The Void Operators 3

Panel 1:Inside a high-tech underground command center carved into Utah mountains. Holographic displays glow with satellite imagery and mission schematics. Drew stands at the center of a tactical table, hands planted flat, studying a 3D map of Pakistan's border region. Jake, Keenan, and Marissa surround the table. Military-grade computers line the walls. The lighting is cool blue-white from the holograms, casting geometric shadows across their faces.

Narrator:“Command Center, Raven Rock DUMBS, Utah. 0600 hours.”

Panel 2:Close on Drew's face as he traces a route across the border with one finger. His expression is focused, analytical. The hologram reflects in his eyes as he studies the topography.

“Drew: We cross here. Afghan warlord controls the pass—CIA asset.”

Panel 3:Marissa leans forward, her small frame barely reaching the table height. Her eyes scan the holographic data with sharp focus. She points to a facility marked on the map—a white rectangular structure nestled in a mountain valley.

“Marissa: Pakistani bio-lab. Deep in the valleys. Heavily guarded.”

Panel 4:Jake and Keenan exchange a look—no words, just a nod between two operators who've done this before. The weight of the mission settles on them. Behind them, the command center's security feeds display live satellite imagery of Pakistan's mountain terrain.

Panel 5:Full shot of the four operators stepping away from the table. Drew pulls up a vehicle schematic on a second holographic display—a beat-up Toyota truck, rusted and dented on the outside, but the hologram reveals a cutaway showing a state-of-the-art engine and extended fuel tank beneath the weathered exterior.

“Drew: Vehicle's clean on the inside. No radios to track. Keenan: Invisible until we need to move.”

Panel 6:The four operators turn toward a weapons rack on the far wall. Military-grade gear hangs in organized rows. In the foreground, Drew reaches for a silenced sidearm. The team moves with practiced efficiency, checking weapons and gear. Marissa straps a compact tablet to her vest. Jake grabs a combat knife. Keenan loads a magazine with methodical precision.

“Drew: Wheels up in thirty. Gear check now.”

Panel 7:Close-up of Drew's jaw as he clips his communicator to his throat. The device is small, almost invisible—a thin curved piece of tech that nestles against his neck. His eyes are hard, ready.

Narrator:“Pakistan. Day One. 1200 hours.”

Panel 1:The beat-up white Toyota truck bounces along a dirt road in the Afghan-Pakistan border region. The landscape is brutal—jagged mountains, sparse vegetation, blazing sun. Heat waves shimmer off the asphalt. The truck is visibly weathered, rust streaking its panels, dents along the sides. Inside, through the dusty windows, four figures can be barely made out.

Narrator:“The border crossing goes clean. The warlord's men wave them through without stopping.”

Panel 2:Interior of the truck. Drew grips the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Keenan sits in the passenger seat, a tactical tablet in his lap displaying drone telemetry. Jake and Marissa occupy the rear seats. The truck's interior is sparse—military-grade, no civilian comforts. The engine hums with a deep, powerful note that betrays the advanced mechanics beneath.

“Drew: Staying off-radar. No military traffic on this route.”

Panel 3:The truck suddenly veers off the paved road and onto a dirt path, kicking up a cloud of dust. The landscape is barren—rock formations, sparse brush, no sign of civilization. The heat is visible as a shimmer in the air. The truck slows, then stops behind a massive boulder that towers 30 feet high, providing complete concealment from the main road.

“Jake: Contact. Two kilometers northeast.”

Panel 4:Jake reaches into the back seat and pulls out four bottles of ice water, condensation beading on the plastic. He hands one to each teammate. The water is ice-cold despite the desert heat—a small mercy in the oppressive environment. Marissa takes hers gratefully, Keenan nods acknowledgment.

“Jake: Hydrate. Temperature's 127 degrees out there.”

Panel 5:Keenan reaches past Marissa and pulls a sleek drone from a padded case in the back. The device is small, military-grade, with folding rotors. He unfolds it with practiced hands, then opens the truck door and steps out onto the scorching earth. The heat distortion rises from the ground in visible waves.

“Keenan: Running drone recon. Two thousand feet.”

Panel 6:The drone rises into the sky, climbing higher and higher until it's a small speck against the brilliant blue. From the truck, Keenan operates it via remote control. On the tablet screen visible in his lap (through the windshield), a bird's-eye view of the Pakistani facility materializes—a white two-story building nestled in a mountain valley, surrounded by concrete walls. Figures move in the courtyard. Military vehicles sit parked along the perimeter. Guard positions are marked by small heat signatures.

