Clear Water, Hidden Danger

Chapter 1 – Another Day at Clear Water

By 0800, the hum of the plant was off key. Most people wouldn’t hear it, but I’d been listening to that same vibration for years. It was like hearing someone breathe wrong in the dark.

The sun broke through wet clouds, slicing across the gravel road in narrow beams that lit puddles silver. The air carried that mix of metal, wet earth, and chlorine that told you exactly where you were. Another day at the Clear Water Plant.

Before this, I wore a different badge—five years in Douglas County Corrections, CO II by the time I left. Spent years walking concrete tiers, learning how fast calm turns violent. Before that came two decades of Pentagon contract work—good money, too many ghosts. Stafford AFB, US StratCom, brought me to the Midwest. Now, as Security Supervisor at the Clear Water Plant, this was supposed to be the quiet chapter. Fewer doors slamming. Fewer men behind glass. A place to breathe.

The guard shack sat alone near the main gate, a square box of faded paint and tired equipment. From my seat I could see most of the compound through the thick glass. I wasn’t just a bored guy behind a desk. The county licensed me as armed plant security — sidearm holstered, cuffs on the belt, badge visible on my jacket. It changed the way people looked at me, and the way I looked at trouble. The control building stood at the center, a gray block ringed by silver tanks that gleamed like giant drums.

Employees rolled in one by one, headlights cutting through the fog. They scanned their proximity cards against the reader by the turnstile — a quick beep, a green flash, and the gate clicked open. Some stopped to chat through the window, usually about coffee, weather, or Mark’s latest memo. Others just waved and kept moving, earbuds already in, faces blank from the early shift.

Dave’s truck rolled up beside the shack. He leaned out the window with that same half grin.
“Morning, RJ.”

“You’re early.”

“Definitely against my will. Mark wants those reports redone again. Says the formatting’s off. Give it twenty minutes and he’ll ask how to fix his own mistake.”

“Like always,” I said.

Dave laughed, tapped his truck, and drove off toward the building. Everyone knew he kept this place running. Mark only thought he did.

Sharon’s car followed behind his, slowing near the gate. She paused for a second, head tilted like she was listening to something no one else heard. Then she frowned and kept driving through.

I keyed the mic. “Control, this is Security One. Do you copy?”

Static answered — a hiss long enough to raise the hair on my neck — then the usual chatter came back like nothing had happened.

The shift settled into rhythm. Trucks came through the gate, badges beeped, radios murmured with tank levels and bad coffee jokes.

Routine keeps you sane in this job — until the day it doesn’t.