Mine: The Arrival Read online

  Another uneventful minute passed. “Maybe we can play a game,” Kozakov said. “See who can count the most trees. Mr. Washington, you go first.”

  Washington’s mouth remained closed.

  “All right. I’ll start,” Kozakov said. “One, two, three, four, five—”

  Adams glanced at him. “Please stop.”

  Kozakov went on for another half dozen numbers before the cold drained the rebellion out of him.

  A few minutes later, three uniformed men emerged from the trees and stepped onto the road. Two held rifles at the ready, while the third clutched a flashlight.

  “Time to go,” Washington said.

  He and Adams led Kozakov toward the trio.

  “Far enough,” the man with the light said when they were fifteen feet away. He appeared to be the one in charge.

  Kozakov and his escorts stopped.

  “Dr. Kozakov,” the soldier said, “please join us.”

  It was foolish to think the Americans had flown him this far just to kill him, but Kozakov couldn’t stop the thought from crossing his mind.

  “Go on,” Washington whispered.

  Kozakov looked at him. “You’re not coming with me?”

  “Our job’s done,” Washington said, and held his hand out.

  Kozakov hesitated a moment and then shook it. “Thank you for…not killing me.”

  “Our pleasure.”

  Kozakov then shook Adams’s hand. The two men may have taken him from his home and kept him restrained for a while, but they had never been unkind.

  “Doctor, if you please,” the lead soldier said.

  Kozakov walked over to the three uniformed men.

  “I’ll take that.” The head of Kozakov’s new escort motioned at the envelope Kozakov was carrying. Once it exchanged hands, the man said, “All right. This way. It’s about a ten-minute walk.”

  He turned and disappeared into the woods while the other soldiers waited for Kozakov to start walking. But Kozakov couldn’t seem to make himself move.

  “Dr. Kozakov,” the lead soldier called from inside the woods. “If you want to get out of the cold, it’s this way.”

  Kozakov hesitated a moment longer before heading toward the sound of the man’s voice.

  They were only a minute or so into their journey when static sounded from a radio on the main soldier’s belt, followed by two beeps, like the start of a Morse-code message.

  “Everyone down,” the leader said as he dropped into a crouch.

  Kozakov heard the two men behind him do the same.

  “Doctor, please,” his escort said.

  “What’s going on?”

  “A precautionary measure. If you can’t manage it, one of my men can help you.”

  Not wanting to be manhandled, Kozakov lowered himself until he was almost totally hidden below the snow.

  The leader tapped a button on his radio, sending off three beeps.

  This was answered in kind.

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then from somewhere behind them came quick bursts of automatic gunfire. Four to be exact, and then silence.

  Fifteen seconds later, the radio emitted a long single beep.

  “Okay, we’re good to go,” the leader said, standing up again.

  As Kozakov rose, he couldn’t help but think the gunfire had come from the direction Adams and Washington’s car had been headed.

  No, impossible. He was overthinking.

  Unless…

  Kozakov felt the blood drain from his face. Killing Washington, Adams, and the men in the front of the car would erase Kozakov’s trail into the mountains. No one would know where he’d been taken after he walked off the plane.

  Numb, but not from cold, he remembered nothing of the rest of the hike until they reached a tall chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. One of the men unlocked a gate and closed it again after they’d all passed through. A few minutes later, they came to a large meadow surrounded by another chain-link fence.

  Two spotlights popped on and shined on them as they approached a closed gate. Out of the darkness, several more soldiers appeared on the other side.

  The leader of Kozakov’s group said, “Escort Alpha returning.”

  “Welcome back, Alpha,” someone on the other side said as the gate swung open.

  “What is this place?” Kozakov asked as they entered the meadow.

  “You’ll be briefed inside,” the leader said.

  “Inside?”

  The man pointed toward the other end of the clearing, at what Kozakov now saw was a building next to a hill. As they neared, he realized it wasn’t next to a hill but under a portion of it. His escort guided him to the structure and pressed a button on the wall next to the door.

  A moment later, a tinny voice came from a speaker mounted above the jamb. “Designation.”

  “Five victor sierra seven zulu seven,” the leader said.

  A brief pause, and then a buzz. The leader pushed the door open and he and Kozakov entered, leaving the other two outside.

  The room they walked into held three desks, each occupied by a man in uniform. As Kozakov and his guide entered, the men stood, fingers hovering next to holstered pistols.

  “Please stop where you are and remain there until instructed,” the nearest man said.

  Apparently the order only applied to Kozakov, as his escort continued walking across the room and through the only other door.

  At least the space was warm, Kozakov thought as he stretched his fingers to get his circulation going again.

  In many ways, the place reminded him of the governmental offices back home—austere and uninviting. It certainly didn’t give off the impression of being someplace important.

  Well, except for the remote location.

  And the two barbed wire-topped fences.

  And the guards staring at him, hands over guns.

  When his escort returned, he was in the company of a man wearing a dark business suit. They stopped at one of the desks.

  “File, please,” the suited man said in a pleasant unhurried voice.