Narrator:“The facility is exactly where intelligence said it would be.”

Panel 7:Close on Keenan's face as he studies the thermal feed. His dark eyes scan the data with surgical precision. Behind him, through the truck window, the facility is visible in the distance—a white building barely discernible in the heat shimmer.

“Keenan: Eight guards outside. Two at the gate. Sloppy positioning.”

Panel 8:The Toyota truck suddenly accelerates, tires spinning on the dirt. It roars forward like a predator released, heading directly toward the facility. Inside, the four operators brace themselves. The speedometer climbs past 80 miles per hour on rough terrain. Dust billows behind them in a massive cloud.

“Drew: Go time.”

Panel 1:The truck slams to a halt 500 yards behind a massive rocky outcropping that completely hides them from the facility. Dust settles around the vehicle. The engine cuts off. Silence. The facility is visible in the distance, a white rectangle in the valley below, smoke beginning to rise from somewhere inside.

Panel 2:The four operators exit the truck in rapid sequence. They move with military precision. Each wears desert-pattern OCP (Operational Camouflage Pattern) combat uniforms. Each carries a compact tactical backpack. They form a loose tactical line behind the rock formation, weapons ready, eyes forward.

“Drew: Cloaks on. Now.”

Panel 3:Four small devices activate on their chests—sleek, futuristic tech that glows faintly. The effect is immediate: each operator's body becomes nearly transparent, a visible shimmer in the air like heat distortion or a Predator-style cloaking field. Their outlines are barely perceptible—you can track them only if you're looking directly at where they were, watching for the ripple of displaced air and faint outline of human form.

Narrator:“Adaptive camouflage suits. Active invisibility. Not perfect—just good enough.”

Panel 4:The four invisible figures move silently down the slope toward the facility. Their footfalls are completely soundless. They navigate the rocky terrain with practiced stealth, weapons drawn and ready. The only indication of their presence is the faint shimmer in the air—barely visible distortions in the landscape.

Narrator:“Approach vector is clear. Guards are stationary.”

Panel 5:The facility's courtyard comes into view. Under a large canvas tent, four Pakistani military guards sit at a table, rifles resting on the surface in front of them. A large industrial fan blows behind them. A small television sits on a wooden shelf, displaying a soccer match. The guards are relaxed, hot, bored—not vigilant. The invisible operators are now twenty yards away, closing distance.

Panel 6:A dry bush cracks audibly beneath an invisible foot. The sound is sharp, unmistakable. The four guards' heads snap up immediately. They stare in the direction of the sound, hands moving toward their rifles. Seconds stretch. One guard stands, squinting into the heat shimmer, searching for movement.

“Guard: Did you hear that?”

Panel 7:The guards stare into the empty courtyard. No movement. No visible threat. The shimmer could be heat distortion. One guard shrugs, sits back down. Another reaches for his rifle and sets it back on the table. They return their attention to the soccer match. The television commentator's voice is audible, excited in Urdu. The guards relax.

Panel 8:Another crack—closer, only ten yards from the tent now. The guards' eyes widen. One reaches for his rifle. Suddenly, four brilliant white flashes erupt across the courtyard—silenced shots from multiple angles. The muzzle flashes are brief but intense. All four guards convulse and drop. Blood sprays across the table and tent canvas. The television continues playing the soccer match, indifferent.

Panel 9:The four guards lie motionless on and around the table, blood pooling beneath them. The fan continues to blow. The television soccer match plays on. The courtyard is silent again except for the ambient hum of the fan and distant voices inside the facility.

Panel 1:Two Pakistani military guards emerge from the facility's side entrance, walking casually toward the tent. They haven't heard the gunfire—the silencers were perfectly effective. They're laughing about something. As they round the corner of the facility, they see the tent and the bodies slumped around the table. They freeze. One reaches for his radio.

“Guard: What the—”

Panel 2:White flashes erupt. Both guards are hit simultaneously—precise headshots from two different angles. They collapse backward, arms flailing. Blood sprays across the white facility wall. One guard's radio tumbles from his hand and skids across the concrete.

