The guards were quick work; it was a little pathetic really, ten soldiers taken out by a drunk in an outdated hunk of meta and an eighty-one year old with only one real arm and one eye. Nick was almost disgusted. As a military man he would just expect better from actual armed forces.
He gestured to Tony that they continue down the hallway to a fork where he dodged left and kept going. That couldn't be the whole of their guard. There had to be more guarding the control room. He'd reached a set of double doors, electronically locked, of course, and was stopped in his tracks by the latest transmission from his operatives: Sir, they've launched! Thirty minutes until impact.Fuck. And the delay was about four minutes this time, so they now had only twenty-six minutes to stop, how many missiles? No one bothered to give him that vital bit of information. Maybe it would be another five minutes before he found out. Or he could just find out for himself by busting into this control room. The controls would probably be in Russian and he sure was glad to have Stark with him for this one. He'd been, surprisingly, useful.