  The soldier stationed there used a key to open a drawer. He removed a file and handed it over.

  The suited man walked over to Kozakov and held out a hand. “Welcome. My name is Dr. Leonard Durant.”

  Kozakov left his own hand by his side.

  With a sympathetic smile, Durant lowered his arm. “You’re frustrated. I understand that. Just like I’m sure you understand our need to ask a few questions to confirm that you really are who we think you are.”

  Kozakov could hold his anger back no more. “Of course I do not understand! I do not know why I am here! I do not know who you are! And I do not know what is going on!”

  “I promise all your questions will be answered very soon, but first—”

  “No! You will tell me why I have been brought here, and you will do so right now.”

  Durant took a deep breath, looking at Kozakov as if he were a petulant child. “I am very much counting on our relationship being a good one. We will be working very closely with each other, after all. I would hate to start off by having you taken to one of our cells until you’re ready to cooperate, but I will do it in a heartbeat.”

  He stared at Kozakov, waiting.

  Kozakov wanted to continue wrapping himself in his armor of righteous indignation, but as much as he hated admitting it, he knew his position was a hopeless one. Through clenched teeth, he said, “What questions?”

  The interrogation that followed contained queries of the most personal nature. Kozakov had no idea how this man knew things that Kozakov was sure his own intrusive government was unaware of. Kozakov answered everything truthfully, more because he was stunned than out of any desire to cooperate.

  After he replied to a particularly intimate question about the woman he’d almost married, his inquisitor closed the file and said, “Excellent.” Again, Durant held out his hand. “It is indeed a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Kozakov. We are so happ
y to have you here with us.”

  Worn down by the questioning, Kozakov shook the man’s hand. “Now can you tell me why I’m here?”

  “It will be easier to show you.”

  ELEVEN

  AFTER THE ELEVATOR doors opened, Durant led Kozakov into a long hallway where a new soldier waited to take the place of the man they’d left at the top. Given the perceived speed of descent and how much time it had taken, Kozakov estimated they were at least two hundred feet below the surface.

  “If you’ll come this way,” Durant said, motioning down the hall as if there were another direction they could have taken.

  “Why is it so cold?” Kozakov asked. Even without artificial heating, an area this far underground should have had a more moderate temperature.

  “It’s necessary for the work we’re doing.”

  “And what is that work?”

  Durant grinned. “I envy you for what you’re about to see. You only get one first time, after all.”

  The hall ended at a T-bone intersection, with the new corridor curving off in both directions. They went left.

  “Is there no one else down here?” Kozakov asked. With the exception of the guards, he hadn’t seen a soul since they’d stepped out of the elevator.

  “There is,” Durant replied. “But our staff is limited to only those we absolutely need. It makes for a more secure environment.”

  The hallway ended at a heavy metal wall. Durant moved to the corridor wall and pressed his hand against it. A panel popped open and revealed several rows of switches. Durant began flipping them in a seemingly random order. When he finished, the wall swung inward.

  Durant smiled and motioned at the open doorway. “After you.”

  Kozakov knew he should have been upset, but his curiosity drowned out his anger before it could build up any steam. He peered through the doorway, but could see only a short corridor that seemed to jut to the left. More interesting was the door itself.

  “Steel?” he asked, stepping across the threshold.

  “A variant. Something we had made specifically for our needs.”

  Kozakov raised an eyebrow. He would have liked to examine the door more closely—materials were, after all, his specialty—but Durant was already moving past him so he followed. Interestingly, the guard did not accompany them.

  When they were on the other side, Durant opened another panel and flicked several switches. The door swung shut. Kozakov couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever pass through it again.

  “This way.”

  Durant led him into a large, square room at least as tall as it was wide, and then across to a thick door similar to, though larger than, the one they’d just come through. The inner door was already open, and Kozakov could see a couple of people inside.

  Durant paused at the threshold. “There are only twenty-seven people who are aware of what’s inside this facility. You will be number twenty-eight. Of those, all but one work here.”

  “And who’s the lucky one who isn’t buried down here with you?”

  “The president.”

  Kozakov stared at him. “Of the United States?”

  “That’s correct. I answer to him directly.”

  “You are telling me that you communicate directly with President Roosevelt about whatever it is you do down here.”

  “I do. I’m glad you understand.” Durant smiled. “So, Dr. Kozakov, are you ready?”

  “Ready for what?”

  “To discover that everything you’ve known before this moment is meaningless.”

  Kozakov snorted. “I highly doubt that will be the case.”

  With a knowing twinkle in his eyes, Durant walked through the opening. “Welcome to Project Titan.”

  What followed was disbelief, curiosity, and then excitement, as Kozakov realized first that Durant had been right and everything before was meaningless, and second, any desire he may have had to return to the Soviet Union was forever extinguished.

  TWELVE

  July 3, 1943

  KOZAKOV RAPPED ON the doorjamb of the director’s office.

  Durant looked up from his desk and smiled. “Magnus. Come in, come in.”

  Kozakov stepped into the room. “I was told you wanted to see me.”

