Power Down (Dewey Andreas Series #1)

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Overview

With gripping, down-to-the-wire action and an electrifying new hero, Power Down is a pulse-pounding read from a stunning new talent.

A hydroelectric dam blows up and the largest off-shore oil field in the hemisphere is destroyed, killing legions of Americans and bringing the country?s largest energy company to its knees. Among the survivors lies a mysterious oil platform worker and America?s best hope for retribution: Dewey Andreas, a former ...

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Overview

With gripping, down-to-the-wire action and an electrifying new hero, Power Down is a pulse-pounding read from a stunning new talent.

A hydroelectric dam blows up and the largest off-shore oil field in the hemisphere is destroyed, killing legions of Americans and bringing the country’s largest energy company to its knees. Among the survivors lies a mysterious oil platform worker and America’s best hope for retribution: Dewey Andreas, a former Army Ranger and Delta who is dead-set on following the trail of the terrorists.

“Coes pumps new heat, blood, and flat-out action into [this] frighteningly plausible thriller.”—Publishers Weekly

As intelligence and law enforcement agencies scramble to untangle the Capitana disaster and unearth those responsible, the mysterious figure of Alexander Fortuna—an agent embedded into the highest levels of American society and business—sets into play the next of many long-planned assaults on the U.S. economic infrastructure. Now it’s up to Dewey to put a stop to him…before it’s too late.

 “Big, vivid, and authentic, at times even breathtaking. An impressive debut for Ben Coes. I was blown away.”—David Morrell, New York Times bestselling author of The Naked Edge and creator of Rambo

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Coes pumps new heat, blood, and flat-out action into a well-worn premise--terrorists are out to break America by attacking its energy resources--in his frighteningly plausible thriller debut. One target is Capitana, an American oil rig located in the Pacific off the coast of Colombia. Rigger gang chief Dewey Andreas, a former Delta officer, fights back and succeeds in saving many lives, but the oil platform is destroyed. At the same time, Canada's Savage Island Project, the largest hydroelectric dam in North America, is blown up, killing hundreds and destroying a vital link in the U.S.'s energy production. Behind these schemes and with many more to come is Manhattan billionaire Alexander Fortuna, who will stop at nothing to destroy America, a country he was taught as a child to loath. Abetting Fortuna is a despicable traitor, Vic Buck, director of the CIA's National Clandestine Service. Readers will eagerly await Coes's next effort and hope for Dewey Andreas's return. (Oct.)
From the Publisher
“… Hermann ultimately manages to bring to life a hero who has no hesitation in killing and who is suspicious of nearly everyone who tries to help. Well done, Coes and Hermann both – don’t make us wait too long for the next appearance of this dynamic character. ” – Library Journal Starred Review, Best Audiobooks of 2010

 

 “Peter Hermann's powerful narration—enhanced by sounds of rapid gunfire, explosions, and the moans of victims—is a perfect fit for Ben Coe's debut thriller.” – AudioFile Magazine

Library Journal
This debut thriller from former White House speechwriter Coes (www.bencoes.com)—one of the most visceral, gut-wrenching, blood-soaked, and flat-out brutal novels currently on the market—will have audiences gasping for air right up until the very end. A series of terrorist attacks on American energy resources is driving the country into a state of panic. Only one man, Dewey Andreas, seems to have half a chance at stopping some of the carnage, and he is being simultaneously hunted by the terrorists and the government. Actor/narrator Peter Hermann (Private) reads in a deep, flat voice some listeners may initially find grating but will soon realize is essential to carrying off the intensity this novel demands. They will appreciate, too, that Hermann ultimately manages to bring to life a hero who has no hesitation in killing and who is suspicious of nearly everyone who tries to help. Well done, Coes and Hermann both—don't make us wait too long for the next appearance of this dynamic character. An essential acquisition. [The St. Martin's hc was recommended for fans of Vince Flynn and Brad Thor, LJ 8/10.—Ed.]—Joseph L. Carlson, Vandenberg Air Force Base Lib., Lompoc, CA
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780312580759
  • Publisher: St. Martin's Press
  • Publication date: 8/16/2011
  • Series: Dewey Andreas Series , #1
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Pages: 640
  • Sales rank: 99,932
  • Product dimensions: 3.98 (w) x 7.60 (h) x 1.03 (d)

Meet the Author

BEN COES is a former speechwriter for the White House, was a fellow at the JFK School of Government at Harvard, a campaign manager for Mitt Romney’s 2002 Gubernatorial Campaign. Power Down is his first novel. He lives with his family in Wellesley, Massachusetts. Visit him on the Web at www.bencoes.com.

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Read an Excerpt

POWER DOWN

(Chapter 1:CAPITANA TERRITORYPACIFIC OCEANAT 290 MILES OFF THE COAST OF COLOMBIA)

A hundred miles above the equator, a day's trip by boat from the nearest land, in a place where ocean currents collide beneath a vast horizon of black water and starry sky, a 1,500-foot double flame helix smoldered furiously from the cap end of an alloy gas fountain.

