Agent Secret Fx 18 - (1964) 01:33:13 -

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.

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. Agent Secret FX 18 - (1964) 01:33:13

"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." 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. Silence was a luxury he no longer had