Mine: The Arrival

by Brett Battles

  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.

  EIGHT

  Washington, DC

  October 21, 1942

  DURANT 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.”

  __________

  THE 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.”

  NINE

  Kazakhstan, Soviet Union

  Seventy-five kilometers northeast of the Caspian Sea

  January 20, 1943

  SECRECY 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 p
lace 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.

  __________

  KOZAKOV 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.”

  Kozakov felt the skin on his arm being punctured again and his eyes widened, but they didn’t stay wide for long.

  __________

  WHEN KOZAKOV WOKE next, he was still strapped to a bed, but the plane’s cabin had been replaced by a small, rectangular room with walls of metal.

  He weaved in and out of consciousness for a while after that, so he was unsure how much time had passed between the moment he first woke and when the door to the room opened.

  Two men in dark business suits entered. The younger one was one of the men who had been sitting at Kozakov’s kitchen table. The older one he hadn’t seen before.

  “Dr. Kozakov, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” the older one said in English. “My name is Mr. Washington and this is Mr. Adams. How are you feeling?”

  “Feeling? How do you think I am feeling?” Kozakov said, forgetting to pretend he couldn’t speak the same language. “Where am I? What is going on?”

  “I know you’re confused, and I wish I could tell you more. All I’m authorized to say is that you’re on a United States Tambor-class submarine, approximately one hundred and fifty feet below the surface of the Indian Ocean.”

  Kozakov stared at him in disbelief. The United States? He would have understood if Germany were behind this, but one of the Soviet Union’s allies? “You’re lying. This is some kind of test, isn’t it?” He switched back to Russian. “Which gulag is this? I’m a loyal Soviet citizen. I haven’t done anything wrong!”

  “I hate to disappoint you, Doctor, but you are not in the Soviet Union any longer. You are now a guest of the United States government.”

  Kozakov sneered. “Why would the United States want to kidnap me?”

  “We prefer to think of it as extracting you from a situation you’d eventually want to leave anyway,” Washington said. “As for why you’re here, we don’t know. Our job is merely to assist you with any needs.”

  “I need to return to the Soviet Union! My government will not react well to one of their citizens being taken from them. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve already contacted your government and demanded my release.”

  “I would be surprised,” Washington said. “As far as your comrades back in Russia are concerned, you’re dead.”

  That silenced Kozakov.

  “A terrible tragedy, really,” the man went on. “You were making dinner and your stove caught on fire. Several apartments were destroyed before the blaze was put out. Fortunately, yours was the only death. You made it as far as your living room before being overcome by smoke. The flames took care of the rest. Though the body that was found was unrecognizable, there were more than enough indicators to identify you.”

  Kozakov gaped at him for a moment, and then tensed in anger. “They will be even more furious when they find out I am still alive.”

  “Dr. Kozakov, I seriously doubt anyone in your former life will ever discover that.”

  “You’re going to kill me when you’re through with me, is that it?”

  “We don’t do that in the United States.”

  “Everybody does that.”

  Washington smiled, and then turned for the door and left.

  TEN

  AFTER ELEVEN DAYS in the sub and a seventeen-hour flight over what seemed like an endless ocean, Kozakov landed in the United States. Given only enough time to use the toilet, he was then put on another, much smaller plane and flown four hours further east. While Kozakov had basic knowledge of United States geography, he was unable to determine where he was because the passenger windows remained covered throughout the journey.

  A biting chill greeted him when he deplaned. He shivered and rubbed his arms, the jacket he’d been given wholly inadequate for the weather. How he wished he had his coat from home. Fur lined and long enough to cover his knees, it would’ve shielded him from the cold. But he presumed his coat, like all his other things, had burned in the fire that had taken his former life.

  “Where are we?” he asked Adams.

  “This way,” the man said. He headed toward a car waiting at the edge of the runway.

  Kozakov had long ago given up asking questions, as it had never garnered a useful response. He followed his escorts across the asphalt to the car. As they neared, a man climbed out of the vehicle and opened the back door.

  Kozakov sat in the rear seat sandwiched between Washington and Adams. When the car started to move, he looked out the window for something to tell him where he was. He was hoping for a sign identifying the airport. What he didn’t expect to see was a majestic chain of snow-covered mountains.

  “What are those?” he asked.

  Adams turned to see what he was talking about, but it was Washington who answered. “Mo
untains.”

  “Do they have a name?”

  “They do,” Washington said. He leaned forward to address the two men in front. “Close us off.”

  Immediately an electric motor whirred and an opaque barrier rose, cutting off the back of the car from the front. Washington and Adams pulled down blackout shades over all the side windows.

  “This is ridiculous,” Kozakov said. “What does it matter if I see anything? There’s no way for me to escape. I wouldn’t even know where to go if I did.”

  Neither man said anything.

  At least two hours passed before the sedan stopped. Adams exited first and waved for Kozakov to follow.

  Twilight ruled the sky and the air was downright freezing now, a point emphasized by the snow everywhere. In some places it looked to be a meter and a half deep. More hung heavy in the pine trees. The road was covered with it.

  Kozakov turned in a circle. No buildings. Nothing but the woods. If he were still in the Soviet Union, he would have guessed his life was about to end. But he’d long given up the notion he’d been taken by the Soviet secret police.

  Washington joined him and Adams and handed Kozakov a thick manila envelope. “Hold on to this.”

  “What is it?”

  As usual, Washington provided no answer. Kozakov reluctantly tucked the envelope under his arm.

  After blowing some hot air into his cupped hands, he looked at the other two men. “Are we just going to stand here?”

  “Patience, Dr. Kozakov.”

  Somewhere in the distance a branch broke, dropping its load of snow with a muffled plop.

  After a few minutes of stamping his feet to keep them from freezing, Kozakov said, “This is ridiculous. If we’re waiting for something, can’t we do it in the car?”

  He swung around, intending to climb back into the sedan, but Adams grabbed his arm. “Here is fine.”

  Kozakov glared at him, but when that seemed to do no good, he returned his attention to the forest.