It was midnight. The flames could be seen for miles in all directions, interrupting the desolate waters in spectacular orange and black clouds. Though the billowing smoke and fire had the appearance of chaos, they were in fact controlled blazes created by the western hemisphere's largest offshore oil platform, burning off the lighter layer of natural gas that floated like helium above the denser, more valuable petroleum that the $8 billion rig had been built to extract.

This was Capitana Territory, the largest oil strike ever outside of the Arabian Peninsula, a 68 billion barrel reservoir—a "megagiant" in oilman's terms—beneath a section of seabed off the western coast of South America. It was discovered less than a decade before by a medium-sized Texas oil company called Anson Energy, now a juggernaut even among the largest energy companies in America.

A tall bearded man with the name ANDREAS stitched to his denim shirt observed the flame stacks from the steel deck below. His brown hair was long, tousled, and hadn't seen shampoo for days. Startling blue eyes and a sharp, tanned nose pierced out from behind a mess of mustache and overgrown beard. This was a handsome man who didn't care what he looked like, or what his crew thought. He finished a cigarette and flicked it down into the dark ocean below the platform.

If this had been a paper mill in the forests of Maine, Dewey Andreas would have been called plant manager. At a steel mill in Pennsylvania, he'd have been called gang boss. But this was an offshore oil rig, and the four hundred and twenty roughnecks who lived and worked here around the clock, faces and clothing layered in grease, salt, sweat, and oil, called Dewey gang chief. Or simply "Chief."

Most of the roughnecks on Capitana didn't like Dewey Andreas, but they all respected him. On the rig his word was law. Dewey had gotten his oil-drilling education in northern Europe, on the rickety, death-defying derricks off the bitter cold North Sea shelf. He ran Capitana like a U.S. Marine colonel runs a battalion during wartime, with uncompromising discipline, rapid-fire decisiveness, and absolute autonomy. Dewey's eyes told his men that he wasn't about to put up with shit from anyone. He backed up that look with a pair of massive arms, muscled from years of hard platform work, buoyed by a pair of fists that were ready and willing to be put to use in the constant challenge every gang chief on every offshore oil rig in the world faces: keeping the animals at bay.

Dewey didn't tolerate weakness, imperfection, laziness, or insubordination. If you crossed him, you could expect to pay for it with your job, or worse. Rumors circulated among the men about Dewey's capacity for brutality and violence. Still, the pay was extraordinary for the uneducated collection of ruffians who worked Capitana Territory.

The platform Dewey stood on was the central superstructure for all of the territory. The facility itself was a massive industrial city of pipes, metal, ladders, and controlled flame stacks that rose on thick steel stilts out of the dark waters of the Pacific Ocean like a centaur.

In the distance, a series of more than thirty smaller, unmanned tension leg platforms dotted the landscape. These "mini-TLPs" fed into the central Capitana facility and helped create a steady gusher of oil ready for transport to refineries throughout North America. Capitana was the central juncture in a spiderlike network of pipes that lay across more than a hundred and forty square miles of seabed some six hundred feet below the ocean's surface. More than two thousand insertion pipes spread out across the dark and cold seabed below. It was through these pipes that a crude, dense, and immensely valuable mixture of natural gas and oil bubbled up and coursed into the central pumping station beneath Capitana, where it was separated, then pushed upward to the surface.

Capitana's interweaving pipes, flare booms, and steel decking looked like a monstrous erector set. The flames never ceased. Yet Dewey found something peaceful in the dense orange inferno. The flames told Dewey that his rig was performing.

He walked to the marine deck and stared at the flame stacks one last time before heading inside to his office. He was tired but wanted to look at throughput reports before they were sent off to corporate headquarters in Dallas. These monthly reports tracked the volume of oil pulsing out of the Capitana reservoir.

The November throughput report for Capitana Territory showed why the field was so critical. In the thirty-day November cycle, Capitana had produced 54.6 million barrels of oil. This meant annual throughput of approximately 650 million barrels. The average per barrel extraction-to-market expense was $19 for other oil companies. Dewey's men could do it for $11—an $8-per-barrel cost savings. That $8 along with oil prices averaging $55 per barrel meant net profits of more than $7 billion from Capitana Territory this year. That $8 bought Dewey a lot of leeway in the way he was allowed to run his rig.

It was past midnight. Dewey watched as the confirmation ticker from the fax came through, indicating that his reports had made it to Anson headquarters in Dallas, landing on the desk of a man he'd never met named McCormick.

He reached behind him and took a book off the shelf, a thick, hardcover edition of Moby-Dick that he kept with him. He'd never actually read it, but he kept it with him because behind it he could hide a bottle of Jack Daniel's. He unscrewed the cap and took a large gulp. In a minute or two, he thought, he would head to his adjoining cabin for the night.

On the shelf below, a small wooden frame held a grainy black-and-white photograph. He hadn't looked at the photo in a long time. He glanced at it, looked away, then took another large swig from the bottle. Slowly and against his better judgment, he picked up the photograph and put the whiskey down.

