The warehouse on the edge of the Marseilles docks was a cathedral of rusting iron and the sharp, metallic tang of diesel. At exactly 01:33:13, Agent Secret FX-18—known to his handlers as Francis Coplan—pressed his back against a cold shipping crate, his silhouette sharp against the moonlight filtering through the skylights.
FX-18 didn't wait for a reply. He pivoted, firing two suppressed shots that sent a guard tumbling into a stack of empty oil drums. The clang echoed like a funeral bell. 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. The warehouse on the edge of the Marseilles
"Coplan, do you copy?" The crackle in his earpiece was faint, buried under layers of Soviet jamming. He pivoted, firing two suppressed shots that sent
"Loud and clear," he whispered, his eyes tracking a shadow moving on the catwalk above. "But I have company. They’ve brought in the Corsican mercenaries."
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.
