Minute Zero Read Free Page A

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 didn’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
    N estled 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