The Golden Hour Page 2

  Judd strolled up to the Harry S. Truman Federal Building, the headquarters of the U.S. Department of State, trying to suppress his unexpected nervousness. From the outside, the building appeared colossal, gray, and nondescript, hidden behind the gaudy American Pharmacists Association and the more elegant and subtle National Academy of Sciences.

  As Judd stood on Constitution Avenue and looked up Twenty-second Street toward the security barriers, he realized that he had been standing in the same spot a few years earlier when he brought his kids to see the four-ton bronze Albert Einstein memorial. He hadn’t even noticed the State Department headquarters just half a block away.

  After passing through airport-like security and a tedious ID check, he was given a bright orange badge emblazoned with ESCORT REQUIRED and was instructed to hang it on a chain around his neck. Once inside the lobby, he recognized the nearly two hundred flags from watching the nightly news.

  An elderly heavyset woman with a long gray ponytail, who reminded Judd of the grumpy librarian at his elementary school in Vermont, approached him. “Dr. Ryker? I can take you up to the conference room.”

  In the elevator, Judd flipped through the charts he had printed out and ran through his presentation in his head. He had told this story a hundred times in seminars and over departmental dinners, but for some reason his palms were sweating. The elevator doors opened, and he was led down a long and drab hallway of flickering fluorescent lights to a door labeled 7-4504. The escort turned the handle and motioned for him to enter. “I’ll wait for you here.” Judd paused and took a deep breath. I can do this. Then he stepped inside.

  It was like a portal to another world. The brightly lit conference room had dark cherrywood paneling with a bank of six large flat-panel monitors along one wall. Just like in the movies. About a dozen men and women, all in dark suits, were sitting in high-backed leather chairs around the table. Behind them, in a concentric ring, sat younger suits, reading papers or thumbing dials on their mobile phones. They look like my students.

  No one said a word to Judd or even acknowledged his arrival. He took an empty seat at the table and waited.

  A minute later, at exactly nine fifteen, a tall man walked in briskly from a side door. He was in his late thirties and had small round glasses and short-cropped hair. Immediately, the room went silent and the man nodded to no one in general, and then approached Judd.

  “Ryker, I’m Landon Parker. Thanks for coming in. We’ve got no more than ten minutes, so I’ll spare introductions. You’ve got the Secretary’s planning staff here, plus the heads of each of the major regional and functional offices.”

  Parker turned to the others. “Folks, this is Professor Judd Ryker from Amherst College.”

  Back to Judd. “Okay, Ryker. The floor is yours. Take three or four minutes to leave time for questions.”

  “I’ll try to make this quick. Thank you, Mr. Parker, for asking me to come here today.” Judd stood up for emphasis. “In emergency medicine, a trauma patient’s chances of survival are greatest if they receive professional care in the hospital within sixty minutes after a severe multisystem injury. This is known as the Golden Hour.”

  Judd scanned the room, hoping for hints of recognition. Nothing. He continued, “Although there is some debate about the precise length of time of the Golden Hour, the principle of rapid intervention in trauma cases is universally accepted. If you don’t get help very quickly, you die. It’s that simple.” Judd nodded, but still no reaction from the audience.

  “I believe we have found the same principle to apply to international political trauma. We can’t run experiments in a lab, but we can pick up patterns in the data. The numbers can tell us.” Pause. My undergrads love that line.

  Judd waved his arms as he got more excited. “Using data over the past forty years, we studied two hundred thirty cases of political crisis in low- and middle-income countries. We found that the probability of resolution declines significantly over time. In fact, time is more dominant in the statistical analysis than ethnic cleavages, type of regime, or the other standard political variables.” Judd waited a moment, to give the crowd time to let that settle in. Am I losing them?

  “Most interesting, the time-resolution correlation is not linear. In plain English, this means we have found clear tipping points in time. For the outbreak of a civil war, the critical period is about thirteen or fourteen days. After two weeks, the chances of a speedy resolution decline by more than half. Similarly, if an illegal seizure of power by the military is not reversed within about four days, the chances of reversal over the next year drop by eighty percent.” Judd paused for effect. “In other words, ladies and gentlemen, the Golden Hour for a coup d’état is just one hundred hours.”

  Satisfyingly, this led to murmuring and scribbling among the crowd.

  “I must stress that these results are still preliminary, and I have teams in Asia and Africa collecting additional data.” Caveats. I have a reputation to protect.

  “Are you finding differences across regions? Is Africa different from south Asia, or are they all pretty much the same?” asked one of those seated at the table, without identifying himself.

  “No, we haven’t found any of the regional variables to be statistically significant,” responded Judd.

  “Did anything change with the end of the Cold War or 9/11?”

  “Good question. We haven’t broken the data into periods. We could try that. I just don’t know.”

  “What is driving the results on coups? How can you explain what’s so special about timing? I understand the idea of a Golden Hour, but why does it exist?”

  “We don’t really know. We can theorize that it probably has something to do with the dynamics of consolidating power after seizure. The coup makers must line up the rest of the security forces and maybe buy off parliament and other local political leaders before those loyal to the deposed president are able to react and countermove. It’s a race for influence. But these are just hypotheses.”