Panel 3:An explosive charge materializes in mid-air, appearing out of nowhere as it adheres to the facility's outer concrete wall. The adhesive holds it perfectly in place. It's a shaped charge, military-grade, designed for precise structural demolition. The red LED timer on its face counts down: 5...4...3...

Panel 4:A massive explosion tears through the facility's outer wall. A twenty-foot-wide crater opens in the white concrete. Debris explodes outward. Dust and smoke billow into the air. Inside the facility, alarms begin to wail. Emergency lights flash red. The sound of running footsteps echoes through the corridors.

Panel 5:Pakistani military guards pour out of interior corridors, weapons drawn, responding to the breach. They move in tactical formation toward the explosion site. Their faces show confusion and alarm. They're searching for the threat, weapons raised. Behind them, more guards are emerging from deeper sections of the facility.

Panel 6:White flashes erupt in the middle of the corridor. Muzzle flashes from invisible shooters firing from multiple angles. Guards convulse and fall. Bodies pile up in the hallway. More guards come around the corner and are immediately cut down by precise fire. The invisible operators move through the facility like ghosts, eliminating every guard they encounter.

Panel 7:Twenty Pakistani military guards lie dead throughout the facility's main corridor. Blood streaks the white walls. Bodies are stacked against each other. The emergency lights continue to flash red. The facility is silent except for the alarms. The invisible operators stand among the bodies, weapons ready, waiting for any remaining resistance.

Narrator:“Twenty guards. Twelve seconds. Flawless execution.”

Panel 8:The four invisible operators deactivate their cloaking devices simultaneously. They flicker back into visibility, now standing in the blood-soaked corridor in their desert camouflage uniforms, weapons ready. Their faces are calm, professional, unmoved by the carnage. Ahead of them, a thick translucent plastic wall is visible—a reinforced biological containment barrier. Behind the plastic, two scientists in full white biochemical suits are visible, staring in shock at the four armed operators.

Panel 1:Keenan steps forward to an intercom mounted on the plastic wall. His hand moves to the speaker button. His face is hard, composed. Behind the plastic, the two scientists in biochemical suits press backward, terrified. One has his hand on a containment unit. Keenan's voice is about to deliver a threat that will determine the next few seconds of these scientists' lives.

“Keenan: You have ten seconds to shut down the lab.”

Panel 2:Keenan's voice crackles through the intercom, speaking fluent Urdu with perfect accent and authority. The scientists flinch. One of them immediately moves to a control panel and begins shutting down the biological equipment. Containers of unknown liquid begin to drain. The other scientist runs toward a heavy metal door.

“Keenan: Or you'll meet your god very soon.”

Panel 3:One scientist frantically inputs a code into a massive metal door's lock system. The door hisses as its seals disengage. It swings inward. The scientist runs toward it. Behind him, the first scientist has finished shutting down the equipment and stands with his hands raised in surrender.

Panel 4:The metal door is now open. The two scientists emerge into the corridor where the four operators stand waiting. Their biochemical suits are pristine white, a stark contrast to the blood-soaked walls around them. They move slowly, hands visible and empty. Drew and Keenan have their weapons trained on them. The scientists' eyes are wide with terror behind their helmet visors.

Panel 5:Four silenced pistols fire in rapid succession. Each scientist is hit with a single precise shot to the head. Their bodies crumple to the floor. The silence is immediate—no screams, no struggle, just the sound of silenced weapons and bodies falling. The operators holster their weapons without changing expression.

Panel 6:Marissa and Jake sprint back into the containment lab. They move directly to the biological storage units and begin loading vials into their tactical backpacks. Each vial is carefully placed in protective foam inserts. The vials glow faintly under the laboratory lighting—unknown biological samples of immense value and danger. Marissa's face is focused, methodical. Jake works with equal precision.

“Marissa: All samples secured. Moving.”

Panel 7:Drew moves to his throat communicator. His hand touches the device and his jaw moves as he speaks. His eyes are hard, locked forward. Behind him, Keenan provides security, weapon ready. The facility is now fully compromised—their presence is no longer secret.

“Drew: The falcon has its prey. Requesting immediate extraction.”

Panel 1:The sound of helicopter rotors becomes audible, growing louder. A sleek black helicopter appears over the mountain ridge—a MH-60 Black Hawk with angular stealth modifications. Its paint is so black it seems to absorb light. The fuselage has faceted panels like a stealth fighter. It descends rapidly toward the facility's courtyard, rotors churning the air. The pilot is invisible in the cockpit, but his flying is aggressive and precise.

