Forty thousand volts wasn't much and it would be tricky to move it through feeder lines, which were meant for about a third that much voltage.

Somebody else was able to bring some juice down from Connecticut.

The voltage indicator bars continued to rise but more slowly now.

Maybe they had this under control. "More!"

But then the woman stealing power from the Bronx said in a choking voice, "Wait, the transmission's reduced itself to twenty thousand. I don't know why."

This was happening throughout the region. As soon as a tech was able to bring in a bit more current to relieve the pressure, the supply from another location dried up.

And all of this drama was unfolding at breathtaking speeds.

700 million miles an hour…

And then yet another red circle, another bullet wound. Critical failure. MH-13 offline.

A whisper: "This can't be happening." MH-12 offline. NJ-18 offline. MH-17 offline. MH-13 offline. RR to affected service areas from MH-10.

This was the equivalent of a huge reservoir of water trying to shoot through a single tiny spigot, like the kind that squirts cold water out of a refrigerator door. The voltage surging into MH-10, located in an old building on West Fifty-seventh Street in the Clinton neighborhood of Manhattan, was four or five times normal load and growing. The circuit breakers would pop at any moment, averting an explosion and a fire, but returning a good portion of Midtown to colonial times.

"North seems to be working better. Try the north, get some juice from the north. Try Massachusetts."

"I've got some: fifty, sixty K. From Putnam."

"Good."

And then: "Oh, Jesus, Lord!" somebody cried.

The supervisor didn't know who it was; everybody was staring at their screens, heads down, transfixed. "What?" he raged. "I don't want to keep hearing that kind of thing. Tell me!"

"The breaker settings in Manhattan-Ten! Look! The breakers!"

Oh, no. No…

The circuit breakers in MH-10 had been reset. They would now allow through their portal ten times the safe load.

If the Algonquin control center couldn't reduce the pressure of the voltage assaulting the substation soon, the lines and switchgear inside the place would allow through a lethally high flood of electricity. The substation would explode. But before that happened the juice would race through the distribution feeder lines into belowground transformer boxes throughout the blocks south of Lincoln Center and into the spot networks in office buildings and big high-rises. Some breakers would cut the circuit but some older transformers and service panels would just melt into a lump of conductive metal and let the current continue on its way, setting fires and exploding in arc flashes that could burn to death anybody near an appliance or wall outlet.

For the first time the supervisor thought: Terrorists. It's a terror attack. He shouted, "Call Homeland Security and the NYPD. And reset them, goddamn it. Reset the breakers."

"They're not responding. I'm locked out of MH-Ten."

"How can you be fucking locked out?"

"I don't-"

"Is anybody inside? Jesus, if they are, get them out now!" Substations were unmanned, but workers occasionally went inside for routine maintenance and repairs.

"Sure, okay."

The indicator bars were now into the red.

"Sir, should we shed load?"

Grinding his teeth, the supervisor was considering this. Also known as a rolling blackout, shedding load was an extreme measure in the power business. "Load" was the amount of juice that customers were using. Shedding was a manual, controlled shutdown of certain parts of the grid to prevent a larger crash of the system.

It was a power company's last resort in the battle to keep the grid up and would have disastrous consequences in the densely populated portion of Manhattan that was at risk. The damage to computers alone would be in the tens of millions, and it was possible that people would be injured or even lose their lives. Nine-one-one calls wouldn't get through. Ambulances and police cars would be stuck in traffic, with stoplights out. Elevators would be frozen. There'd be panic. Muggings and looting and rapes invariably rose during a blackout, even in daylight.

Electricity keeps people honest.

"Sir?" the technician asked desperately.

The supervisor stared at the moving voltage indicator bars. He grabbed his own phone and called his superior, a senior vice president at Algonquin. "Herb, we have a situation." He briefed the man.

"How'd this happen?"

"We don't know. I'm thinking terrorists."

"God. You called Homeland Security?"

"Yeah, just now. Mostly we're trying to get more power into the affected areas. We're not having much luck."

He watched the indicator bars continue to rise through the red.

The vice president asked, "Okay. Recommendations?"

"We don't have much choice. Shed load."

"A good chunk of the city'll go black for at least a day."

"But I don't see any other options. With that much juice flowing in, the station'll blow if we don't do something."

His boss thought for a moment. "There's a second transmission line running through Manhattan-Ten, right?"

The supervisor looked up at the board. A high-voltage cable went through the substation and headed west to deliver juice to parts of New Jersey. "Yes, but it's not online. It's just running through a duct there."

"But could you splice into it and use that for supply to the diverted lines?"

"Manually?… I suppose, but… but that would mean getting people inside MH-Ten. And if we can't hold the juice back until they're finished, it'll flash. That'll kill 'em all. Or give 'em third-degrees over their entire bodies."

A pause. "Hold on. I'm calling Jessen."

Algonquin Consolidated's CEO. Also known, privately, as "The All-Powerful."

As he waited, the supervisor stared at the techs surrounding him. He kept staring at the board too. The glowing red dots.

Critical failure…

Finally the supervisor's boss came back on. His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and after a moment said, "You're supposed to send some people in. Manually splice into the line."

"That's what Jessen said?"

Another pause. "Yes."

The supervisor whispered, "I can't order anybody in there. It's suicide."

"Then find some volunteers. Jessen said you are not, understand me, not to shed load under any circumstances."

THE DRIVER EASED the M70 bus through traffic toward the stop on Fifty-seventh Street near where Tenth Avenue blended into Amsterdam. He was in a pretty good mood. The new bus was a kneeling model, which lowered to the sidewalk to make stepping aboard easier, and featured a handicapped ramp, great steering and, most important, a rump-friendly driver's seat.

Lord knew he needed that, spending eight hours a day in it.

No interest in subways, the Long Island Railroad or Metro North. No, he loved buses, despite the crazy traffic, the hostility, attitudes and anger. He liked how democratic it was to travel by bus; you saw everybody from lawyers to struggling musicians to delivery boys. Cabs were expensive and stank; subways didn't always go where you wanted to. And walking? Well, this was Manhattan. Great if you had the time but who did? Besides, he liked people and he liked the fact that he could nod or smile or say hello to every single person who got on his vehicle. New Yorkers weren't, like some people said, unfriendly at all. Just sometimes shy, insecure, cautious, preoccupied.

But often all it took was a grin, a nod, a single word… and they were your new friend.

And he was happy to be one.

If only for six or seven blocks.

The personal greeting also gave him a chance to spot the wackos, the drunks, the cluck-heads and tweakers and decide if he needed to hit the distress button.