For nearly thirty minutes, the batteries maintained a continuous fire mission, the rhythm of the tubes settling into a mechanical rythme. Each crew worked in a cycle that never truly paused, only shifted, adjusted, and resumed firing.
Rounds were lifted from crates that grew lighter by the minute.
Dropped into tubes already hot from sustained firing, then sent skyward in a steady, punishing cadence.
At six rounds per minute per tube, the pace was controlled but demanding. Every motion had to be deliberate. Too fast, and the tubes risked overheating beyond safe limits. Too slow, and the barrage lost its density.
So they mentained a rythme that allows them to fire continuously without worrying about the tubes overheating anytime soon.
"Check elevation."
"Hold—adjust one mil."
"Send it."
The commands were short, clipped, repeated over and over again.
Though the tubes began radiating heat now.
Even without touching them, the warmth was obvious—air shimmering faintly above the metal, the sharp scent of heated steel mixing with the acrid bite of propellant residue. Some crews wore gloves not just for grip, but to avoid burns when making quick adjustments.
Between volleys, gunners made small corrections—realigning the tubes, confirming direction, checking baseplates that had begun to settle deeper into the ground under repeated recoil. Assistants wiped sweat from their faces with dirty sleeves, then reached for the next round without hesitation.
Dust had been kicked up across the firing line, a fine layer settling over equipment, uniforms, and exposed skin. Each shot added to it, the concussive force disturbing the ground beneath them again and again. The air carried the smell of burnt propellant, oil, and earth—thick enough to linger in the back of the throat.
Voices had grown hoarse.
The movements slightly heavier, but no one slowed down.
At the center of the position, Major Griggs stood near the command tent, his gaze fixed in the direction of the target. The distant horizon was obscured now—not just by range, but by the cumulative effect of the bombardment.
A haze hung in the air, of smoke and dust.
After a moment, an officer approached, moving quickly but without urgency. He stopped beside Griggs and gave a brief nod.
"Sir," he reported, "we've burned through more than half of our mortar ammunition."
Griggs didn't respond immediately.
He absorbed the information, his eyes still forward, listening to the steady thunder of the firing line behind him.
Then he glanced over.
"How long can they keep this up?" he asked.
The officer didn't hesitate.
"At the current rate?" he said. "Around ten minutes, maybe a bit less if they push the tempo."
Griggs nodded once, absorbing the answer.
His gaze returned to the horizon, where the barrage continued to fall.
He then reached for his radio, bringing it up in one smooth motion as the steady thunder of the mortars continued behind him.
"Overlord to Vantage-1, sitrep," he transmitted, voice firm and controlled. "Report effects on target. Over."
A brief burst of static followed.
Then the reply came through, clear despite the distance.
"Vantage-1 to Overlord, copy," the team leader answered. There was a slight pause, as if he was taking in the full picture before speaking again. "Bombardment is highly effective. Airbursts are saturating the target area as planned."
In the background of the transmission, faint echoes of distant detonations could be heard.
Another pause.
Then—
"But the horde is still substantial," the overwatch continued. "We're seeing heavy losses across the center mass, multiple sections collapsing, but numbers remain high. Estimate—" he hesitated briefly, recalculating, "—still tens of thousands standing. Possibly more."
Griggs' expression didn't change.
"Copy that," he replied.
The overwatch pressed on, tone steady but edged with the weight of what they were seeing.
"Density is working against them, but also masking the full effect. Outer layers are still feeding inward. They're not breaking, sir."
Griggs glanced toward the mortar line for a brief moment, then back toward the horizon.
"Understood," he said. "Maintain observation. Continue to provide adjustments if needed."
"Wilco, Overlord."
The line went quiet.
Griggs lowered the radio slightly, the distant rumble of continuous fire filling the space again.
Tens of thousands, still standing.
He took a slow breath, already thinking ahead.
They still have a lot of work to do.
Major Griggs turned without another word and stepped back into the command tent.
Inside, the air was warmer, filled with the low hum of equipment and overlapping radio chatter. Maps were spread across the central table, marked with grease pencil lines and shifting zones. A dedicated radio set sat off to one side—larger, more powerful, tied into a different network.
