Wet Desert: Tracking Down a Terrorist on the Color

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Lloyd reached the helicopter first and the turbine was already starting before Grant climbed into his seat. Lloyd flipped switches on the dashboard. When Grant pulled on his headphones he heard Lloyd talking. "Vegas Tours calling Channel 4 News. Do you read?"

"We read you, Vegas Tours," they responded.

"Do you currently have visual on the water?" Lloyd asked.

By now the rotors were turning fast enough to blur. Visibility was obscured by sand being blown in every direction.

"Negative, Vegas Tours; four miles was only an estimate from when we―" Grant heard another voice from the news helicopter, a woman's voice. "I can see it. Over there."

The first voice came back, "Affirmative, Vegas Tours. We now have visual on the floodwater. Looks to be about 2.5 miles northwest of here."

The helicopter lifted off. After they climbed out of the swirling sand, Grant saw that most of the protestors were loaded into the dune buggies. One of the vehicles had already turned around and faced east. Grant searched the northwest horizon as they gained altitude. The glare from the sun setting over the mountains on the west made it difficult to see. Finally, Grant noticed what looked like a gray line across the top of the sand. "It doesn't look like it's two miles away to me," said Shauna from behind. "More like a mile and a half, or less."

Grant pointed at the flood line. "Let's fly over it. I wanna see it." The helicopter accelerated in response.

"Vegas Tours, this is Channel 4 News." It was the woman's voice. "We couldn't help but notice the FBI coveralls. Can we assume that your party is affiliated with the U.S. government?"

Grant covered his mouthpiece with his hand. "Can they hear everything we say?"

Lloyd shook his head. "Not unless we hit the transmit button."

Grant didn't want to tell the reporter they were official government, especially since it wasn't true. Then again, he didn't want to say they weren't either. A "no" answer, coupled with their sighting of Agent Williams, would communicate some sort of secret mission. The last thing he wanted them to think was that the mission was confidential. It was a sure way to guarantee being broadcast nationwide immediately.

"Vegas Tours, this is Channel 4 News, do you copy?"

Grant swiveled and looked behind at the special agent. "What can I say to get her off our back? She knows we're government."

She stared back at him and shrugged. "I don't know. Denying it could be even worse."

Lloyd spoke. "How about you play it down a little? Tell 'em you're just inspecting damage or something."

Grant looked at Agent Williams and she shrugged again and held out her hands. Why hadn't he thought to make her change or something? That was the second time the FBI coveralls had sent the wrong message. It was a little hard to sneak into Mexico anonymously with an agent in uniform. He turned back into his seat and removed his hand from the microphone. Lloyd pointed to a transmit button on the dash.

Grant pressed the button. "Channel 4 News, we read you."

The woman came back immediately. "You are a US government party, correct?"

Grant could imagine her with her notebook and pencil ready. He wished he had a written statement in front of him. Ad-libbing didn't seem like the way to go on this one. He pressed the button. "We are on an inspection mission only. We're here in an unofficial capacity."

Silence, then, "Can I ask you a few questions?"

Lloyd shook his head. Grant agreed. "Negative, Channel 4. We are not at liberty to talk with the media." Grant grinned; that felt good.

"Mind if we tag along for a while?" she asked.

Grant looked and saw the news helicopter was already following them. "How do I get rid of her?"

"You want me to try and lose 'em?" asked Lloyd, grinning.

Grant stared at him. "Is that possible?"

"Sure. This thing's got way more horses than theirs. I should be able to out run 'em in a straight line, without even swerving around. Besides, they can't go too fast with that cameraman hanging out the door."

"Okay. Let's do it, then."

Lloyd banked and headed east. Grant noticed that they had dropped and were now only about ten or fifteen feet off the ground, traveling at an alarming rate.

"Vegas Tours, this is Channel 4, where are you headed?"

"We need to look around over on the east side," responded Grant.

Grant lifted his hand off the transmit button and looked over at Lloyd, who was in deep concentration. "Why are we so low?"

Lloyd responded without moving his eyes from below. "Just in case they've got radar."

"Vegas Tours, we are unable to keep pace with you." It was the pilot's voice.

Grant smiled at Lloyd, but remained focused ahead.