Holding the frame in his left hand, he wiped the dust away from the glass with his right elbow. The photo showed a much younger Dewey with a pretty blond-haired woman and a young boy. Behind them, a large, ornate sign read DISNEYLAND. A statue of Mickey Mouse stood to the side. The boy sat on Dewey's lap, a big smile on his freckled face. The edges of his mouth were decorated with the remnants of a chocolate ice-cream cone.

Dewey had a military uniform on, his Ranger tab visible on his shoulder, white thread around its edges, before he'd been asked to try out for Delta. His hair was cut short, his large arm wrapped around his young wife. She looked tiny against him; protected, beautiful, and happy.

Dewey didn't like to think about his past. Most of the time he didn't have to. He went about his work and when thoughts of his old life crept in he simply worked himself and his men harder. More than a decade had passed since it all ended, and he'd spent those years working as hard as he could physically to escape what haunted him mentally. The sight of his old uniform always jolted him, a combination of intense pride and deep hatred, hatred for what they'd done to him, the crimes he'd been falsely accused of, and for the small-minded people who'd driven him from Delta, from the armed forces, from the country he loved. He'd learned to blot it out, to erase the memories, the history, everything, from his mind.

Oil had been his savior; oil and the anonymous, brutal Darwinism that was the life of a platform man.

He took his big, callused right index finger and rubbed it across the small black-and-white face of the boy in the photograph. He held the frame close to his face, a couple of inches from his nose. Robbie was so young then. He was so perfect. He loved Robbie like he'd never loved anything in his life. He thought of how he used to hold his young son, with the boy's head on his arm and his legs in his hands. Dewey closed his eyes. He could almost feel Robbie there with him.

With his other hand, he picked up the bottle and took another swig, then put it down. He walked to the other side of the small office. He placed the bottle on the desk and sat down in the metal chair. In front of him, he held the photo, staring. A gentle smile, the first in a long time, creased the edges of his mouth as he looked at the grainy photo of what was once his family. He closed his eyes one more time and tried to remember. It had been so long; the memories were harder and harder to find.

A sudden noise came from the deck. Shouting. He stood up, walked down the corridor to the deck, and opened the large steel door that led to the outdoors.

On the deck, men were gathering quickly. In the middle of the crowd, two roughnecks were squared off against each other. The fight had already begun. The crowd around the edge of the fight numbered more than twenty and was growing, the yelling getting louder as the roughnecks egged the fighters on. One of the men in the fight was Jim Mackie, a drill team manager who'd worked Capitana for years. Dewey had hired Mackie after working alongside him on a British Petroleum platform in the North Sea. The other man was a young tanker guide from Egypt named Serine.

Mackie and Serine were squared off, Serine's nose and chin flowing blood. Serine was shirtless. His muscles, like most of the workers aboard Capitana, were ripped. A silver knife appeared in Serine's hand and flicked forward, leaving a large gash in Mackie's thigh. Blood coursed down Mackie's leg to the crimson-splattered deck. Around the two combatants, the crowd continued to grow quickly. By the time Dewey reached the outer edge of the scrum, at least fifty men had gathered.

Dewey pushed his way through to the center of the human ring. As he came to the front, he encountered resistance as men fought to hold their prime place at the edge of the fight.

The crowd was excited and tense, hyped by the fight's rising stakes. As Dewey pushed through, a big man on his left turned quickly in anger. Seeing that it was Dewey, he recoiled and moved aside. The man next to him, an even stockier roughneck, didn't bother to look; he felt Dewey nudge his arm and swung on him. Dewey caught the dirty fist with his right hand. With his left he hammered a fast, crushing blow into the man's rib cage. The man doubled over in pain, but managed to return a blow to Dewey's stomach. Dewey did not even flinch. He delivered another shot with his left as he held the roughneck's fist in his right. This swing landed dead-center on the man's nose, collapsing it and sending him down for good.

The cheering grew louder. Serine had drawn blood again, laying Mackie's cheek open with his blade.

Serine had been hurt as well. His nose looked badly damaged and his left arm was clearly broken, hanging awkwardly at his side. Blood trickled from his left ear, an injury to the head that made him stumble dizzily as he moved.

Dewey had learned long ago to let fights go. It was better to let tensions on the rig settle once and for all than to let them fester, only to explode later on. It was the promise of physical harm, after all, that kept an oil platform stable, not meddling from a supervisor. But this fight would end soon. Mackie was covered in his own blood, the wound on his cheek gaping and wide. Dewey could see the edge of his cheekbone. Serine looked desperate, circling like a maimed animal bent on survival. Dewey stepped forward, toward the two fighters, to break it up. But as he did, Serine's arm flew up wildly at Mackie. Before Mackie could dodge, the knife entered his throat at the larynx. The bigger man stumbled back and away, his chest already soaked in scarlet gushing from the opening in the throat. Mackie attempted in vain to stop the flow and fell to the deck.

