Mine: The Arrival (6 page)

The group carried the crate out of the curved corridor, into the cavernous space and across the threshold of the second blast door. From there it was a straight shot to what they called the Titan Room, a space originally intended as a workshop for the repair and maintenance of the machinery needed to run the facility. Durant had ordered the equipment there moved to several smaller storage rooms.

“Right there,” Durant said when the crate was in the exact center of the room.

The team lowered the box and stepped back, staring at it.

Dr. Abel Chambers was the first to speak. “Can we open it now?”

The eagerness in his eyes matched that in everyone else’s.

Durant walked over to a table, picked up the crowbar lying there, and returned to the others. “Who wants to do the honors?”

“It should be you,” Chambers said.

The others nodded in agreement.

It took five minutes to get all the pieces of the crate separated and out of the way.

Silence—not even the sound of a breath—as all eyes focused on Titan.

Even though Durant had seen it before, it was only the one time, so he too was mesmerized. If anything, it seemed shinier now than it had before, as if it had gained a new chrome finish. He wondered how he could have ever considered, even for a moment, that it was anything but otherworldly.

The technology of 1939 paled in comparison to that needed to construct Titan.

No, man had not made this.

“It’s…amazing,” someone finally whispered.

The word was woefully inadequate for what stood before them. All words were.

Durant let them savor the moment for several more seconds before he said, “Okay. Time to get to work.”

MATERIAL MAN

S
EVEN

Project Titan Facility, Colorado

October 18, 1942

U
LTIMATE BLAME FOR
the accident was Durant’s. He knew it, and though no one said anything, his team knew it, too.

He’d been driving his people relentlessly, encouraging them to work twelve and sometimes sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, for months. There was good reason for this. December 7 would mark the one-year anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor, and the entry of the US into the war. Every day American soldiers and sailors were dying, not to mention all the civilians the war was eating up. If the scientists could learn anything from the Titan craft that could help bring an end to the hostilities, then it was worth every extra minute they spent examining it.

The problem was that for the three and a half years they’d been working on the damn thing, they had come up with nothing but theories. They hadn’t even been able to find a way inside the craft. In truth, this total lack of progress was putting as much pressure on Durant and his team as the war was. And Durant had no doubt this all-out effort was why Dr. Goodwin had died in an accident two days before.

Goodwin had been the materials specialist, not the best in the world, but as close to that as Durant could arrange at the time. By all accounts, Goodwin had already been working for eighteen hours when he climbed the scaffolding erected over the craft to try a new technic for chipping some of the metal free. A misstep by the groggy scientist sent him careening into the handrail, the impact dislodging the bar and sending Goodwin tumbling onto the top of the craft.

One of the protrusions punctured his abdomen, its tip exiting through his back. It alone would have been life threatening, but the thin arm tearing open his jugular vein did the real damage. By the time his assistant had been able to pull him off, it was too late.

Durant rubbed his hands over his eyes. No progress on Titan, and now a death to deal with.

On the desk were two files. One was Goodwin’s. According to the dossier, the man had a sister, semi-estranged since 1939. That was good. It meant Durant could get by with only sending a letter on official government stationery.

As for Goodwin’s body, it was better not to chance any questions being raised. Along with the underground facility came the two hundred acres it sat beneath. Durant would have the security force find a suitable spot and bury the scientist.

The real issue now was that Goodwin’s death left a gaping hole in Durant’s staff. A materials specialist was vital to the team’s success. That was the reason for the second folder. It contained the names of the three additional candidates Durant had considered initially when putting together his staff. One had married in the intervening time and was no longer an option. Of the other two, one was clearly superior.

There was a problem with this candidate, though. A big one Durant couldn’t solve on his own.

E
IGHT

Washington, DC

October 21, 1942

D
URANT ARRIVED IN
the capital via military transport just after sunrise.

From a Western Union office in the city, he sent a telegram to Grace Tully, the president’s secretary.

The Williams Report is in. Please advise.

Though she would have no idea what this meant, she had been instructed to always inform her boss when telegrams concerning the Williams Report were received.

Durant then headed to the apartment he rented with project funds, and freshened up while he waited.

The call came at 11:26 a.m.

“The president would like to see you at two p.m.,” Miss Tully said.

“I’ll be there. Thank you.”

Durant arrived at the West Wing thirty minutes before his appointed time.

“Something’s come up,” Miss Tully said once he was escorted to the anteroom of the Oval Office. “If you can, the president would like you to wait and he’ll squeeze you in at the first opportunity.”

“Of course.”

Not long after he took a seat, General Patton and Admiral Hewitt arrived and were immediately led in to see FDR. The president’s next appointment was with a man Miss Tully referred to simply as Congressman. Following him, a uniformed admiral Durant didn’t recognize and a man in civilian clothing entered the Oval Office together. Their meeting lasted until a few minutes past 3:30.

As they were walking out, Miss Tully’s phone rang.

“Yes, sir?” she said. “Very good, Mr. President.” She hung up and looked at Durant. “You have ten minutes before his next meeting starts.”

Durant hurried into the Oval Office. Though this was the fourth time he’d met Roosevelt there, the sense of awe he felt as he crossed to the president’s desk was as intense as it had been on his first visit.

“Dr. Durant,” FDR said, motioning to the empty guest chair. “Good to see you again. Have you brought me good news?”

“I wish that were so, Mr. President,” Durant replied as he sat.

“I don’t need to remind you how important any discovery you make could be to the war effort.”

“No, sir. We are well aware of that. And we are doing our best.”