  “What about international intervention? Does it matter if an external force gets involved diplomatically?” asked one staffer.

  “Or militarily?” interjected another.

  “We don’t have classifications for intervention, so it’s not in there,” replied Judd. “The numbers can’t tell us. So, we don’t know. I guess we could—”

  Parker interrupted abruptly. “But in your expert opinion, Ryker, does it matter? Would it make a difference? Does the United States need to find ways to intervene more rapidly in emerging crises in the developing world? Can we prevent more wars and coups by reacting more quickly?”

  Judd looked around the room at all the eyes locked on him. My numbers don’t answer that question. Isn’t that what you guys are here for?

  But instead he sat up straight, turned to look Landon Parker directly in the eyes, and said simply, “Yes.”

  —

  And that was it. A few thank-yous and handshakes, and everyone left. Judd’s escort took him down the same elevator and out to the lobby. He dropped his orange security badge into a clear plastic container with a slot at the top, not too dissimilar from the ballot boxes he’d seen used for voting in Nigeria. He walked back down Twenty-second Street for one more look at Einstein and to hail a cab.

  The return trip to Ronald Reagan National Airport was only seven minutes. He might even catch an earlier shuttle back to Logan. As the taxi drove behind the Lincoln Memorial and over a bridge, he thought he might just make it back to Amherst in time for class.

  Once in Virginia, the cab looped around and headed south, down the George Washington Parkway along the Potomac River. Judd looked over the water at the Washington Monument. For a brief flash, between the trees, he could even make out the Capitol building off in the distance.

  The park along the riverbank was mostly empty, save a few joggers and an attractive young woman walking a yellow Labra
dor. Behind the dog walker, two dark green army helicopters in tight formation banked sharply over the river, then turned to the west and flew directly over Judd’s taxi. Turning in his seat to follow their course, he noticed, sitting low and squat, a colossal stone-colored office building surrounded by an ocean of parked cars. The Pentagon.

  The exit for Reagan was almost immediate. As he stood in the security line and waited to take off his shoes, he wondered whether any of this was worth it. All this effort for ten minutes in a conference room?

  Settling into a chair in the departure lounge, he was reminded of his old professor and advisor, BJ van Hollen, who had urged him to take an interest in public service. His mentor had even offered to help Judd find a good job inside the U.S. government applying his analytical skills to solving real-world puzzles. Professor van Hollen had been openly disappointed when Judd opted for the academic life.

  At least I have a good story for BJ. He’ll be impressed the State Department called me. Why not?

  Judd pulled out his phone and dialed a number. After several rings, a weak raspy voice answered, “Huuhh-looooo?”

  “BJ? Is that you?”

  “Yes,” was the soft reply, followed by a series of coughs so loud and violent that Judd was forced to hold the phone away from his ear. “Who’s this?”

  “It’s Judd. Sorry to call you out of the blue. You sound terrible.”

  “I know. I’ve been a little sick.”

  “I didn’t know. Is it serious?”

  “No, no. It’s nothing like that. And don’t say anything to Jessica. It’ll just worry her. We don’t need that.”

  “Guess where I am.”

  “Here in California?”

  “No. Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I’m in Washington, D.C. I just finished briefing the State Department on my conflict metrics.”

  “Oh, really? That’s excellent news.”

  “They called me.”

  “It’s about time, too. I’m very proud. I’m sure Jessica is very proud.”

  “They were really interested in the Golden Hour. Asked lots of tough questions. I just thought you’d be pleased I was helping do something real.”

  “I am,” said van Hollen before unleashing another barrage of coughs.

  “BJ, you sound like you’re dying. I hope you’re seeing a doctor.”

  “At my age, I’m seeing too many doctors. I’m tired of it. Judd, congratulations on the State Department. I’m sure they appreciated your help. And thank you for letting me know. Is Jessica with you?”

  “No. She’s home with the kids.”

  “Is she working again?”

  “A bit. She took time off when Noah was born and all the travel became too much. But she’s starting to work again. A coffee project in Ethiopia and rice somewhere in southeast Asia, I think. I’m never sure where’s she’s going. I can never keep track.”

  “Good for her,” he said, sounding increasingly weakened. “I’ve got to get off the phone now. I’m sorry. Send my love to Jessica.”

  “I will. Thanks. And good-bye, BJ.”

  “Good-bye, Judd. Au revoir.”

  Judd slumped back into the airport chair. Satisfied the day wasn’t a total loss, he relaxed, half reading through some papers he was supposed to be grading and half scanning the crowds for George Stephanopoulos or David Gergen.

  Judd’s flight was finally called, and he stood in line again, waiting to board. As he approached the front to hand over his ticket, his phone rang. The caller ID flashed “202” with no other numbers. How odd, he thought. Handing his ticket to the attendant, and trying not to drop all the papers, he wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder.

  “Uh, hello?”