As Dewey reached him, Mackie's legs kicked the ground in violent spasms and he began to lose consciousness. Dewey quickly applied pressure to the neck wound, but it was futile, blood gurgled from Mackie's mouth as he struggled to speak.

"A rag, Chief," said one of the men from behind Dewey, handing him a dirty blue cloth.

Dewey stuffed it into the wound and maintained the pressure, but it was no use.

"It's okay," Dewey lied to Mackie. "You're gonna be okay."

Mackie's eyes fluttered and found him. He tried to say something. Dewey leaned closer, his ear inches from the dying man's lips.

"Sally." Mackie coughed. "I love her."

"I know." Dewey's mind flashed on Mackie's wife, back in Cork. "I'll tell her."

Mackie shut his eyes for a moment. He was fading quickly. Then his eyes opened and he moved his lips again.

"Serine," he gurgled. "I found something."

Dewey cradled Mackie's head and stared into the fading gray pools of his eyes. "It's all right, Jim."

Mackie jerked his head back and forth, using the last of his energy. "I found . . ."

"What?" Dewey asked.

"It's them. On the rig . . . they're here." Mackie's voice trailed off and his eyes shut for the last time.

POWER DOWN Copyright© 2010 by Ben Coes

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First Chapter

Power Down


By Ben Coes

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 2010 Ben Coes
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9780312580742

