Minute Zero

by Todd Moss

  Judd reached the kitchen and filled two mugs, each displaying the White House seal, souvenirs from a recent meeting with the National Security Council staff. He topped off his mug with a splash of milk, but his wife always preferred her coffee strong and black.

  Jessica was his rock. Through all the struggles at work, she had been his support. She’d told him to ignore the passive-aggressive backbiting and just do his job. Beat them by being better than anyone else. Let success be his revenge. That was her philosophy. That, and what she actually said after one particularly frustrating day: “Fuck those guys.”

  Yeah, fuck ’em, he thought. Jessica always knew what to do, always knew the right next move. And how to play it.

  Judd pushed open the bedroom door with his foot, carefully delivering the two coffees. His wife, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, looking fresh and clean despite wearing sweatpants and his faded Amherst College T-shirt, was talking into a headset and nodding into her laptop.

  Jessica had been an agronomist, one of America’s leading experts in drought-resistant crops, before she took time off to stay home with their two young children. She was an authority on growing plants where there was no water, a specialist at finding ways of making something from nothing. Jessica had encouraged Judd’s choice to leave his professorship at Amherst to try his hand at real-world problem solving. She’d gracefully agreed to move from the comforts of central Massachusetts to Washington, D.C. She’d accepted the financial risk to their family, the impact on her own career. But now Jessica was dipping her toe back in the water, working part-time, and Judd wanted to be supportive.

  Judd set down the coffee on the nightstand.

  “Say hi to Papa!” she said, beckoning him onto the bed.

  Judd leaned in and saw on screen the face of his old friend from Mali, Papa Toure. Papa had been on the Haverford Foundation water research team that Professor BJ van Hollen had assembled in northern Mali twelve years earlier. That was when Judd had first met Jessica. When BJ van Hollen had put them all together.

  “Bonjour, Papa. How is everyone?” Judd asked, straining to show some early morning enthusiasm.

  “Ahh, Judd! Good to see you. So strange to see you on the computer!”

  “Not as strange as seeing you talk to Jessica while she’s still in bed.”

  “Oh, Judd,” Papa laughed. “You are a lucky man, yes?”

  “How are things in Mali, Papa?”

  “Everything is calm now. Inshallah. I am hopeful we are back on the right road. I wouldn’t have left Bamako and come to Ethiopia if I was worried.”

  “You’re in Ethiopia?” Judd asked.

  “I told you that he was,” Jessica said, shaking her head.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” replied Judd quickly. “Papa, how is Addis Ababa?”

  “I’m not in Addis. I’m in Lalibela,” Papa replied.

  “There’s no water problem in Addis,” Jessica interrupted. “Papa and I are working together on the clean water and irrigation project in Lalibela. For the Haverford Foundation. Don’t you remember?”

  “Haverford? In Ethiopia?”

  “I told you all of this, Judd. You never listen,” she said, suddenly looking serious.

  “Oh, Judd, I am sorry. I have gotten you in trouble already, yes?” asked Papa, looking overly pleased with himself.

  “Lalibela has those old churches,” Judd said, trying to change the subject.

  “Ahhh, yes, the eleven churches of Saint George are here. Twelfth-century. Carved out of the rock. Judd, you should come see them. You and Jessica together. Bring the boys.”

  “I will, Papa. I’ve never been,” Judd said. Jessica nodded in agreement. “We’ve never been. Is this your first time?”

  “I was here many years ago,” said Papa. “It’s been a long time. Things have changed.”

  “Well, enjoy it while you can,” said Judd, moving out of the screenshot. “Au revoir, Papa.”

  “Au revoir, my friend.”

  Jessica blew Judd a kiss and then turned her attention back to the computer screen.

  As he left the bedroom, Judd stole one last glance at Jessica, her high cheekbones, perfect coffee-colored skin, and bright, dark eyes. Papa was right, in fact. Judd had heard it often: He was a very lucky man. Jessica’s way out of my league.