Griggs moved straight to it, grabbing the handset.
"Overlord to Falcon Base, priority traffic," he transmitted, voice sharp and direct.
Static answered him for a brief second.
Then—
"Falcon Base to Overlord, go ahead."
Griggs didn't hesitate.
"Request immediate scramble of two attack birds," he said. "We need them airborne and moving to grid zero-three-seven by zero-nine-one."
There was a short pause on the other end, the kind that meant the order was being processed, confirmed, relayed.
"Copy, Overlord. Two Apaches on standby. Spooling up now."
Griggs' grip on the handset remained steady.
"Advise pilots this is a live-fire environment," he continued. "Active mortar mission in progress. They are to hold at range until cleared in."
"Understood. Estimated time to lift—five mikes."
Griggs nodded slightly, even though they couldn't see it.
"Expedite," he said. "We need them ready to engage on my mark."
"Wilco, Overlord. Falcon Base out."
The line went quiet.
Griggs lowered the handset slowly, then stepped back out of the tent.
The sound of the mortars hit him again immediately, loud and unrelenting.
••••
By the time thirty minutes had passed, the bombardment had settled into a mechanical rythme.
The initial shock was gone.
What remained was the constant, grinding rhythm of it.
From the rooftop, the skyline in that direction had changed, now obscured by a massive, lingering cloud of dust and smoke. It rose high above the city, spreading outward and drifting with the wind, thick enough to swallow entire blocks from view.
The flashes were harder to see now. Dulled by the haze.
But they were still there, brief pulses of light buried inside the cloud can still be seen, followed by the delayed, rolling thunder that never quite stopped.
Soap leaned against the edge, one arm resting on the concrete as he watched the distant haze, his expression more focused now than earlier.
"They've been at it a while," he said, voice lower. "Still going."
Gaz stood beside him, eyes fixed on the same point, tracking the subtle flickers inside the smoke.
"Yeah," he replied. "And they're not letting up."
Another distant ripple of detonations rolled across the city, the sound arriving like distant thunder.
Ghost stood slightly behind them, unmoving, his gaze steady.
"They've pushed the tubes hard," he said.
Soap let out a quiet breath. "Means there's still plenty left to hit."
Gaz didn't respond immediately. He watched as another faint glow pulsed within the cloud, followed by a deeper, heavier rumble.
"Or it means there's more down there than we thought," he said.
That hung in the air for a moment.
Nearby, the Rangers had grown quieter as well. The longer the bombardment went on, the less there was to say. Most of them simply observed, occasionally shifting position, but otherwise letting the distant destruction speak for itself.
The civilians were different.
The reality of it had settled in.
Diego stood closer to the edge now than before, but his posture had changed. The initial curiosity was gone, replaced by something heavier as he stared into the smoke.
"They're still firing…" he said quietly, almost to himself.
One of the Rangers nearby nodded once. "Yeah."
Diego shook his head faintly. "How many could even be left after that?"
No one answered him.
Eleanor stood with her arms still folded, but tighter now, her gaze fixed on the skyline.
"It doesn't sound like it's slowing down," she said.
"It isn't," Leonard replied, his tone low. He glanced toward the others briefly before looking back out. "If anything, it sounds… heavier."
Nia shifted her weight slightly, eyes flicking between the distant smoke and the soldiers.
"I thought it would be over by now," she admitted.
Kane exhaled slowly through his nose, still watching.
"If it was enough, it would be," he said.
Iris stood just behind them, her attention locked on the same distant cloud. The longer she looked, the harder it was to grasp what was actually happening beneath it.
"You can't even see anything anymore…" she said quietly.
Another wave of distant detonations followed, the sound deeper now, almost blending into a single, continuous roar.
Soap tilted his head slightly, listening.
"They're pushing it," he said. "You can hear it in the rhythm."
Ghost gave a faint nod. "Running hot."
Gaz rested his arms more firmly against the ledge, eyes narrowing.
"Means they're close to wrapping it up," he said. "Or they're trying to be."
Another flicker of light pulsed deep within the smoke.
Another rumble followed.
The rooftop fell quiet again.
Everyone watching and listened.