"How long will it take?" asked Grant. The speed felt comfortable when he wasn't looking down. But looking down made him sick. He imagined Lloyd sneezing and the landing gear digging into the sand, consequently flipping the helicopter into endless summersaults of wreckage.

"Just a few more minutes," said the pilot, without looking up.

Grant realized his hands hurt from clenching the sides of his seat. He forced them to relax. The helicopter swerved right and he clenched the seat again. Lloyd headed south at the same speed and altitude for a while. After a few minutes he swerved again, turning back west into the sunset. "Vegas Tours, we've lost you. Please give us your location," begged the newswoman, but they could hear the lack of hope in her voice.

Grant wasn't even tempted to respond, nor did he think they expected it. He saw that the sun had now dipped completely below the mountains. It would be dark in less than a half hour. The group sat in silence as the helicopter flew into the sunset.

8:40 p.m. - The Colorado River Delta, Mexico

The skinny man looked at the mountains to the west. The sun had already set and the sparse clouds contrasted ever so slightly with the dim orange sky behind them. He sat on the sand, propped back against a tire of his four-wheeler. Where was the water? He had over-estimated its speed. It should have reached him already. And he should be on the way back to his truck. The thought of it arriving after dark scared him. He might get caught in it.

He couldn't wait much longer. His four-wheeler had no lights. Not that it would've done any good in this desert, since there wasn't anything for them to illuminate. He scanned the sky for the moon, but saw nothing. He hadn't even brought a flashlight.

Something had been worrying him for the past half hour. When he drove out on the delta, he almost missed the lagoon. When he headed back in the dark, how could he possibly find his truck? Just a few degrees off and he would miss it by miles. And he would have no way of knowing whether he'd aimed too far north or south.

He craved another drink, but there was precious little water remaining. It had to be saved. He had spent enough time in the desert to know that things could get worse before they got better.

He pulled himself up and clomped in the boots over to the edge of the lagoon. The water was gone; only dry mud remained. This observation startled him until he remembered the lagoon was connected to the ocean. The explanation was simple enough; the tide had gone out in the last forty-five minutes. But it had gone so quietly he hadn't even heard it. He looked north and wondered if he would hear the floodwater approaching. Maybe not, he realized. All the more important to keep his eyes focused. With the sun already down, it would get dark fast, making it harder to see.

He walked back to the four-wheeler, vowing to wait only a few more minutes. The thought of having to leave before seeing the water arrive made him angry. After all he had done in the last two days, and after so many months of preparation, he deserved to see it. He deserved to take his time and frolic in the water, to feel it running between his fingers, and taste it. He licked his dry fingers as the fantasy passed through him. In hindsight, he should have detonated the bomb at Glen Canyon a couple hours earlier; it would have given him the time he needed.

Walking back to the four-wheeler, he stopped. What was that sound? He cocked his head. There, very soft, almost imperceptible. It wasn't a water sound, though. It sounded more like a broom being dragged through sand, a kind of swishing noise. His head shot up and he scanned the northern horizon. At first he saw nothing, only the endless gray sand. Then he noticed the top of the gray was alive — moving toward him. All at once he knew he had made a terrible mistake. This was much more water than he had anticipated. The entire horizon was pulsating. He sprinted to the four-wheeler and jumped on. He swiveled out the kick-starter and started kicking as hard and fast as he could. The engine turned over, but wouldn't fire. His heart raced. Not now. How could this be? He suddenly remembered the ignition switch between the handlebars. He turned the key and started kicking again. This time it almost took, then nothing. Had he flooded it? He gave it full throttle and kicked it twice to clean it out, then released the throttle and kicked again and it finally fired.

Looking back over his shoulder he saw the water less than 50 yards away. He slammed it in gear and gave it some throttle. As the quad took off, he felt the helmet and goggles, which he had left sitting on the rear rack, roll off the back. He considered stopping for them, but decided it wasn't worth it. It would soon be too dark for goggles anyway. He headed west toward his truck, knowing that the water would soon intercept him. But he couldn't resist. He had to see it. So he veered north toward the oncoming flood. He reached it almost immediately and veered southwest to stay just ahead of it.