  Judd closed the door and walked down the hall to check on Toby, who had just turned six, and Noah, their mischievous three-year-old. Thankfully, both were still sound asleep.

  Judd took his coffee downstairs to a stool in the kitchen by the window looking out on the back garden. He checked his BlackBerry again, scrolling through the dozens of messages about overnight events around the world. A Greek bank collapsed. North Korea tested a missile in the Sea of Japan. A British journalist was imprisoned in Moscow. An American tourist committed suicide in Zimbabwe by jumping off a bridge at Victoria Falls. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Time to prepare for his meeting at eight a.m.—and hope it worked.

  2.

  Eastern Highlands, Zimbabwe

  Thursday, 1:12 p.m. Central Africa Time (7:12 a.m. Eastern Standard Time)

  Wang ba!” the operations director shouted, a Chinese insult the old man didn’t understand. “Wang ba! Don’t make me call the army boss man again!”

  The old man, wearing a tattered shirt made of burlap, bowed his head and mumbled a weak apology: “Ndine urombo.”

  “English! Speak English, Wang ba!”

  “Sorry, sorry. I work now,” said the old man, shuffling away.

  The manager stood on the edge of a giant hole, scanning the workers below. They functioned in small teams of six, each working a designated area, the same hierarchical model the company used at its mines in Burma. The youngest member of each team swung a pickax, breaking up the soil and rocks. The second youngest worked the shovel, loading wheelbarrows, while the next three pushed their cargos up the circular paths out of the great hole and to the adjacent sifting camp. The last and always most senior member served as captain, ensuring the team stuck to its designated zone and met its load quota. These captains all reported to the operations director.

  Despite the clear design, the director was not happy. The teams were working too slowly, and his bonus was based on volume. “Lazy,” he scoffed. These workers reminded him of the carpenter ants he had watched as a little boy in his village in northeastern China. The ants he liked to stomp.

  The operations director was also bitter because he knew the real money, the big money, from this mine was being made by his joint partners, the men who watched over him. In well-pressed Zimbabwe National Army uniforms, they hovered over everything, watching from an observation deck outfitted with fans and refrigerated sodas. Like the pit bosses in the casinos of Macao, they scrutinized every detail as teams picked amid the gravel and mud for small specks of light, tiny fragments of compressed carbon. The army made the big money because they controlled the diamonds.

  The military men also, naturally, handled mine security. The ZNA bosses deployed regular units around the perimeter of the mine and along the main road toward town, all the way up to the large roadside sign warning: PROPERTY OF THE EASTERN HIGHLANDS MINING COMPANY: ACCESS RESTRICTED, TRESPASSERS WILL BE PUNISHED. More troops patrolled the border with Mozambique, just a few kilometers away. The boundary was porous and bandits might try to take advantage of the sudden sprouting of extreme wealth. The show of military force was also a deterrent to any domestic troublemakers.

  The best-paid army troops were assigned to protect the airstrip. The sand path cut into the hills of Zimbabwe’s Eastern Highlands was the company’s lifeline into the buying markets of Belgium, Dubai, and Thailand. And because security and exports were essential to their business model, the army held the balance of power.

  The operations director seethed with resentment. Making it worse, his bosses back in Chengdu d
idn’t seem to care, either, as long as the production and sales targets were met. The director’s phone rang. He recognized the number and cursed in Mandarin before answering.

  “It is your partner,” said the deep voice of General Simba Chimurenga on the other end. “How is business?”

  “Slow. I told you already. These boys too slow.”

  Chimurenga laughed. “Zimbabwe is not China, my friend. It is not even Mongolia.”

  “Too slow,” he repeated.

  “I don’t want to hear about your problems. We have more important matters. I need you to double production.”

  “Impossible.”

  “I don’t care how you do it, but I am telling you: You will double production.”

  The director turned to face the giant hole below him and saw one of his excavation teams smoking cigarettes rather than digging. “Wang ba,” he cursed under his breath.

  “What did you say?”

  “Yes, I do it. I need more men.”