1.
CAPITANA TERRITORY PACIFIC OCEAN AT 290 MILES OFF THE COAST OF COLOMBIA
A hundred miles above the equator, a day's trip by boat from the nearest land, in a place where ocean currents collide beneath a vast horizon of black water and starry sky, a 1,500-foot double flame helix smoldered furiously from the cap end of an alloy gas fountain.
It was midnight. The flames could be seen for miles in all directions, interrupting the desolate waters in spectacular orange and black clouds. Though the billowing smoke and fire had the appearance of chaos, they were in fact controlled blazes created by the western hemisphere's largest offshore oil platform, burning off the lighter layer of natural gas that floated like helium above the denser, more valuable petroleum that the $8 billion rig had been built to extract.
This was Capitana Territory, the largest oil strike ever outside of the Arabian Peninsula, a 68 billion barrel reservoir-a “megagiant” in oilman's terms-beneath a section of seabed off the western coast of South America. It was discovered less than a decade before by a medium-sized Texas oil company called Anson Energy, now a juggernaut even among the largest energy companies in America.
A tall bearded man with the name andreas stitched to his denim shirt observed the flame stacks from the steel deck below. His brown hair was long, tousled, and hadn't seen shampoo for days. Startling blue eyes and a sharp, tanned nose pierced out from behind a mess of mustache and overgrown beard. This was a handsome man who didn't care what he looked like, or what his crew thought. He finished a cigarette and flicked it down into the dark ocean below the platform.
If this had been a paper mill in the forests of Maine, Dewey Andreas would have been called plant manager. At a steel mill in Pennsylvania, he'd have been called gang boss. But this was an offshore oilrig, and the four hundred and twenty roughnecks who lived and worked here around the clock, faces and clothing layered in grease, salt, sweat, and oil, called Dewey gang chief. Or simply “Chief.”
Most of the roughnecks on Capitana didn't like Dewey Andreas, but they all respected him. On the rig his word was law. Dewey had gotten his oil-drilling education in northern Europe, on the rickety, death-defying derricks off the bitter cold North Sea shelf. He ran Capitana like a U.S. Marine colonel runs a battalion during wartime, with uncompromising discipline, rapid-fire decisiveness, and absolute autonomy. Dewey's eyes told his men that he wasn't about to put up with shit from anyone. He backed up that look with a pair of massive arms, muscled from years of hard platform work, buoyed by a pair of fists that were ready and willing to be put to use in the constant challenge every gang chief on every offshore oil rig in the world faces: keeping the animals at bay.
Dewey didn't tolerate weakness, imperfection, laziness, or insubordination. If you crossed him, you could expect to pay for it with your job, or worse. Rumors circulated among the men about Dewey's capacity for brutality and violence. Still, the pay was extraordinary for the uneducated collection of ruffians who worked Capitana Territory. 
The platform Dewey stood on was the central superstructure for all of the territory. The facility itself was a massive industrial city of pipes, metal, ladders, and controlled flame stacks that rose on thick steel stilts out of the dark waters of the Pacific Ocean like a centaur.
In the distance, a series of more than thirty smaller, unmanned ten¬sion leg platforms dotted the landscape. These “mini-TLPs” fed into the central Capitana facility and helped create a steady gusher of oil ready for transport to refineries throughout North America. Capitana was the central juncture in a spiderlike network of pipes that lay across more than a hundred and forty square miles of seabed some six hundred feet below the ocean's surface. More than two thousand insertion pipes spread out across the dark and cold seabed below. It was through these pipes that a crude, dense, and immensely valuable mixture of natural gas and oil bubbled up and coursed into the central pumping station beneath Capitana, where it was separated, then pushed upward to the surface.
Capitana's interweaving pipes, flare booms, and steel decking looked like a monstrous erector set. The flames never ceased. Yet Dewey found something peaceful in the dense orange inferno. The flames told Dewey that his rig was performing.
He walked to the marine deck and stared at the flame stacks one last time before heading inside to his office. He was tired but wanted to look at throughput reports before they were sent off to corporate headquarters in Dallas. These monthly reports tracked the volume of oil pulsing out of the Capitana reservoir.
The November throughput report for Capitana Territory showed why the field was so critical. In the thirty-day November cycle, Capitana had produced 54.6 million barrels of oil. This meant annual throughput of approximately 650 million barrels. The average per barrel extraction-to-market expense was $19 for other oil companies. Dewey's men could do it for $11-an $8-per-barrel cost savings. That $8 along with oil prices averaging $55 per barrel meant net profits of more than $7 billion from Capitana Territory this year. That $8 bought Dewey a lot of leeway in the way he was allowed to run his rig.
It was past midnight. Dewey watched as the confirmation ticker from the fax came through, indicating that his reports had made it to Anson headquarters in Dallas, landing on the desk of a man he'd never met named McCormick.
He reached behind him and took a book off the shelf, a thick, hardcover edition of Moby-Dick that he kept with him. He'd never actually read it, but he kept it with him because behind it he could hide a bottle of Jack Daniel's. He unscrewed the cap and took a large gulp. In a minute or two, he thought, he would head to his adjoining cabin for the night.
On the shelf below, a small wooden frame held a grainy black-and-white photograph. He hadn't looked at the photo in a long time. He glanced at it, looked away, then took another large swig from the bottle. Slowly and against his better judgment, he picked up the photograph and put the whiskey down.
Holding the frame in his left hand, he wiped the dust away from the glass with his right elbow. The photo showed a much younger Dewey with a pretty blond-haired woman and a young boy. Behind them, a large, ornate sign read disneyland. A statue of Mickey Mouse stood to the side. The boy sat on Dewey's lap, a big smile on his freckled face. The edges of his mouth were decorated with the remnants of a chocolate ice-cream cone.
Dewey had a military uniform on, his Ranger tab visible on his shoulder, white thread around its edges, before he'd been asked to try out for Delta. His hair was cut short, his large arm wrapped around his young wife. She looked tiny against him; protected, beautiful, and happy.
Dewey didn't like to think about his past. Most of the time he didn't have to. He went about his work and when thoughts of his old life crept in he simply worked himself and his men harder. More than a decade had passed since it all ended, and he'd spent those years working as hard as he could physically to escape what haunted him mentally. The sight of his old uniform always jolted him, a combination of intense pride and deep hatred, hatred for what they'd done to him, the crimes he'd been falsely accused of, and for the small-minded people who'd driven him from Delta, from the armed forces, from the country he loved. He'd learned to blot it out, to erase the memories, the history, everything, from his mind.
Oil had been his savior; oil and the anonymous, brutal Darwinism that was the life of a platform man.
He took his big, callused right index finger and rubbed it across the small black-and-white face of the boy in the photograph. He held the frame close to his face, a couple of inches from his nose. Robbie was so young then. He was so perfect. He loved Robbie like he'd never loved anything in his life. He thought of how he used to hold his young son, with the boy's head on his arm and his legs in his hands. Dewey closed his eyes. He could almost feel Robbie there with him.
With his other hand, he picked up the bottle and took another swig, then put it down. He walked to the other side of the small office. He placed the bottle on the desk and sat down in the metal chair. In front of him, he held the photo, staring. A gentle smile, the first in a long time, creased the edges of his mouth as he looked at the grainy photo of what was once his family. He closed his eyes one more time and tried to remember. It had been so long; the memories were harder and harder to find.
A sudden noise came from the deck. Shouting. He stood up, walked down the corridor to the deck, and opened the large steel door that led to the outdoors.
On the deck, men were gathering quickly. In the middle of the crowd, two roughnecks were squared off against each other. The fight had already begun. The crowd around the edge of the fight numbered more than twenty and was growing, the yelling getting louder as the roughnecks egged the fighters on. One of the men in the fight was Jim Mackie, a drill team manager who'd worked Capitana for years. Dewey had hired Mackie after working alongside him on a British Petroleum platform in the North Sea. The other man was a young tanker guide from Egypt named Serine.
Mackie and Serine were squared off, Serine's nose and chin flowing blood. Serine was shirtless. His muscles, like most of the workers aboard Capitana, were ripped. A silver knife appeared in Serine's hand and flicked forward, leaving a large gash in Mackie's thigh. Blood coursed down Mackie's leg to the crimson-splattered deck. Around the two combatants, the crowd continued to grow quickly. By the time Dewey reached the outer edge of the scrum, at least fifty men had gathered.
