Chapter 35 - The Gatehouse Ambush
The mountain road terminated at a heavy steel security barrier half a mile below the crest of the dam.
The security gate was already splintered into kindling. A county utility truck was overturned in the ditch, its tires smoking and windshield spider-webbed with rifle fire.
"Keep your heads down!" Miller barked over the tactical radio as Harlan skidded our truck behind an outcropping of gray granite.
Up ahead, through the mist rising from the reservoir's spillway, three black tactical SUVs sat idling on the dam’s intake causeway. Men in unmarked grey combat fatigues and ballistic vests were setting heavy industrial winches near the primary access elevator, their weapons held at low-ready.
"They're private contractors," Miller whispered, peering through his binoculars from behind the cruiser's engine block. "Meridian Logistics—Harrison Bell’s private offshore security division. They aren't just sabotaging the dam, Arthur; they’re using heavy industrial winches to haul the palladium canisters out of the turbine shaft right now."
"They're running out of time just like we are," I said, watching the water level against the dam's upper retaining wall. A thick line of white foam churned violently against the concrete spillway lip. The water was only four feet from cresting the emergency rim. "The reservoir is at capacity. If they don't get those containers up within twenty minutes, the lower chambers will flood and drown whatever is down there."
"And if they blow the primary sluice to relieve pressure behind their salvage rig, the valley washes out," Lily added, her fingers flying across her tablet screen as she intercepted the local telemetry. "Look at the pressure differential! The main intake valve is registering twelve thousand PSI above rated tolerance. The digital interlock has been hard-coded to reject any remote command."
"We can't take them in a straight firefight," Harlan whispered, gripping his iron bar. "There are at least eight of them, all armed with short-barrel carbines."
"We don't have to fight all eight," I said, pointing toward the rusted service intake tower eighty yards to the west, hanging precariously over the dark, churning reservoir. "The old emergency gravity flume. It has a manual service ladder that drops three hundred feet down into the turbine gallery beneath the control house. Bell's men won't be watching it because the hatch hasn't been opened since 1988."
"Does the brass key fit that hatch?" Lily asked.
I pulled the tarnished key from my pocket. On the back of the dog-tag, stamped beneath the 1968 military insignia, was a five-digit serial number: *74-FL-09*.
"It's the maintenance key for Flume Nine," I said. "Miller, you and Harlan create a distraction at the road barrier. Fire enough rounds to keep their heads down and make them think the state troopers have arrived in force. Lily and I will slip down the flume."
"Art, that drop is three hundred feet of rusted rungs in the dark," Harlan said, his voice laced with dread. "If one rung shears under your weight—"
"Then don't let me fall," I answered simply.
Miller nodded, his jaw clenched. "You've got three minutes before I light up their flank. Once you're inside, lock the inner access hatch behind you. Whatever happens, Arthur... don't let that main gate fail."
May you like
I clapped Harlan on the shoulder, grabbed my heavy flashlight, and motioned for Lily. We slipped out of the truck's shadow, crawling low through the cold mountain scrub toward the sheer concrete face where our town’s fate hung by a fraying thread.
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