway vehicle among those parked on the narrow access road.

Craig ran after him, dumping caution now that the suspect had fled outside. He did not dare let the militiaman slip away.

Sunshine dazzled him for a moment, but Craig didn’t waste time with sunglasses. He blinked repeatedly, trying to focus as he rushed blindly forward. The militiaman had turned right, racing down the asphalt access way. As Craig rounded the corner, he saw the suspect duck behind a twelve-foot-high transformer.

The terrorist popped out from cover again and fired. Craig shot back, but both bullets missed. He dove behind one of the generators, spooked by DANGER—HIGH VOLTAGE signs mounted on the machinery. The high-tension wires suspended across the canyon contained more electricity than he ever wanted to touch.…

Craig glanced between the steel tie-downs that held the transformer machinery in place against the canyon wall. He debated waiting for his backup—but by that time the man might have slipped away. He clicked his walkie-talkie. “This is Kreident. I’ve got him at the transformers. Hurry.”

Craig dashed away from the big transformer and slipped between the next two, advancing on his quarry. He made another jump and scrambled behind the transformer.

The militiaman fired once at him as he peered out, but Craig waited an extra second. He knew he was getting closer. His own handgun remained drawn. He took the time to put his sunglasses on now, so the light would not dazzle him when he leaped back out of the shadows.

“You can’t get away, sir!” Craig shouted, his words carrying above the loud buzz of the transformers and the vibration communicated through the rock wall from the spinning turbines.

The militiaman didn’t answer. After what Craig hoped was an unexpected interval, he bolted out again, trying to go around two more stations in the row of transformers—but the terrorist had been waiting for him, taking no cover whatsoever, standing out in broad daylight, his revolver pointed directly at Craig’s chest.

Craig dove to one side as the man shot once. The bullet came close enough to burn through the sleeve of his jacket. He felt a sting, but didn’t think he had been seriously injured. But he was totally vulnerable, dead in the man’s sights … and the terrorist did not hesitate. The man followed him with his weapon—

Craig shot while rolling on the ground. His bullet spanged off the metal transformer behind the terrorist, causing him to spin about, smacking his wrist into the machinery. The weapon clattered to the ground, and the militiaman scrambled for it as Craig fired again at his feet. A white starburst of ricochet blossomed on the concrete by the scuffed work boots.

Craig steadied his own Beretta. “Hands up! Move it!” He had the man helpless, unable to do anything … except surrender.

“Let’s just take this from the top, sir,” Craig said. His voice was even, professional, uninflected. He had learned to be calm, never to lose his cool even in a standoff such as this. “You are under arrest—and you, are going to tell me exactly what you’ve done to sabotage the dam.”

The militiaman looked at him with an astonished expression. Craig was amazed at how … average the man looked. Medium height, medium build, mousy brown hair, plain features—not handsome, but not ugly. He was the sort of man who worked in every out-of-the-way gas station, in every hardware store, any service industry where the customers forgot their helpers moments after leaving the store. He could move about anywhere without being noticed. No doubt that was just what the Eagle’s Claw had intended.

Except now this man had been caught in the main generator room of Hoover Dam, shooting at an FBI agent. The terrorist’s eyes took on a glazed look as if he had somehow been programmed with a different routine. “It’s too late. The bomb’s already set and ticking. You’ll never find it in time.”

“Yes, I will,” Craig said, striding forward and extending his gun, “because you’re going to tell me where it is.”

The militiaman took a step backward, blocked by the deep river channel and churning cold water pouring through the bottom of the dam. Across the canyon Craig saw the concave plane of concrete, a barrier holding back Lake Mead. If that dam broke in an explosion, the stampede of water would reach all the way to Mexico in a few hours. Hundreds of thousands of people could die—and Craig had no time for kid gloves.

“You’re going to tell me, and you’re going to tell me now.” Craig’s voice carried sufficient threat and absolute certainty—but the man took another step backward. His face turned grayish, resigned.

“You’re already in dreamland, man, if you think I’m going to tell you squat.” He glanced over his shoulder and saw the churning water below, the rushing Colorado River that swept through the canyon.

“You’ve got no place to go,” Craig said.

“I can go to Heaven,” he answered.

Craig lunged for the terrorist, but the man leaped backward over the edge, falling down. He struck the rocky wall once, leaving a reddish stain, and then plunged into the rushing tailrace, which sucked him under before sweeping him downstream.

Finally, moments too late, Jackson, Goldfarb and the others charged out onto the service road next to the conversion transformers.

Craig stared over the edge at the roiling water, gaping in disbelief at what the terrorist had just done. But the shock paralyzed him for only a few seconds before a greater horror struck. He turned and ran toward the others.

Now he knew the bomb was ticking. And with the militiaman dead, they had very little chance of finding it in time.