Narrator:“Major O'Connell. 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment. Fastest rotorcraft pilot in the world.”

Panel 2:The Black Hawk's wheels touch down in the facility courtyard, kicking up dust. The rotor wash is powerful but controlled. The side door is already open. A crew chief in flight suit leans out, gesturing urgently for the operators to board. His face is intense, focused. The helicopter is ready for immediate departure.

Panel 3:The four operators sprint from the facility toward the waiting helicopter. Marissa and Jake carry their loaded backpacks. Drew and Keenan provide rear security, weapons ready. They run in tactical formation, moving fast but controlled. Behind them, smoke still rises from the breach in the facility wall. The rotor wash pounds down on them, nearly knocking them sideways.

Panel 4:The crew chief reaches out and grabs each operator as they board, helping them into the helicopter bay. He's a muscular man in flight gear, his face intense and focused. He moves with practiced efficiency, pulling each operator inside and positioning them. Marissa boards last, the backpack held tight to her chest.

“Crew Chief: Get in! Move!”

Panel 5:Inside the helicopter bay. The crew chief moves quickly, attaching heavy harness devices to each operator's belt. The harnesses are industrial-grade, designed to keep soldiers secure during high-G maneuvers. He clips the harness to a central attachment point on the helicopter's airframe. His movements are swift and practiced.

“Crew Chief: Major doesn't like to lose people. Hold tight.”

Panel 6:Close on the crew chief's face. He's grinning—not with humor, but with the manic intensity of a combat veteran who lives for this. His eyes are wild, almost crazed. He has the look of someone who's had too much adrenaline and not enough sleep for too long. He yells over the rotor noise, gesturing at each operator.

“Crew Chief: You all took your shots this morning? Good. You're good for five days.”

Panel 7:The Black Hawk helicopter lifts off violently, tilting hard to one side as it banks. The operators are pressed against their harnesses, gripping the sides of the bay. Through the open door, the Pakistani facility recedes rapidly. The helicopter is flying at extreme altitude and speed. Below, the mountain terrain blurs past at incredible velocity. The ride is rough, violent, barely controlled.

“Crew Chief: JD Ultra 2. Ten times standard military grade. You won't sleep for five days.”

Panel 8:Inside the helicopter cockpit. Major O'Connell sits in the pilot's seat, his face obscured by his helmet and visor. But his hands are steady on the controls, his movements precise and aggressive. The cockpit displays glow with tactical information. The altitude indicator shows they're flying at maximum speed through a mountain canyon. Ahead, the terrain rises and falls like a roller coaster. The Major banks the helicopter hard, weaving through the mountains with inches to spare from the rock walls.

Narrator:“Flying ten feet off the ground. 300 miles per hour. Through a canyon. Blindfolded would be easier.”

Panel 1:The Black Hawk helicopter screams across the Afghan-Pakistan border. Below, the landscape is identical on both sides—jagged mountains, sparse vegetation, harsh terrain. But on the Afghan side, the helicopter's altitude drops even lower. Major O'Connell is pushing the aircraft to its absolute limits, flying ten feet above the ground, weaving between rock formations and canyon walls. The ride is violently turbulent.

Narrator:“Afghanistan side. Safer. No Pakistani air defense. Still need to make it to the facility.”

Panel 2:In the helicopter bay, the four operators are being thrown around by the turbulent flight. Jake has his hands gripping the side rail. Marissa's backpack is secured against her chest. Keenan's face shows no emotion despite the violent motion. Drew is watching the terrain blur past through the open door, his expression calm.

Narrator:“The route to the mountain facility takes three hours. Three hours of this.”

Panel 3:Ahead, the terrain rises dramatically. A massive mountain face appears—a sheer wall of rock that looks completely impassable. The helicopter is flying directly toward it at 300 miles per hour. In the bay, the operators' eyes widen. Jake grips the rail tighter. Marissa leans forward. The crew chief is grinning that same manic grin, clearly enjoying their terror.

“Jake: We're hitting that mountain—”

Panel 4:The helicopter passes through a shimmering field—a holographic projection of the mountain face. The image flickers briefly, revealing a massive hangar entrance carved into the mountain. The operators see the projection distort as they pass through it. Beyond is a vast underground cavern, perfectly illuminated by artificial lights. The hangar is enormous, easily capable of housing multiple aircraft.

