Mine: The Arrival (8 page)

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 happy 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.”

E
LEVEN

A
FTER 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.

T
WELVE

July 3, 1943

K
OZAKOV 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 last 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.

“Shall we give it a spin?” Durant asked.

__________

T
HE DRILL WAS
attached to a metal arm mounted to a weighted pole, so that it could run without anyone holding it.

Kozakov examined the two bits again and chose the one he thought inferior. His first attempt would be made on the broken rod piece, just in case the bit worked too well and damaged something important inside.

After he secured the rod in an industrial-strength brace, Kozakov mounted the bit into the drill and moved the arm so that the tip of the balabanite was almost touching the rod. He then turned to Durant. Crowded around the director was the rest of the Project Titan team, all hoping to finally witness a breakthrough after years of frustration.

“May I begin?” Kozakov asked.

“You’re in charge on this,” Durant said. “Go whenever you feel ready.”

Kozakov donned his safety goggles. “It may be best if everyone steps behind the safety panels.”

There were three of the thick metal panels in the room. Each had a rectangular window of equally thick glass through which observers could look.

As soon as everyone was repositioned, Kozakov turned on the audio recording machine used for all experiments on the craft. “This is Dr. Kozakov. The date is July third, 1943. The time, two fourteen p.m. I will now be attempting to drill into the detached Titan appendage. I will be using the newly received balabanite drill bit. I have selected a point along the broken section. My premise is that this will be the least resistant area. I’m turning the drill on now.”

He flipped the switch. Because the balabanite was in its natural form, it looked lopsided as it began spinning, but quickly became a uniform blur by the time it reached full speed.

“I will now touch the drill to the appendage.”

Using levers that were part of the structure holding the drill, he extended the arm forward until the tip of the balabanite touched the rod.

A loud screech filled the room. Kozakov’s eyes slammed shut as the sound seemed to almost touch his mind. He thought he heard others yelling but he wasn’t sure.

Blindly he slapped out for the lever, trying to pull the drill back. When he finally moved it, the sound immediately stopped.

He turned off the drill and looked back at the safety panels. The others were no longer visible through the windows.

He said, “Test ended. Time, two fifteen p.m.” He hesitated, thinking he should document what had just happened, but he had no idea what to say. “Results to be determined.”

Leaving the recorder on, he hurried to check on the others. Most were doubled over, and those who weren’t were sitting on the floor with their hands on their heads. Though they all appeared shaken, no one seemed seriously hurt by the noise.

“What the hell was that?” Durant asked, still wincing.

Kozakov shook his head. “I-I am not sure. I have never heard anything like it before.”

“Did the drill at least work?”

“I have not checked.”

Rubbing his temples, the director said, “Well, then, do it, goddamn it!”

Kozakov hurried back to the appendage. At first it looked as though the surface was undamaged. But when he looked at the point of contact through a magnifying glass, he spotted a mark. It was tiny, but it hadn’t been there before.

He looked at the balabanite bit. What he saw both excited and troubled him. A flake of the craft was resting on the tip, meaning that for the first time, they’d been able to pry loose a little of the craft. The bad news was that the balabanite—the hardest substance on the planet—had cracked.

Kozakov carefully teased the sliver of shiny metal into a container before showing it to the others. “The bit broke to get this much.”