  “Not a problem. We can round up more workers. I will have my men sweep the village. I knew I could count on you. I also need you to do something else.”

  “Yes?”

  “This is urgent.”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you listening carefully?” asked Chimurenga.

  “Yes.”

  “We must change the delivery. What is the order for this month?”

  “Same, same. Ten. Five Bangkok, five Dubai.”

  “How many packages are ready today?”

  “Three.”

  “Only three?” snapped Chimurenga.

  “I told you, these men too slow.”

  “Very well, three. Go to the stockpile in the vault and send them now. Send three packages to Bangkok tonight. All three. This can’t wait. Do you understand?”

  “I check with Chengdu first.”

  “No. This is my operation,” said Chimurenga. “You and your partners are here as my guests. You are under my protection. I am telling you three packages will be on the Falcon to Bangkok tonight.”

  The operations director weighed his options for a moment. “I tell the pilot, General. Three to Bangkok.”

  “Yes, you tell the pilot, my friend.”

  3.

  U.S. Department of State, Washington, D.C.

  Thursday, 7:41 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Nestled in the heart of Foggy Bottom, on the far western edge of the nation’s capital, sat the Harry S. Truman Federal Building, the headquarters of the U.S. Department of State. Judd approached the limestone edifice and its grid of sixty-six windows across and seven stories high. He scanned the rows to try to find the window for his office, but he quickly lost his bearings. The Crisis Reaction Unit—S/CRU in State Department parlance—was up there somewhere.

  A stream of employees was arriving, just like at any other factory, heads hung low, eyes bleary, carrying coffee in brown paper cups. Except these workers weren’t writing software code or assembling automobiles. They were cogs in the massive diplomatic presence of the United States government around the world. Their task was to advance the interests of the American people, and, as the Secretary of State said on television the night before, “Our job is to promote freedom and build a more democratic, secure, and prosperous world of well-governed states that respond to the needs of their people, reduce poverty, and act responsibly.”

  Judd edged past a group of visiting Korean diplomats in business suits to open the heavy glass doors at the front entrance. At the rear of the lobby stood the backdrop for the nightly television news, a wall of 189 foreign flags, one for each country with diplomatic relations with the United States of America.

  He flashed his identification to the armed security guard, swiped his card, and punched his six-digit PIN. The glass security barriers swung open with a vhuuump. He strode down a long hallway to the cafeteria.

  “Morning, Brenda,” he said, forcing a smile. “Two large coffees with double espresso shots.”

  “G’morning, Dr. Ryker. That’s two red-eyes!” she replied, a bit too loudly for this time of day. “I know: one with milk, the other black,” she said with a wink.

  Judd smiled and dropped a dollar in the tip jar.

  He trekked carefully, balancing his coffees, to the elevators, up to the sixth floor, and then down another long beige hallway. His destination was marked by a small sign over the door: CRISIS REACTION UNIT, OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR.

  “It’s nearly eight o’clock, Dr. Ryker. You’ve got to move it.”

  “Good morning to you, too, Serena. I brought you a coffee,” he said holding up both barrels.

  “Thank you,” his assistant said impatiently. She was wearing her usual black tapered business suit. Her Afro was cut short, highlighting her strong jaw. “On your desk in the red folder are the overnight cables. I’ve highlighted Priority One, all the places on our watch list. In the blue folder are cables I pulled for your eight a.m. with Mr. Parker.”

  “I got you the one you like. With the extra espresso.” Judd set down one of the coffees on Serena’s desk. “A red-eye.”

  “In Iraq we called it a MOAC.”

  “Okay, I’ll ask. What’s MOAC?”

  “The mother of all coffee.”

  “Of course.”

  “You’ve got six minutes,” she said, and shooed him away.

