Michael Palmer: A Heartbeat Away

To my editor at St. Martin’s Press, Jennifer Enderlin, and to my agent at the Jane Rotrosen Agency, Meg Ruley.

How blessed can a writer be?

When writing a novel, help comes in many, and often unexpected, ways.In addition to my editor and agent (see the dedication), deepest thanks to:

Dr. David Grass, neurology

Dr. Geoffrey Sherwood, hematology/oncology

Dr. Connie Mariano, White House medicine

Paul Weiss, power specialist

Robin Broady, LICSW

Jessica Bladd Palmer

Pilot Dave Pascoe

Steve Westfall, biocontainment

And to my main men always and forever:

Daniel, Luke, and Matthew, the McGuffin Guy

To anyone I might have missed, thank you, too. Promise I’ll catch you next time.

1. Vice President

2. Speaker of the House

3. President Pro Tempore of the Senate

4. Secretary of State

5. Secretary of the Treasury

6. Secretary of Defense

7. Attorney General

8. Secretary of the Interior

9. Secretary of Agriculture

10. Secretary of Commerce

11. Secretary of Labor

12. Secretary of Health and Human Services

13. Secretary of Housing and Urban Development

14. Secretary of Transportation

15. Secretary of Energy

16. Secretary of Education

17. Secretary of Veterans’ Affairs

18. Secretary of Homeland Security

The last thing Eddie Gostowski was thinking about on Thursday evening, the twenty-second of May, was that he was going to die.

For the first hour or so of his 11 P.M. to 7 A.M. shift as a security guard for the NYISO power distribution giant, he had been thinking about the Yankees, and wondering if they had enough pitching to win the American League East Division again. For the second hour, he had debated whether to buy flowers or candy this year for his beloved Mary’s sixtieth birthday.

Eddie had been patrolling this particular control facility for most of the eleven years the New York Independent System Operator had been in existence, and nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened—absolutely nothing … not once. He understood his job and he understood what was at stake should the NYISO somehow shed its entire load at once—a massive blackout of almost indescribable proportions, engulfing everyplace from Albany to New York City and Long Island. It was his job, along with others in the chain of virtually fail-safe checks and balances, to ensure such a disaster never occurred.

But nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened at his control facility—absolutely nothing … not once.

As he had every night at this time, Eddie set a timer for fifteen minutes and prepared to take a nap. But first, one last check of things. It took him a few seconds to realize that several of his gauges had gone out of whack. The unmanned substations serving Marcy to Albany and Albany to Leeds had gone off-line.

Curious.

Eddie began ticking off all the possible explanations for the weird happening, and came up with little. If the gauges were right, and there was no way they could be, there was no longer any power going to the capital district, which surrounded and included Albany.

Still more bewildered than alarmed, Eddie moved to his left. His equipment told the same story for other substations. Dunwoodie to Long Island and Ravensbrook in Queens had also been tripped. Goethals and Farragut, controlling the power to large portions of New York City, was down as well. Assuming the readings were all correct, the whole system was unstable, and the largest city in the country was on the verge of something massive and horrible.

Eddie’s first move was a call to the nearest manned station 150 miles north in Albany. Seven rings and an answering machine.

Even an explosion at the facility in Albany would not cause this sort of power loss. Since its inception, NYISO had been closing loopholes in its system to the point where an almost inconceivable number of events had to occur simultaneously to cause any major degree of problems.

But incredibly, those events were happening.

As far as Eddie could tell, his control station was now the only thing standing against a blackout that would engulf most of eastern New York including Long Island and the five boroughs of New York City.

He raced to the phone, got the emergency number of the FBI from a chart on the wall, and began dialing.

That was when he felt the point of a knife press against the back of his neck.

“Set the receiver down, sport,” a man’s husky voice said in an accent that sounded British.

The knife point felt as if it were going to slice straight into Eddie’s spine.

“P-please. That hurts.”

“What’s your name, sport?”

“Eddie. Eddie Gostowski. Please.”

“I’m going to lower the knife, Eddie, but unless you do exactly as I say, you’re a dead man. Got that?”

“Yes.”

“I SAID, HAVE YOU GOT THAT?”

“Yes! Yes! Now pl—”

“Okay, sport, we don’t have much time. You’re going to turn around and look me in the eye. If you fuck with me in any way, any way at all, I’m going to slit your throat. Is that clear? Okay, now swing around.”

Eddie did as he was ordered. Towering above him was a man—six foot three, maybe more, with shoulders that seemed to block out the room. He was dressed in black—watch cap, jeans, and a turtleneck—with black greasepaint covering his face. His eyes were dark and cold. In his hand was a bowie knife—broad and curved at the tip—ten inches long at least.

Behind the man and to his right, arms crossed, feet apart, stood a second man in identical dress and greasepaint.

As frightened as he was, Eddie couldn’t get the notion out of his head of the disaster that would ensue should the brownout that was already in effect be allowed to progress. As if responding to his thoughts, the big man placed the tip of the bowie knife beneath Eddie’s chin and lifted his face up.

“No arguing with me now,” he said. “I want you to use whatever you have here to trip this unit off-line.”

“But—”

The huge man drew the razor-sharp blade across Eddie’s gullet like a violin bow, slicing open a shallow gash from one side of his jawbone to the other.

“I said don’t argue with me, sport! Now, do as I tell you and you won’t be hurt any more. Mess with me and you’ll die in pieces, and we’ll still find the trip switch to take this place off-line.”

He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and passed it to Eddie to stanch the flow of blood.

Shakily, Eddie crossed to the adjacent room, hesitated, and then threw the trip. Instantly, the substation went black. Moments later, a generator kicked on and the lights returned.

“Anything else we need to do?” the big man asked the other.

“All four teams have reported in. No problems at all.”

They motioned Eddie back into the control room and down onto his chair.

“That your emergency line, sport?” the man asked, gesturing to a red wall phone.

“Yes,” Eddie managed, continuing to put pressure on the gash. The handkerchief was sodden with blood.

“Is it monitored?”

“Yes, but with the blackout I’m not sure anyone is there.”

“I’m sure this call will be recorded, though, right? I said, ‘RIGHT?’ ”

“R-right.”

“Okay, then. This the number?”

“Yes.… Yes, sir.”

Only then did Eddie realize the man was wearing latex gloves.

The intruder fished out a sheet of paper from his back pocket and unfolded it. Then he dialed. Eddie could hear the taped message go on. At the beep, the man held up the paper and read, with some unevenness, what was typed on it.