Grant pulled him up and put the man's arm around his neck. The man grimaced in pain, then looked into Grant's eyes. Grant asked the question that was burning in his mind, although he already knew the answer. "You're him, aren't you? You're the one who's been blowing up the dams?"
The man nodded in affirmative, then his eyes rolled up into his head as if he might pass out. The water was rising quickly and was almost to their waists. The man's eyes came back to life and Grant tried to move him toward the helicopter.
"Hurry!" warned Lloyd from the helicopter.
As Grant dragged the man forward in the rising water, he saw the helicopter moving to meet him. They were close when Grant tripped and both men went down. Grant went under. The water felt gritty. He hoisted himself back to his feet and grabbed the environmentalist again. He wondered how on earth they would be able to get the man to the helicopter, but then noticed that Lloyd had positioned the landing gear right in front of them. The pilot kept the chopper close and dipped the landing gear in the water. Grant grabbed on, and helped the man loop his arms over also. The water behind pressed them against the chopper for a second before Lloyd lifted and both men were pulled out of the water. Although Grant had both arms over the landing gear at his armpits, his body and wet clothing felt heavy and he wondered how long he could hold on.
He looked over and saw the other man was struggling. He had the look of pain in his eyes. Grant shouted to be heard over the noise of the rotors. "Hold on!"
The man nodded, but he didn't look like he could go much longer. He looked back at Grant, and stared for a moment.
Grant repositioned his arm over the other man's shoulder to help. The helicopter smoothly accelerated and they skirted the gray water. Grant wondered if Lloyd could find a place to set them down. He knew he couldn't last very long. He saw the environmentalist's eyes roll into the top of his head again, then his eyelids close for a while. The helicopter jerked and the man's eyes opened and focused on Grant's. Although the noise of the rotors made communication impossible, Grant's eyes and the environmentalist's locked. "Who are you?" Grant mouthed.
The man shook his head. Grant thought his lips mouthed, "It doesn't matter."
Grant agreed. It didn't matter. Although he already knew the answer that all of America wanted to know, Grant asked the question anyway. "Why?"
Grant saw recognition in the other man's face. The man looked down at the black water below the helicopter, then he stared upstream at the blackness that obscured the Colorado River Delta. The man stared back into Grant's eyes and smiled. Not a funny smile, nor an evil or mischievous smile. It was subtle and reserved, and communicated satisfaction and happiness. Grant felt the muscles in the man's arms relax. Grant tensed and stared into his eyes.
"No!" he shouted. "Don't!"
But the man just looked back at Grant. He let himself slip down until he was holding the landing gear with only his hands. Grant lunged and put his arm over the environmentalist's hand. The man stared at Grant for a brief moment, then closed his eyes, and released his grip. Grant tried to hold him so he wouldn't fall. He didn't want to let him go. He didn't want to let him get away. He didn't want him to die. But he felt the man's hand slipping out from under his arm. He grabbed at his wrist, but the dead weight was too much. The man fell, still looking up at Grant, still with that subtle smile, still with those haunted eyes, dropping into the black water below. And then he was gone.
They searched for him. The helicopter swerved back and forth where the man dropped. Lloyd circled, and Special Agent Williams swept the spotlight back and forth. Grant hung on to the landing gear, and focused downward, afraid to blink. But he saw nothing. He knew they wouldn't find him. He was gone. And so finally they gave up. Agent Williams opened the door and encouraged Grant while they flew him to a dry spot where they could land safely. Grant's arms ached from holding on, but he knew he would make it.
Looking down, there was only darkness, an endless expanse of black water, water that might have been in Lake Powell only the day before, and now flowed into the Gulf of California. The fresh water mixing with salt for the first time in seventy-five years.
EPILOGUE
Grant had not been back to Lake Powell since the disaster over two months before. For part of that time he had not been allowed. The two-month stretch since the bombings would always be remembered by him as a period of high highs and low lows, a period when sometimes he hated the world, and other times he could not believe his good fortune.
The previous day, Fred had retrieved Grant from the Las Vegas airport for a day at Hoover, then a drive to Glen Canyon. Hoover had changed dramatically since June when Grant had last seen it. Gone forever was Hoover-Two and the thousands of sandbags that had created her. Gone were the high water levels. Gone were the throngs of National Guardsman. Gone were the FBI special agents in their blue coveralls. All of these had been replaced by a new white high water mark on the rocks around Lake Mead, a testament to the height of the flood that would last for generations.
To Fred's question of whether anything looked different, Grant had responded that it almost looked like nothing had happened at Hoover. Fred had laughed and took Grant to see the spillways. On the way to the Nevada spillway, Grant noticed that two buildings, the snack bar and the gift shop, both which had been on the water side of Hoover-Two, were missing. Fred had explained that the water damage had been severe enough that they would both need to be rebuilt.
The Nevada spillway itself had changed dramatically. The round spillway tunnel dropping into the hillside had been severely eroded. It was no longer round. The concrete had been stripped off the bottom showing exposed jagged rocks. The shape was almost square now, except for the bottom left, which looked like it had a deep tear in it. Deeper in the mountain, Grant could see more places where the concrete was completely gone and where large openings expanded beyond his vision. Inside the concrete retaining walls where Grant had authorized demolition, the ragged concrete edges had been worn smooth by the water. Only a small stream, maybe three or four feet deep, still flowed down the spillway, as the water in Lake Mead had almost dropped below the spillway openings.
Grant asked Fred if the Arizona spillway was worse or better. Instead of explaining, Fred drove him over. Although the erosion seemed less severe inside the spillway itself, the concrete arch bridge spanning the Arizona spillway had been weakened enough to warrant future demolition and replacement.
Fred explained that in a week or two, after the water in the dam had lowered enough to completely dry out the spillways, inspection crews would descend on ropes deep inside. They expected to find huge caverns hollowed out by the forces of the water.
After the tour at Hoover, the two men had headed northeast on I-15 toward St. George, Utah. The two-hour journey and dinner afterwards had given them ample time to rehash the events of the two dramatic days in June. Although Grant had known Fred for years, June had changed their relationship. They were bonded by the experience, and both knew they would be close friends for life.
During the conversation over dinner, Fred asked if Grant had heard from Roland Blackwell. Fred had smiled when he asked the question, knowing the answer. Of course he hadn't heard from Roland, nor would he ever. Roland and Grant had become bitter enemies in the aftermath of those two days. Fred had joked that they should make up and spend Thanksgiving together. Grant laughed and agreed that the only time the commissioner would be allowed in his home would be when Grant had a carving knife in his hand.