“Crew Chief: Welcome to the facility.”

Panel 5:The Black Hawk touches down inside the massive underground hangar. The rotor wash echoes off the cavern walls. The helicopter's engines power down. The crew chief is high-fiving the pilots visible through the cockpit window. The operators are released from their harnesses and begin to disembark.

Narrator:“Southern Afghanistan. A DUMBS facility. Carved out by thermobaric bombs. Nothing left alive in a hundred-mile radius.”

Panel 6:The four operators jump out of the helicopter and sprint toward a massive metal container sitting on the hangar floor. The container is industrial-grade, marked with hazard warnings. It's filled with liquid nitrogen, visibly smoking. Marissa and Jake approach it with their backpacks. They carefully place the two backpacks containing the biological samples into the container. The liquid nitrogen engulfs the backpacks, preserving them at extreme cold.

“Marissa: Samples secured in cryo-containment.”

Panel 7:A sleek black aircraft sits at the far end of the hangar—a hypersonic drone that looks like a squat, angular version of the SR-71 Blackbird. Its surface is completely black, absorbing light. The cryogenic container is being loaded onto the aircraft by automated systems. The container slides into the aircraft's payload bay. The aircraft's engines begin to glow with a faint blue light—not fire, but some kind of advanced propulsion system.

Narrator:“The samples are being transported on a hypersonic drone. Mach 10. No heat signature. No radar return.”

Panel 8:Drew touches his throat communicator. His jaw moves as he speaks into the device. His face is calm, professional. Around him, the hangar bustles with activity as the hypersonic drone prepares for launch.

“Drew: The falcon has its prey. Prey is en route to the nest.”

Panel 1:The hypersonic drone accelerates down the hangar runway. Its engines glow brighter. The aircraft lifts off and climbs toward the mountain exit. It passes through the holographic camouflage and disappears into the sky at impossible speed, leaving no trail, no heat signature, nothing to track.

Panel 2:Inside a command center in the underground facility. A three-star Air Force general stands at attention. He's in dress uniform, medals and insignia on his chest. His name plate reads 'General Solari'. He salutes Drew. Drew returns the salute. Keenan, Jake, and Marissa stand behind Drew. The general's expression is one of respect mixed with slight concern.

“General Solari: Outstanding work. You have the facility at your disposal.”

Panel 3:Drew stands face to face with General Solari. Drew's posture is relaxed but authoritative. In his hand, he holds a Presidential badge—a gleaming piece of insignia that marks him as operating under the highest presidential authority. He also holds a single piece of paper, clearly marked with the presidential seal and classified markings.

“Drew: We'll need quarters and full base access. Until further orders.”

Panel 4:General Solari examines the presidential badge and the authorization document. His expression changes—he understands immediately what this means. He's now dealing with someone operating directly under presidential authority, beyond his jurisdiction, beyond question.

“General Solari: I see. No choice in the matter, then.”

Panel 5:General Solari personally escorts the four operators through the underground facility's corridors. The facility is massive—high-tech equipment, computer stations, armed personnel. They pass through a security checkpoint. Solari leads them to a corridor marked 'VIP Quarters'. The facility is clearly a state-of-the-art military installation carved into solid rock.

“General Solari: Best quarters on the base. Private showers. Dining facility is excellent.”

Panel 6:The team separates in the facility. Marissa heads toward a computer station, a lieutenant colonel escorting her. Jake and Keenan move toward the dining facility, both clearly hungry. Drew remains standing in the corridor, his communicator active, waiting for further orders. The facility hums with military activity around them.

“Marissa: I need access to the quantum satellite network. Omaha, Nebraska.”

Panel 7:Hours later. The four operators sit together in the facility's dining hall. They're still wearing their desert camouflage uniforms, but now they have a small badge clipped to their chests—a four-star badge, marking them as high-ranking officials. The other soldiers in the dining hall give them a wide berth, clearly aware that these people are something beyond normal military hierarchy. They eat in relative silence, but the tension has eased slightly.

Narrator:“The badge prevents questions. Four stars. Presidential authority. No one asks.”