Dewey pushed his way through to the center of the human ring. As he came to the front, he encountered resistance as men fought to hold their prime place at the edge of the fight.
The crowd was excited and tense, hyped by the fight's rising stakes.
As Dewey pushed through, a big man on his left turned quickly in anger. Seeing that it was Dewey, he recoiled and moved aside. The man next to him, an even stockier roughneck, didn't bother to look; he felt Dewey nudge his arm and swung on him. Dewey caught the dirty fist with his right hand. With his left he hammered a fast, crushing blow into the man's rib cage. The man doubled over in pain, but managed to return a blow to Dewey's stomach. Dewey did not even fl inch. He delivered another shot with his left as he held the roughneck's fist in his right. This swing landed dead-center on the man's nose, collapsing it and sending him down for good.
The cheering grew louder. Serine had drawn blood again, laying Mackie's cheek open with his blade.
Serine had been hurt as well. His nose looked badly damaged and his left arm was clearly broken, hanging awkwardly at his side. Blood trickled from his left ear, an injury to the head that made him stumble dizzily as he moved.
Dewey had learned long ago to let fights go. It was better to let tensions on the rig settle once and for all than to let them fester, only to explode later on. It was the promise of physical harm, after all, that kept an oil platform stable, not meddling from a supervisor. But this fight would end soon. Mackie was covered in his own blood, the wound on his cheek gaping and wide. Dewey could see the edge of his cheekbone. Serine looked desperate, circling like a maimed animal bent on survival. Dewey stepped forward, toward the two fighters, to break it up. But as he did, Serine's arm flew up wildly at Mackie. Before Mackie could dodge, the knife entered his throat at the larynx. The bigger man stum¬bled back and away, his chest already soaked in scarlet gushing from the opening in the throat. Mackie attempted in vain to stop the flow and fell to the deck.
As Dewey reached him, Mackie's legs kicked the ground in violent spasms and he began to lose consciousness. Dewey quickly applied pressure to the neck wound, but it was futile, blood gurgled from Mackie's mouth as he struggled to speak.
“A rag, Chief,” said one of the men from behind Dewey, handing him a dirty blue cloth.
Dewey stuffed it into the wound and maintained the pressure, but it was no use.
“It's okay,” Dewey lied to Mackie. “You're gonna be okay.”
Mackie's eyes fluttered and found him. He tried to say something. Dewey leaned closer, his ear inches from the dying man's lips.
“Sally.” Mackie coughed. “I love her.”
“I know.” Dewey's mind flashed on Mackie's wife, back in Cork. “I'll tell her.”
Mackie shut his eyes for a moment. He was fading quickly. Then his eyes opened and he moved his lips again.
“Serine,” he gurgled. “I found something.”
Dewey cradled Mackie's head and stared into the fading gray pools of his eyes. “It's all right, Jim.”
Mackie jerked his head back and forth, using the last of his energy. “I found . . .”
“What?” Dewey asked.
“It's them. On the rig . . . they're here.” Mackie's voice trailed off and his eyes shut for the last time. 
2.
SAVAGE ISLAND PROJECT LOWER NUNAVUT, CANADA ON THE COAST OF THE LABRADOR SEA
Two continents away, more than four thousand miles to the north, in a remote part of Canadian frontier, the roar of turbines in North America's largest hydroelectric facility joined gale force winds in an overwhelming wall of sound.
A lone man atop the great dam clenched a cigarette and struggled to get his lighter to work. A yellow patch with the word white written on it was sewn into the right chest of a heavy-duty, bright orange Patagonia winter parka. On the left chest of the coat, the letters kkb spread austerely in black thread.
It was past midnight. Jake White stood at the precipice of the three-thousand-foot wall of granite and steel and looked out at the black waters of the Labrador. He took a drag on his cigarette. He smoked too much, he knew, but he'd already lived enough for two men, having survived for so long in this monster of his own creation. Savage Island Project, White's audacious vision, had beaten and bloodied him, not into submission, but into an altogether different state of mind. He'd beaten himself into a place even more desperate and lonely, a place you go not when defeated but after you've accomplished all you've set out to do and there's nothing left.
For two long decades, Savage Island Project had been his singular obsession, the pursuit of which had destroyed his marriage, his relationship with his two sons, and any ties he'd had with life back in Ohio. But  here he remained, surrounded by the noise. It penetrated the air with a steady pulse of metallic friction, penetrated it, then surrounded it and pulsated down, then back up; it was everywhere. This was the din that results when you build a wall of cement, granite, and steel more than half a mile high, in a place it's not supposed to be, an awe-inspiring spectacle designed to hold back endless waters meant to flow free. This was the deafening, inhuman sound of man triumphing over nature; of turbines and technology; of all that you must create when you decide to build a wall whose sole purpose is the taking of God's waters for society's use, for a company's profits, for power.
This was the roar of Savage Island Project, the largest hydroelectric facility in North America, a $12.5 billion monolith constructed over a punishing decade in the far northeastern reaches of Canada, in the Nunavut, 575 miles from the last outpost of modern civilization.
Savage Island Project was everything and more than White had dreamed it could be, a massive powerhouse of perpetually renewable electricity. It generated enough energy to power a large section of the eastern United States. Enough energy to make its builder, KKB of New York City, the second-largest energy company in America.
Savage Island had been White's idea, and no one had agreed with him. Not his brother. Not his wife. None of the corporate jackasses at com¬pany headquarters. Nobody except for Teddy Marks, at the time a young KKB executive. He had believed. He'd convinced his bosses. Now the dam was complete. Marks was CEO. And the jackasses were gone.
And the noise was everywhere.
As he stood atop the dam, upon an iron stanchion that served as the observation deck, White glanced for a moment behind him, at the outflow area where the water poured in a controlled river after passing through one of the two hundred jet engine-sized turbines of the dam. It was an amazing sight, a full half mile above the man-made dark harbor below. Its edges were lined by a spectrum of small white houses built for the six hundred permanent Savage Island workers and their families.
White turned from the calm waters below back to the unruly sea. It was an astonishing contrast, the ordered valley spread out behind the dam, and the angry Labrador Sea whose whitecap crests pounded at the granite of the dam not more than fifty feet below where he stood. It was this contrast, between man and nature, between unbridled chaos and controlled order, that had come to him some twenty years ago in a waking dream.
He was a manager at KKB's Perry Nuclear Power Plant outside of Cleveland. He'd written his idea down one month after returning from a fishing trip to the Nunavut, near Frobisher Bay, a brutal stretch of rocky coastline at the edge of the Labrador Sea that suddenly notched southward in a unique rivulet more than a mile wide near a stretch of rocks known as the Lower Savage Islands. White had written it down on a napkin as he sat eating lunch in the cafeteria one bland, forgettable day at work.
Now it was real.
White shook his head, took a last drag on the cigarette, and flicked the stub of it into the wind. He walked to the end of the granite walkway that crossed the apex of the dam to the entry door that would take him to the operations center. It was nearly 1:00 a.m. He'd take a last look at turbine performance data before he took the elevator down and then walked to his house in the village below.
As he reached for the door, a solitary figure stepped from the shadows. White looked up, momentarily startled as the dark figure moved swiftly to his left. A hand thrust out, too quickly for him to react or to even begin to understand that he was being attacked.
The assailant grabbed him by his left hand. Twisting with trained, precise force, the killer pulled his arm behind his back and snapped it. The sound of White's scream was loud enough to rise momentarily above the noise of the dam. But it was soon muffled by the killer's gloved hand covering his mouth. Pushing him to the edge of the deck, the killer dropped White's broken left arm and moved his gloved hand to his leg. White tried to fight but it was useless. The man lifted him up. With a grunt, he hoisted him to the railing. His right arm slipped off of White's mouth.
“No!” White screamed. He twisted his head around and tried to get a glimpse of the man. He clawed with his one good arm but only scratched air. His struggles were in vain. In the dull light, he saw a face. Oh, my God, he thought. Recognition came in the same instant he understood he was about to die.
With a last grunt, the killer brought White to the edge of the deck and forced him over the brink. The ocean pounded violently against the dam, close enough to soak both men with spray. The killer let White fall. Screaming helplessly, the architect of Savage Island dropped into the watery oblivion.