“I’m sure you are. But we need results, not wasted effort.”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a tense moment of silence before the president said, “I assume there’s something you wanted to discuss.”

“There is.” Leaving much of the details out, he told the president about Goodwin’s passing and the need to find a replacement.

“If you’re coming to me for recommendations, then I’m going to be concerned.”

“No, Mr. President. I know exactly who we need. What I’m hoping you could help with is assistance in his recruitment.”

Durant removed a folder from his briefcase and set it on the president’s desk, opening it to show FDR the sheet of paper inside.

The president read for a few moments and then looked up. “You don’t like to make things easy, do you?”

“He’s the best.”

Roosevelt looked at the paper again. “Is there a backup?”

Hesitantly, Durant said, “Yes, sir.”

“One that’s more realistic?”

“He’s in California.”

“I see. But he’s not as good as…” He tapped the file.

“No, Mr. President. Not even close.”

Roosevelt closed the folder. “May I hold on to this?”

“Of course.”

“Is there anything else?”

“No, sir,” Durant said.

The president held out his hand again. “Good to see you, Dr. Durant.” After they shook, FDR picked up the file and slipped it into a drawer. “I’ll get back to you on this, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

“I won’t, Mr. President.”

__________

T
HE APARTMENT PHONE
rang at two a.m.

Durant slapped around until his hand landed on the receiver. Rolling onto his side, he raised it to his ear. “Hello?”

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” the president said.

“Not at all, sir.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Dr. Durant.”

Still half asleep, Durant automatically said, “Yes, sir.”

The president snickered. “I wanted you to know that I looked into the matter we discussed, and it turns out there might be a way to make it happen. Though it may take a little time.”

“I’d assumed that, sir. Believe me, he’d be worth the wait.”

“Check with me next week. I should know more then.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. Thank you so much.”

N
INE

Kazakhstan, Soviet Union

Seventy-five kilometers northeast of the Caspian Sea

January 20, 1943

S
ECRECY WAS NOTHING
new to Magnus Kozakov.

Controlling the flow of information was the lifeblood of the Soviet Union. As a government scientist, he was expected to do his work, report only to his superiors, and tell no one else what he was doing.

If anything, Magnus had to adhere to these rules even more closely than most others. His mother was German. Not exactly the kind of lineage one wanted when Hitler’s armies were on Russian soil. If not for Kozakov’s brain, he would have been summarily exiled to a Siberian gulag years ago. Even then, plenty of intellectuals had been forced to make the long journey west.

What saved Kozakov was that when it came to materials science, no one in the Soviet Union—and, as he would soon learn, the entire world—understood the subject better than he did. So, in a time of war, when new and stronger materials were needed to aid the fight, his German roots became easier to overlook.

He lived in a town that was numbered but not named, and sealed off from the rest of the world. The place was filled with an imbalanced mix of scientists working on secret projects and soldiers making sure those scientists stayed on task. In addition to the constant patrols roaming the streets, a guard seemed to be stationed at nearly every corner.

On the evening of January twentieth, when Kozakov arrived home at the stark two-room flat where he lived alone, he thought he’d be filling his time eating yet another unsatisfying meal and reading until he fell asleep. What he didn’t expect was to find two men sitting at his dining table. As he started to ask who they were, a third man moved out from behind the door and shoved a rag into his mouth to silence him.

So, the State had finally decided his tainted bloodline could no longer be tolerated, he thought. It didn’t matter which division of secret police these men were with, in the end Kozakov would likely be dead, either by a bullet in his head or by starvation and exposure in a gulag. Deep down, he’d always known they would come for him someday.

One of the other men rose and walked over until he was standing right in front of Kozakov. The scientist steeled himself, ready to hear whatever trumped-up charge was about to be leveled against him. But instead of speaking, the man jammed a hypodermic needle into Kozakov’s arm.

The world went dark.

__________

K
OZAKOV WOKE TO
the sound of
a loud drone.

He tried to sit up but was thwarted by straps holding him down to a bed. Stranger still, the bed itself was vibrating.

He looked around and wondered for a moment if he was dreaming. Through a window on the curved wall opposite him, clouds bobbed across a blue sky. The only conclusion he could draw was that he was in an airplane. That seemed more than a bit generous for a half-German supposed traitor.

Voices drew his attention past his feet. Four men occupied the only chairs in the cabin.

He attempted to shout, but his throat was so dry his words barely made it past his lips. He swallowed several times and then tried again. “What’s going on? Where are you taking me?”

The heads turned, and one of the men said something to the others before rising and heading back toward Kozakov.

He smiled as he neared. “Good morning.”

Though Kozakov understood him, the lingering haze from whatever drug he’d been given prevented him for a moment from realizing the man had spoken in English, not Russian.

“Who are you?” Kozakov demanded in his native tongue. “What am I doing here?”

The man crouched beside the bed. “I’d love to answer your questions, but they’ll have to wait. Right now all you need to know is that we’re going on a little trip.”

Though Kozakov hadn’t spoken English since the last scientific conference he’d attended before the war, he was proficient enough to know his kidnapper spoke it like a native. A secret police trick, no doubt, to test Kozakov’s loyalties.

Sticking to Russian, Kozakov said, “General Volodin will not be happy. He will send people to retrieve me.” Volodin was in charge of the town where Kozakov lived. “It will be better for you if you take me back immediately.”

The man smiled again. “He can send all the men he wants, but he’ll never find you.”

Blood froze in Kozakov’s veins. “Where are you taking me?”

“All in good time, Doctor.”