He broke into a sprint, his trench coat snapping behind him. He reached the central control hub—a wall of spinning magnetic tapes and glowing vacuum tubes. At the heart of it sat a mahogany briefcase, wired directly into the warehouse’s power grid.
"Coplan, do you copy?" The crackle in his earpiece was faint, buried under layers of Soviet jamming. Agent Secret FX 18 - (1964) 01:33:13
He checked the action on his Beretta. Silence was a luxury he no longer had. Somewhere in the labyrinth of crates ahead, the "Siren" was counting down. It wasn't a bomb, but something worse: a high-frequency transmitter capable of scrambling the guidance systems of every NATO jet over the Mediterranean. He broke into a sprint, his trench coat snapping behind him