  “Ryker, this is Landon Parker. That was impressive. Especially the Golden Hour for a coup and the hundred-hour thing. Very illuminating. And timely, too. The Secretary is in Brussels today for the NATO summit and will be announcing a new State Department Crisis Reaction Unit. She is also going to announce the director who will launch and lead this effort. That person is you. Ryker, do not get on that plane.”

  4.

  FOGGY BOTTOM, DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA

  ONE YEAR LATER

  MONDAY, 9:55 A.M. EST

  “This is three-one-four, we are two minutes out.”

  The security officer in the front seat was holding his right ear and talking into his left wrist. The aide sitting next to Judd was, as he’d been doing for most of the past four hours, tapping feverishly with his thumbs on his BlackBerry.

  As the black Suburban crossed over the Arlington Memorial Bridge, returning Judd to the District of Columbia, his dreams of a lazy day of white sand and Carolina barbecue were long gone. Instead, he was reprising all the questions he should have asked Landon Parker that day twelve months ago. If I only knew then . . .

  • • •

  He had been so surprised and thrilled at being asked, that he hadn’t even considered asking about staff or a budget. It was just plain naïve not to consider how a new office, much less one led by an outside academic parachuting in, would be received by the existing system. All bureaucracies were turf obsessed, he knew. But he was shocked at the particularly virulent, dog-eat-dog subculture of the United States Foreign Service.

  Maybe it was all the tours locked in the fishbowl of an embassy fortress in a faraway dangerous place. Perhaps it was the cocktail of hyperambition, natural human pettiness, and living just on the edge of Washington power. Being within reach of those with true influence can make it feel so far away. And even more desirable. Or possibly, Judd thought, it was just a spectacular irony that those tasked to build friends for America around the world would treat each other with such disdain.

  The result for Judd Ryker was a beautiful oak-paneled office with a view of the Lincoln Memorial, a mandate to help the United States government respond more quickly to evolving crises around the world, and no means whatsoever to get this task done. Who would want some new guy with his charts and data sticking his nose into their business? No one.

  In his first few weeks on the job, shooting had erupted in the Solomon Islands, an unstable archipelago in the South Pacific. Judd had been completely iced out. He’d even had solid new data on the causes of conflict in small island nations. Neither the Pacific team nor the Australia office director would even answer his calls.

  A month later, riots broke out in Kenya after a disputed election, and this time the Assistant Secretary for Africa, William Rogerson, had wholly cut him out. He’d only heard about Task Force Kenya after it had already met and decided the course of action for U.S. policy. “Sorry, the meeting must have been moved. Didn’t my assistant tell your assistant?” was the halfhearted reply.

  But then it happened again, without even the pretense of a disingenuous excuse. Judd confronted Rogerson over being excluded from a Nigeria meeting. This time, the response was blunt: “Young man, when people get out of their lane, they usually get lost. Or run over.”

  —

  Judd’s frustration grew. He began to regret taking the job. How can I speed up response times if I’m ignored?

  Judd turned to counsel outside the government. BJ van Hollen advised patience and perseverance. “These things take time,” his mentor scolded him. “You know this.”

  His wife Jessica also encouraged him to build new allies and find ways to circumvent obstructers. “You are still learning your way around the building. Still figuring out how to play the game. Wait for your moment,” she suggested.

  But with each new failure, Judd’s doubts grew. He even began to wonder, Did Landon Parker set me up to fail?

  Impossible to know. At best, Judd began to understand that his office was a mere experiment, that he was an experiment. A lab rat.

  • • •

  As the driver pulled up to the security barriers in front of State headquart
ers, Judd fished his ID card out of his briefcase and held it up for the diplomatic security officer leaning into the vehicle window.

  Judd ducked his head and slid the ID chain over his neck. Back in Washington. A second officer stood at attention in the guardhouse, patiently waiting for a signal. A third officer slowly circled the car with a sniffing German shepherd on a leash.

  “Thank you, sir.” And then, “Lower the barrier!”

  “Lowering the barrier!” Down came the metal barricade with a squeal and a hollow thunk.

  After being waved through the front security gates, the car roared for fifty yards, then endured the same procedure again at the entrance to the underground garage. ID check. “Thank you, sir. Lower the barrier!” “Lowering the barrier!” Squeal, thunk, roar, and then down into the subterranea of the concrete government building.

  At the bottom of the ramp, Judd’s head bobbed to the right, then to the left, as the Suburban swung two sharp corners. His head came forward as the vehicle screeched to a halt in front of a set of Plexiglas revolving doors.

  Before Judd could reach for the handle, the door opened and the officer was holding Judd’s go bag. There was still one more security check before entry into the building was complete. Judd swiped his ID card against a keypad and fingered a six-digit PIN. A little light shined green and a loud clack told him it was time to push through the door.

  Vacation over.

  • • •

  When Judd arrived at his office, his assistant, Serena, was standing in the doorway holding a folder. Above her head read a small sign: CRISIS REACTION UNIT, OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR.

  “Task Force Mali is ready, over at the Operations Center. They are waiting for you.” Serena was all business.

  “Good to see you, too. Anything I need to read first?”