When they reached the table, Bruce grabbed a cream soda and popped the top. "You all packed and ready to go?"
Grant smiled at mention of the trip. His luggage was packed for a flight that evening. "Yeah, as ready as you can be." He sorted through the sodas, and picked out a Diet Coke.
"How late are you guys leaving?" Bruce asked.
"Nine," Grant said.
This was a trip Grant was really looking forward to. The flight would take him first to JFK, then Paris, and then Nairobi, Kenya. After that it would be small propeller planes and cars to the dam site on the Tana River. Unfortunately for Grant, elephants would not be necessary, since there were actually paved roads to the site.
Since all the big rivers in the United States were already dammed, most of Reclamation's engineering work was now done in foreign countries. The Bureau consulted around the world on how to harness water resources. This particular trip to Kenya was a weeklong international symposium on dam building. Engineers, including Grant, would be attending from many of the giant projects around the globe, including the most impressive dam of all, the Three Gorges Dam in China. Grant had traveled to foreign countries before for business, but never a trip of this magnitude.
"You cleaned and oiled your rifle yet?" Bruce had a large smile on his face.
"Yeah right, like I could get a rifle through customs."
After the symposium in Kenya, Grant would vacation for an additional week around Kenya and into Tanzania. Who knew when or if he would ever get to Africa again? Bruce had been joking with him for weeks about going on a safari and shooting some big game, which he just might do. If he did, though, it would be with a loaner rifle, as he certainly had no intentions of trying to check his deer rifle in and out of airport security, border crossings, and customs.
Bruce laughed. "If you get me a Black Rhino head, I'll hang it on my living room wall."
Grant smiled at the image. He saw himself in customs with his hands cuffed behind his back, the unwrapped head of the endangered black rhino sitting on his luggage. But even as the image faded, another replaced it of seeing animals like the rhinos, elephants, zebras, and lions in their natural habitat. What an opportunity, an opportunity that comes only once in a lifetime. He was excited about the symposium itself too. Where else would he get to talk to engineers about real dam projects like Three Gorges? Certainly not in Denver.
Bruce frowned. "I can't believe Howard didn't try to horn in."
Grant scanned the crowd for his new boss and thankfully couldn't see him. "Even Howard knows he'd be out of place in Africa with a bunch of civil engineers at a dam symposium."
It was the first time in Grant's career he had reported to someone younger than him. But age was the least of Howard's problems. Historically, the Bureau's management consisted of civil engineers like Grant, who had worked their way up through the system. Howard, however, was a spy, and everyone knew it. In the U.S. government, the Bureau of Reclamation fell under the Department of the Interior. And Howard had come from Interior six months before. He was neither recruited nor interviewed. At the Bureau, it was inconceivable to become a manager without an engineering degree. But, by the early eighties, as the Bureau became less engineering oriented and more water management oriented, managers with MBAs had become the norm. Yet, Howard was neither an engineer nor a businessman. His education was the worst sort of training for actually accomplishing anything in life — he was a lawyer. The rumor was that a Senator had arranged for his position, one who wanted to find out how the Bureau of Reclamation worked, then gut it. Nobody at the Bureau seemed to know who the mystery senator was, but they knew that when the gutting started, Howard would be the one pointing the knife.
Life had been hell since Howard came aboard. He knew nothing about dams and water management. Worse, he came with the pre-conceived notion that everything the Bureau did was wrong. He ridiculed and scoffed at everything. Most frustrating, however, was that upper management seemed unaware or unconcerned. They let him roam through middle management unencumbered, allowing him to hand out endless busy-work and make decisions that could only be described as uninformed. Management either did not notice, did not care, or were afraid to do anything about the work efficiency problems or drop in morale.
Bruce reached over and scooped some salted nuts from a bowl. "Yeah, but I'm still surprised they left him in charge while they're gone. Roland should know better than that."
Roland Blackwell occupied the top position in the Bureau, the Commissioner. Besides managing most of the dams in America, and the Denver office, Roland flew back and forth across the country securing political support and funding. But at least Roland had once been a civil engineer, even if he hadn't been very good. Bruce's concern was legitimate — it was inconceivable that the Bureau would leave Howard, the spy, who couldn't build a dam in his flower garden, in charge while everyone was in Africa.
Grant shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Nothing's going to happen while we're gone."
Bruce put up his index finger. "Yeah, but what if it did?"
Grant shrugged. "Like what?" He turned and walked back toward the ledge where the remains of Porcupine Dam were finally becoming more visible through the dust.
Bruce hurried alongside. "Who knows? What if they had a catastrophe at one of the dams? Howard would have no idea what to do."
Grant shrugged. "What kind of catastrophe? The dams are practically automated."
Bruce hesitated, trying to think of something, then smiled. "What if they ran out of grease at one of the generating plants? The friction could damage the turbines."
Grant laughed and started walking again. "Sounds like a perfect job for Howard, greasing the turbines."
When they reached the ledge they stopped and looked at the remains of the dam. Although still partially obscured, it was obvious the precision charges had done a near-perfect job of reducing the concrete dam into a neatly stacked pile of rubble. By the end of the summer most of the debris would be gone, hauled down the canyon in trucks. Then the canyon would look more like it had before, except for the long scars where the dam had butted into the canyon walls.
Grant and Bruce dallied for an hour admiring the scene, eating and mingling. As managers for the Bureau, they had been allowed to attend the decommissioning with the VIPs, but both knew they were not important enough to rub elbows with politicians. That was the job of Commissioner Blackwell and his cronies. It was Grant and Bruce's job to stay out of the way, something Grant was more than happy to do.
After they both ate their fill of the appetizers and finished rehashing the explosion, they started back to their car. A gravel road snaked back and forth through some trees for almost a half mile down to where the cars were parked. They had just started down the road when Grant heard someone call his name.
"Stevens. Stevens. Hang on a second." Grant's boss Howard ran toward them, waving his arms. His forehead protruded and his bushy eyebrows grew together, making him look like he was constantly furrowing his brows.
"Our favorite guy," Bruce whispered.
When Howard got within ten yards of them, he shooed Bruce away with his hand. "Go on ahead Bruce. I need a few words alone with Mr. Stevens."
Bruce gave Grant a consolatory look and then continued walking to the car.
"What's up?" Grant asked, not really caring since he would be gone for the next two weeks.