Continues...

Excerpted from Power Down by Ben Coes Copyright © 2010 by Ben Coes. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Customer Reviews

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 163 Customer Reviews
  • Posted October 13, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    Awesome!!!

    This book was so fast paced and action packed with lot's of suspense and thrills that I couldn't put the book down. It is definitely a book the reader will be talking about for quite a while afterwards. I am very happy to have won such a great book on Goodreads book give-away. Big thumbs up to Ben Coes and I look forward to his next title.

    5 out of 5 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted September 7, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    non-stop action of terrorists attacking energy sources

    "WOW" is the first word I can think of for Power Down. Ben Coes keeps the action going so fast and furious that the reader has to look behind to be sure no one is following him or her. The story is very plausible with the energy problems of our world and with so many searching for an alternative to oil, coal, and nuclear sources. When one of the largest oil fields in the world, Capitana, in the Pacific Ocean, suffers a complete terrorist disaster, followed by one of the largest sources of electricity, the Savage Island project in Canada, being obliterated, the governments of the world know there is deep trouble ahead for their energy. What and who wiped out these huge sources of energy so easily and so completely without any warning?

    Almost immediately the Asian workers were suspected, separated, and in some cases isolated to another location. The onsite head of the Capitana's project, Dewey Andreas, had been a rough, tough Delta member of the military and Dewey took no guff from his crew. But, being so experienced working with all kinds of men, he could easily sense when something was wrong. He kept as close an eye on the troublemakers as he could but the Asians just wanted to fight and, on a huge oilrig such as Capitana, there was no shortage of others that would fight back. All this trouble preceded the obliteration of the entire platform with Dewey and others fighting to save every life possible after the inferno. The Savage Island project was having many personnel problems also. When information was discovered that it was going to be obliterated, Terry Savoy, one of the project heads, ordered evacuation of the entire area while some employees searched for the bomb or whatever was the apparatus that was the danger.