  Judd retreated into his office and sank into his chair. Just as Serena had promised, on his desk sat two colored folders. He opened the blue one to find diplomatic reports on Egyptian politics, which he flipped through:

  SECRET: CAIRO1342—Special Envoy warns Foreign Minister Elhaddad

  UNCLASSIFIED: CAIRO1346—Media reporting on jailed journalists

  SECRET: CAIRO1351—Election polling projections

  SECRET: CAIRO1352—Disruption of Jihadist cell targeting voting stations in Alexandria

  CONFIDENTIAL: CAIRO1356—Embassy Cairo planning for election monitoring

  At the back of the folder was a hard copy of Judd’s PowerPoint presentation for Landon Parker, the Secretary of State’s chief of staff. Judd was speaking again about disputed elections and the Golden Hour—his theory about the need for quicker crisis response. The Golden Hour had been the inspiration for S/CRU and Judd’s ticket into the State Department. But this time the presentation wasn’t about the Golden Hour itself but about a related concept, which he’d reveal for the first time that morning.

  Judd set this folder aside and opened the red one, which was stuffed with printed diplomatic cables, the steady stream of messages into headquarters from the State Department’s 305 overseas posts. Serena had marked several with a bright yellow highlighter.

  CONFIDENTIAL: ULANBATOR91—Mongolian mining dispute threatens government coalition

  SECRET: RIYADH234—Health update for Saudi Royal Family

  SECRET: BAGHDAD1945—Prime Minister concerned about potential for new Kurdish rebellion

  CONFIDENTIAL: PORTAUPRINCE133—Embassy protests turn violent after rice price increase

  UNCLASSIFIED: JAKARTA242—Indonesian election official jailed on corruption charges

  CONFIDENTIAL: ABUJA319—New evidence of top party bosses involvement with Nigerian fuel import racket

  CONFIDENTIAL: HARARE185—Risk of organized violence low as Zimbabwe election approaches

  SECRET: TRIPOLI772—Support for rebels surging in eastern Libya

  “Serena, I don’t see any cables in from Ethiopia.”

  “No, Dr. Ryker, there’s no overnight reporting in from Embassy Addis.”

  “Can you double-check? And please look for anything going on in Lalibela. It’s a smaller city up in the north. Anything at all over the past month.”

  “Lalibela? What are you looking for?”

  “Nothing. Just check for me, will you?”

  “Of course, Dr. Ryke
r.”

  He hated checking up on Papa and Jessica, but he wanted to make sure there was no danger. His wife and a close friend were working on a project in a remote corner of Africa, and he had access to a vast web of information. It seemed only prudent.

  Judd set aside any worries about what he would do if Serena did find something dangerous. Or highly classified. Being forced to keep secrets from your most trusted loved ones was a common source of stress. He’d been warned that diplomats often struggled at home to maintain a separate life, and always had to keep track of what was classified and what was not. It was becoming even harder as the lines between the two worlds blurred. Classified reporting relied on “open source” or publicly available information, while secrets leaked into the press all the time. Who could possibly keep track? If Judd read a secret cable about a terrorist threat against the U.S. embassy in Kenya or the declining health of the Cuban president, and then the very same news was reported on CNN, could he talk about it with his wife?

  The common reaction was just to keep quiet. Judd could feel himself shutting down, changing the subject, feigning ignorance, even when it wasn’t strictly necessary. But he knew this was creating distance from his family.

  Now that Jessica was working in Africa again, they were even more likely to cross professional paths. How to maintain a healthy marriage while keeping Jessica at arm’s length? Especially when she was his best advisor?

  “Are you okay, Dr. Ryker?” Serena interrupted.

  “Yes, of course,” he said, wincing.

  “You don’t seem yourself this morning. Off your game, I think.”

  “I’m fine Serena. I’m ready.”

  “Good, because they’re waiting.”

  —

  Good morning, everyone. I’ve asked Dr. Ryker from S/CRU to join us,” said Landon Parker, addressing the senior staff of the State Department’s Bureau of Near Eastern Affairs. “The Secretary is very worried about the upcoming Egyptian elections. We need them to go well. I think everyone here is highly aware that the White House has made Middle East peace talks the cornerstone of the President’s foreign policy. Our legacy hinges on a successful election in Egypt. I know NEA is working this hard. The Secretary thanks you for your efforts.”