Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 180: Preparing for the Assault

The order had been given.

No more skirmishes. No more containment.

Tonight, Cubao would burn.

Inside the MOA Complex's main airfield in the reclaimed lands, now an airbase carved from war—floodlights bathed the tarmac in harsh white light. Rows of armored vehicles stood in readiness. Mobile artillery barrels angled toward the eastern horizon. Rotor blades spun lazily as helicopters powered up. Engines hummed like sleeping monsters being stirred awake.

It wasn't just a strike.

It was a reckoning.

Technicians moved with surgical precision beneath the vaulted hangar dome. The Reaper drones—sleek, gray hunter-killers—rested on reinforced racks like silent predators. One by one, ground crews loaded Hellfire missiles beneath their wings, securing them with magnetic clamps and ratcheted locks.

"Payload confirmed," said one of the techs, stepping back as a checklist scrolled across his tablet.

Nearby, Lieutenant Dorian tapped a finger against his headset. "Reaper One-One through Three-Three—systems green. Initiating final UAV systems boot."

Monitors flickered. Engine diagnostics. Flight path overlays. Infrared target queues. Each drone's camera lens whirred quietly as it adjusted focus.

From the ops platform above, Phillip watched the process through a glass window, arms crossed. He said nothing—but his eyes followed every wire, every warhead, every micro-drone hovering in preparation.

Farther down the tarmac, the Apache Guardians and AH-1Z Vipers stood ready, their cockpits glowing with HUD lights and flickering multi-spectrum sensors.

Pilots climbed aboard, checking straps, visor feeds, and weapons interface units. The preflight ritual had become second nature—muscle memory burned into them after countless sorties.

Inside Apache Gunship Echo-Four, Captain Hargrave ran his fingers across the targeting panel.

FLIR: Operational

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Hellfire Missiles: Locked and armed

Hydra Pods: Loaded

Chain Gun: 100% ammo, linked and ready

Radar: Longbow pulse sweep clear

His copilot gave a thumbs up. "Gun is hot."

Hargrave flexed his fingers inside the glove, cracking his neck. "Let's go make some noise."

Engines flared, rotors spooling into a low, thunderous roar.

Across from them, the sleeker Vipers lifted off first—agile and fast, banking left in perfect synchronization as they took to the sky in a tight V formation. The Apaches rose next, slower but heavier, stabilizers adjusting in the air.

Overwatch's air cavalry had launched.

Also within the MOA Complex, M109A7 Paladins lined the bluff like metal beasts awakening from slumber. Each one pointed east, toward Cubao, its long 155mm howitzer angled and fed coordinates by a live uplink from Command Center.

Crewmen in black and camo Overwatch vests moved quickly, loading charges, adjusting elevation, cross-checking GPS vectors.

"Target grid confirmed: 14.6022, 121.0544," shouted Sergeant Renn to his team. "Fire Mission: Zone Saturation. HE rounds only."

He climbed into the Paladin's rear hatch, slamming it shut behind him.

Nearby, HIMARS launchers were being prepped on mobile rigs—each loaded with six Guided MLRS pods and one tactical ATACMS missile prepped for deep impact.

"Launch sequence ready," one operator reported over comms. "Confirming blast radius clear of friendly signatures."

The Warthogs were already taxiing. Short-nosed, wide-winged, and built like flying anvils, the A-10s looked brutal even at rest. But when the twin turbofan engines screamed to full thrust, they sounded like the sky itself was ready to tear open.

Inside Warthog Hammer-One, Lieutenant Reyes adjusted his seat, ran through his GAU-8 Avenger system check, and locked in the strike feed from the Command Center.

Gun: Ready

Loadout: 30mm depleted uranium shells

AGM-65 Mavericks: Armed

Flares: Active

Emergency Afterburner: Locked

He pulled the throttle gently. The A-10 responded with a growl.

As he lifted off the runway, the Warthog's undercarriage retracted and the pilot grinned inside his helmet. "Let's carve this thing open again."

Last to lift, but never least—the Ghostriders.

Three of them, stationed at the far end of the field, powered up with a low thunder that rumbled in the gut. Inside, the crews checked their consoles: weapon targeting systems, thermal acquisition feeds, manual override toggles for the 105mm howitzers.

In Ghostrider One, the lead weapons officer gave a curt nod as his team reviewed the targeting zones.

"Thirty-mil autocannon is hot. Griffins armed. We're good for angel ten on arrival."

The pilot's voice crackled through the comms. "Let's give 'em hell."

The AC-130s lumbered forward and climbed into the darkening sky—massive, slow-moving fortresses with teeth. Each one carried the firepower of a battalion.

Thomas stood at the center of it all—arms behind his back, watching the aerial movements unfold on the digital war map. Dots representing friendly aircraft marked their positions, converging on the Cubao strike zone. Red thermal spikes still pulsed from the area—low, steady—indicating the worm hadn't moved.

Yet.

Marcus approached with a clipboard and tablet. "All units are in the air. Artillery confirms green light for initial salvo. ETA to impact: eight minutes."

Thomas nodded slowly.

"Phase One?"

"Rain hell. Crater the site. Watch for movement."

"And Phase Two?"

"If it twitches, we bury it deeper."

Phillip's voice chimed in from the upper gallery. "Spore clouds forming near the worm's mouth. Symbiotes are agitated. It knows something's coming."

"Let it know," Thomas said coldly. "Let it feel dread."

He turned to the communications officer. "Open line to all strike units."

A short pause.

"You're live, sir," the officer said.

Thomas stepped forward, speaking with calm authority.

"This is Commander Estaris. We are going to finish what we have started. You've trained for this. You've bled for this. And now you're going to end this."

He paused.

"Light Cubao up. No restraint. No mercy."

Then, calmly, he looked toward the map again.

"Show the world what Overwatch does when we come back swinging."

Marcus lingered for a moment, eyes locked on the screen where targeting overlays slowly blinked across the map of Cubao. The outlines of destruction widened with each second—blast radii, impact zones, secondary fire probabilities.

Then he spoke, voice low. "Sir… what about the civilians?"

Thomas didn't look away from the map.

"We've done sweeps. Thermal scans. Reaper One-One didn't catch any major clusters," Marcus continued. "But we both know there could still be people down there. Hiding in basements. Sewers. Bunkers."

A silence followed. Even the operators nearby seemed to pause in anticipation of what Thomas would say.

The weight of command settled like stone on his shoulders.

He exhaled through his nose.

"I know," Thomas said.

He turned slightly, eyes meeting Marcus's.

"There will be casualties."

Marcus's jaw tightened. "We might be killing people who survived this long just to be caught in our blast."

Thomas nodded. Slowly. Deliberately.

"And if we don't act, that thing crawls its way into Makati. Ortigas. The Complex. It burrows through our defenses. It kills thousands more."

He turned back to the screen.

"Sometimes we don't get clean victories, Marcus. Sometimes we make the call no one else will."

He tapped the digital screen.

"This is one of those times. It's worth the risk."