    The fifth largest energy company in the world, Anson Energy, was "not for sale" declared Nicholas Anson no matter who wanted to buy it and no matter the sale price. KKB Corporation wanted Anson Energy and made an offer that Anson couldn't pass up. Ted Marks, head of KKB, and Anson became close friends after the buyout. It seems money does talk! Both companies seemed to form a perfect fit since both were committed to produce energy from United States sources only. No more imported oil when production got going full blast.

    Who was trying, and seemingly succeeding in destroying these huge projects and hurting American energy sources? Who was capable? I can't possibly write in the same descriptive way that the author did in producing all of the above action. The danger to all those involved in the investigation got worse every day. All of the United States government agencies entered the search for anything connected to what was ongoing. An attempt was made on Marks and Anson's life giving Dewey the suspicion that someone was a mole in the government since so many things were going awry in the investigation. Of the many agencies involved in the investigation of what had already occurred and the fear of what might happen, the trust level was down to zero not knowing who was giving or selling information that was giving away the whereabouts of the onsite investigators and where they were next headed.

    Several characters the reader might take into their trust but still doesn't know if they were choosing properly. The President of the United States would meet with the top leaders and tell them to find out fast who was causing the losses and stop them all. You will meet, among others, Jessic

    5 out of 10 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 21, 2012

    Outstanding!

    With a story that is plausible and terrifying the hero is a welcome mix of a painful past and an interest in only one thing - getting the job done. Can't wait to read #2! Thank you for a well researched and thought-provoking book Mr. Coes.

    3 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 20, 2011

    Awesome

    I loved this book. Can't wait to read next one. If you like vince flynn or lee child you will love ben coes.

    3 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 3, 2013

    Just OK.

    You'll need a spreadsheet to keep track of all the characters. Apparently the author couldn't decide which of the many characters he wanted to be the hero so he devoted equal time to several of them. In sevetal spots you'll wonder where the main character (Dewey Andreas) is and what he's doing. I won't be back for more from this author.

    2 out of 5 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted September 1, 2012

    Action packed

    This book reminded me a lot of vince flynn's mitch rapp series. Full of action and excitement. If you like the rapp series you'll like tgus book.

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted January 16, 2012

    GREAT READ

    If you like military amd suspense, you will love this book! Mixture of Jack Ryan and Lucas Davenport blended with constant action of real world scenarios.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 24, 2013

    Awesome

    Awesome book. I loved this book and can't wait to read more from Coes. If you are a Vince Flynn,Marc Cameron, Brad Thor, or John Gilstrap fan, I definitely recommend this book.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 8, 2013

    A great read for anyone who enjoys action novels.

    A great read for anyone who enjoys action novels.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 5, 2013

    Highly recommend

    I really enjoyed this fast paced and timely novel and have also read the next two books in the series. Great Hero!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 4, 2013

    A Must Read

    Cover to cover this one was hard to put down.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 3, 2013

    A great--and scary--read!

    Power Down is action-packed and very readable because much of it could be happening right now. It was hard to turn off my Nook because I was really into the story. I look forward to Dewey Andreas' next adventure.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted June 21, 2013

    Highly Recommend

    I am in the midst of reading this book. I have his other books and have "Eye for an Eye" on preorder. I like his hero Dewey Andreas. He is an American Hero and we could sure use more true American Heroes in today's world. I have also read his other books. They are all very interesting and exciting. I have not been bored reading Ben's Coe's books and look forward to buying more.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 19, 2012

    Van

    Hey babe. U wanna be my innocent maid girl?he winks.( the maid charector is 13 and innocent )

    1 out of 11 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted July 18, 2012

    Highly recommended for those who love action thrillers

    Great first introduction of Dewey Andreas, simply a marvelous character. The book cannot be put down. Certainly on par with Vince Flynn (and that says a lot), James Rollins, Robert Crais, Michael Connelly and so forth. What more can one say? Read it. You'll become addicted. Spent so much time in the bathroom reading my backside hurts!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted July 17, 2012

    Excellent read

    Thoroughly enjoyed the book, exciting and a new American hero.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 17, 2012

    Highly Recommended

    Excellent & exciting!! Vince Flynn you have a buddy.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted June 25, 2012

    You won't put it down

    One the best books I've read this year.

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted April 17, 2012

    Not for the faint hearted.

    This new author's first book is a winner if you are looking for an American hero. I simply couldn't put this down. Reminiscent of Vince Flynn and Brad Thor with a little of Tom Clancy thrown in, this exciting book will have you holding your breath while burning through the pages. The book is NOT some futuristic plot, as the events could definitely happen here. Wonderful characters: both the good ones and the extremely bad ones. You'll love this book, if you like your heroes bold,capable and lethal.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted February 15, 2012

    MUST READ .

    I WAS BLOWN AWAY, COULD NOT PUT THIS BOOK DOWN. BEN COES HAS A NEW FAN, VINCE FLYNN LOOK OUT.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 163 Customer Reviews

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