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 stated crisply, forcing himself to stop fidgeting for just a moment. “We… received a note.”
The FBI had kept 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 the 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 Garcia. 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. Garcia?” 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.”
Garcia 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. Garcia,” 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.”
Garcia bolted to do as he had been ordered, holding his yellow hardhat. 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 Garcia claimed to have accounted for all of his employees.