  “That, I did.” Durant’s smile grew even larger. “It’s here.”

  “What’s here?”

  “Your drill bit.”

  Kozakov stared back at him, stunned.

  Kozakov’s first task upon joining Project Titan had been to obtain a sample of the metal that made up the craft. He had been told that all prior attempts had been unsuccessful. His predecessor had tried drilling and scraping and scratching, but the surface had resisted all attempts.

  To get a sense of the problem, Kozakov had repeated several of Dr. Goodwin’s methods, and then secluded himself in his office for months as he considered solutions to the problem. He tried several new methods, but they all proved as worthless as those used before.

  One potential answer remained a theory, as he didn’t have the means to try it. He had presented the idea to Durant and then forgotten about it, turning his attention to more realistic approaches.

  As a materials scientist, much of Kozakov’s work crossed over into geology, and he had, before the war, been acquainted with several individuals who worked in that field. At a meeting in Moscow, he had been part of a dinner gathering where the conversation had turned to the hardest material in the world—diamonds.

  The question became whether or not man would ever be able to develop a harder substance. With the rapid scientific advances that the first half of the twentieth century had seen, there was a near unanimous opinion that it would happen. The only differences in viewpoints concerned how long it would take until that occurred.

  “Ten years at most,” Dvornikov, a professor at Moscow University, said.

  The others laughed.

  “I agree it’s inevitable,” Vistin said. He was a prominent researcher with the Bureau of Science in Leningrad. “But in a decade? Not possible. You, sir, have too much faith in the abilities of man.”

  “Then how long do you think?” Dvornikov countered.

  Vistin shrugged. “Thirty or forty years at least. Yes, things have come a long way, but—”

  “Even if man does create something harder than diamonds, it won’t be the hardest substance on Earth.” The speaker was a small man named Balabanov, a geologist from a university somewhere in the east.

  Several of the scientists rolled their eyes, clearly having heard this before. But Dvornikov apparently had not.

  “Is that so? Are you saying the planet has created something stronger than diamonds?” he asked.

  “Not the planet, exactly. But nature, yes.”

  “Does this substance have a name?”

  “Not yet.”

  One of the eye rollers leaned forward and said, “It doesn’t have a name because it hasn’t been discovered yet. Isn’t that right?”

  Balabanov looked uncomfortable. “It’s only a matter of time.”

  “So what is this mysterious material?” Dvornikov asked.

  “He’s talking about meteorites,” the eye roller said.

  “That’s right, I am,” Balabanov said.

  “Meteorites,” Dvornikov said, frowning.

  “Many meteors are older than the earth itself. They’ve been molded by the furnaces of stars. There is no doubt in my mind that some contain crystal structures considerably stronger than diamonds. And I’m equally sure a few meteorites with these elements have already reached Earth.”

  “Have you been looking for them?” Dvornikov asked.

  “I have.”

  “But you haven’t discovered any.”

  “Not yet, but I will.”

  Dvornikov laughed loudly and raised his glass of wine. “You are enthusiastic, Comrade Balabanov, I’ll give you that. To your eventual discovery.”

  As far as Kozakov knew, no such paper had ever been published. The las
t he heard, Balabanov had fallen afoul of the State and had been sent to Siberia. Likely he was long dead.

  Still staring at Durant, Kozakov asked, “But…but…how? Where?”

  “It certainly wasn’t easy. My sources must have looked at thousands of meteorites, without me telling anyone exactly what they were looking for. Of the thirty-seven pieces sent to me, only two ended up having any balabanite.”

  “Balabanite?”

  “Yeah, thought we’d name it after your friend. Of course, since the last thing we’re going to do is let anyone know about it, the name will likely change when someone else ‘discovers’ it.” He paused. “I had some people who wouldn’t ask questions clean the samples up as best as possible, and then had another person create the drill bit you sketched out.”

  He lifted a sealed cardboard box onto his desk.

  “You haven’t opened it?” Kozakov asked.

  “I thought you should do it.”

  Kozakov wanted to rip the top off the box, but he restrained himself and used the letter opener Durant offered. The interior was stuffed with balled-up pages of newspapers. He shoved his hand between them and felt around until his fingers bumped against a metal box.

  The box was red, about six inches square and two inches think. Inside were two drill bits, each cradled by metal brackets. The shaft looked like a typical shaft, ready to be mounted into Kozakov’s high-powered precision drill. The two inches of rock that made up the rest, however, was anything but common. The bit maker had simply attached the pieces to the mount, orienting the balabanite so that its narrowest edge formed the tip.

  Kozakov picked up one of the bits and rotated it for a good look.

  “So?” Durant asked.

  “I cannot believe you were able to do this.”

  “It meets with your specifications?”

  “It appears so.”

  “Remember, these are the only two we have. If something happens to them, I’d be hesitant to try to make another.”

  “I understand.”

  Kozakov studied the place where the base and the rock came together. It appeared that the maker had used a high-end resin to connect them. It was the best solution in this situation, but Kozakov knew the junction would always be the weakest point.