Panel 8:Drew's throat communicator activates. His jaw tightens as he listens to a voice only he can hear. His eyes shift to focus on something distant. Around him, the dining hall continues with regular military activity. The other soldiers don't notice the communication. Drew's expression hardens—new orders have arrived. New mission. The magnitude of what's coming is evident only to him.

Narrator:“Command has a new assignment. The Iraqi Museum of Antiquities. Something found in the desert. Something with power potential. Something that can't be allowed to fall into the wrong hands.”

Panel 1:Drew stands and walks toward a secure conference room. Keenan, Jake, and Marissa follow, understanding immediately that something significant has happened. The conference room door seals behind them. Inside, a large tactical screen displays a map of Iraq and the location of the Baghdad Museum of Antiquities. The screen shows schematics of the museum's basement level—a massive warehouse filled with thousands of boxes stacked in no particular order.

“Drew: New mission. Iraqi Museum. Basement level. Box 1771.”

Panel 2:Close on the tactical screen. It shows the museum basement as a vast warehouse—the size of four football fields—filled with thousands of boxes stacked with no apparent organization. The camera pans across the warehouse, showing the impossible task: finding one specific box among thousands.

“Marissa: How do we find one box in that chaos?”

Panel 3:Drew's face shows calculation. He's already thinking three steps ahead. His eyes move as he processes the problem. His jaw tightens as he considers the solution.

“Drew: We need a 9S100. Someone who can measure exotic energy signatures.”

Panel 4:Drew stands in front of General Solari in the general's command office. The general is seated at his desk. Behind him, windows look out over the underground hangar. Drew's posture is respectful but commanding. He makes his request with the confidence of someone accustomed to getting what he asks for.

“Drew: General, I need a 9S100. Do you have anyone on this base?”

Panel 5:General Solari leans back in his chair. A slight smile crosses his face. He nods. He clearly has exactly what Drew is asking for.

“General Solari: I have two on the base. Master Sergeant Braswell and Technical Sergeant Archuleta.”

Panel 6:The dining hall, later. A young man in an Air Force flight suit sits down across from Drew. This is Technical Sergeant James Archuleta—white, fit, with short dark hair and intelligent eyes. He has the bearing of someone who's been trained to measure things no one should ever have to measure. He doesn't salute, just sits. His expression is confident, almost casual.

“James Archuleta: I hear you guys need some help.”

Panel 7:Drew leans forward across the table. His voice is low, controlled. Around them, other soldiers are far enough away that they can't hear the conversation. Drew is about to reveal classified information at the highest levels.

“Drew: Presidential clearance. Galactic level. We know about crash retrievals. Non-human biologics.”

Panel 8:James Archuleta's expression doesn't change. He's clearly heard similar things before. His eyes are calm, understanding. He knows exactly what Drew is talking about and what it means.

“James Archuleta: I understand. What do you need?”

Panel 9:Drew continues, his voice barely above a whisper. Keenan, Jake, and Marissa sit at the table with him. The team introduces themselves to James Archuleta. Drew explains the mission—Iraq, the museum, the artifact, the time pressure. James listens intently, occasionally nodding.

“Drew: We're going into Iraq. Underground warehouse. Size of four football fields.”

Panel 10:James Archuleta nods. He's clearly understood the mission and its implications. His response is confident and direct.

“James Archuleta: I can fit all my equipment in two London Bridge packs. I've got two. Need someone to carry the second.”

Panel 11:Drew's face shows approval. He stands from the table. Jake, Keenan, and Marissa follow his lead. The decision is made. James Archuleta is now part of the team.

“Drew: You're in. Let's move.”

Panel 12:A private jet sits on the runway at the underground facility. It's a 10-seater, sleek, unmarked. The boarding stairs are down. General Solari stands at the bottom of the stairs, watching as the five operators board—Drew, Jake, Keenan, Marissa, and James Archuleta. Each carries tactical gear. The general salutes through the open door. Drew salutes back from inside the aircraft.

“General Solari: Good luck. Bring back what you came for.”

Panel 13:The private jet's engines power up. The aircraft begins to taxi toward the holographic mountain exit. The general watches from the hangar, saluting as the aircraft passes. The jet accelerates and lifts off, climbing toward the mountain camouflage and disappearing into the night sky. The facility falls silent again.

Narrator:“Izmir Air Station, Turkey. Secret runway near the nuclear facility. They'll sleep on the flight. Tomorrow, Iraq. Tomorrow, the museum. Tomorrow, the artifact.”