As the city in the distance remained hidden beneath a cloud that just kept growing—
And the barrage, still hadn't stopped.
The rooftop had grown used to the distant thunder.
The constant roll of mortar fire had become background noise.
Was something new that broke that rhythm.
A low, distant thump-thump-thump began to cut through the air.
Heads turned almost at once.
The sound grew rapidly, deep and mechanical, the unmistakable chop of rotor blades pushing through the city air.
Soap was the first to react, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he tilted his head, listening.
"Well now…" he muttered. "That's a sound you don't get tired of."
The noise intensified, echoing off the surrounding buildings as it closed in fast.
Then—
They appeared.
Two attack helicopters swept into view from behind the skyline, moving low and fast between the buildings before climbing slightly as they approached the area. Their silhouettes were unmistakable—sleek, aggressive, rotors cutting the air with controlled force.
They passed over the building in a tight formation, the roar of their engines and rotors washing over the rooftop like a physical force. Loose dust and debris were kicked up instantly, swirling across the surface as the downdraft hit.
Several of the civilians instinctively flinched or stepped back.
The Rangers didn't, they just watched.
Soap tracked them as they flew overhead, turning slightly to keep them in view.
"Apaches," he said with clear approval. "Now that's more like it."
Gaz stepped forward a fraction, eyes following the helicopters as they pushed past the rooftop and continued toward the target area.
"Right on time," he said.
Ghost didn't move much, but his gaze stayed locked on them.
"Keeping distance," he noted. "Smart."
The helicopters adjusted as they approached the bombardment zone, climbing just enough to stay clear of the active mortar impact area. Even from a distance, the pilots kept a careful buffer, circling the outer edge of the smoke-filled zone rather than pushing directly through it.
The effect of their rotors was visible even from afar.
The thick clouds of dust and smoke began to shift, pulled and scattered by the downdraft as the helicopters maneuvered. Sections of the haze broke apart, revealing brief, fragmented glimpses of the destruction below before closing again.
Price stepped up beside Gaz and Ghost, his eyes following the aircraft with a measured look.
"Cutting it close," he muttered.
Andrew joined him a second later, stopping at the edge.
"They know what they're doing," he said calmly. "They'll wait for the mortars to ease off before committing."
Soap let out a short chuckle.
"Wouldn't mind a front-row seat when they do."
Another pass from the helicopters sent fresh waves through the smoke, the distant haze shifting again under the force of their rotors.
Gaz narrowed his eyes slightly, watching the movement.
"They're setting up," he said.
Ghost gave a faint nod.
"Waiting for the window of opportunity."
Price crossed his arms lightly, gaze steady.
"Then let's hope they make it count."
Above the city, the two Apaches continued to circle, holding position just outside the storm of falling rounds—
Waiting for their moment to strike.
••••
A radio operator stepped closer to Major Griggs, one hand pressed against his headset as he listened, then lowered it slightly.
"Sir," he said, voice raised just enough to cut through the noise. "Falcon reports both Apaches are on station. Holding outside the impact zone. Ready for tasking."
Griggs gave a short nod, his eyes still fixed toward the distant haze.
Right on time.
He turned slightly as the same officer from before approached again, already anticipating the question.
"Ammo count?" Griggs asked.
The officer didn't hesitate.
"Sir, we're below two hundred rounds remaining across all tubes."
That got his full attention.
Griggs went still for a moment, weighing it.
More than thirty minutes of sustained fire.
And the horde still not fully broken.
His gaze shifted briefly toward the mortar line. Crews were still working, still maintaining the barrage, but the strain was visible even from here. Heat, fatigue, dwindling supply.
Enough.
He made the call.
"Cease fire," Griggs ordered.
The officer nodded immediately and turned, already moving to relay it.
"Cease fire! All batteries, cease fire!"
The command began to spread down the line, passed from section to section.
One by one, the tubes fell silent.
The last few rounds were dropped and fired, thumping skyward before the crews stepped back. The constant roar that had filled the area for the past half hour began to die down, replaced by a heavy, ringing quiet broken only by residual echoes in the distance.
For a moment, it almost felt unnatural.
Griggs watched the line settle.
"Have the crews stand down and rest," he added. "Maintain readiness. We may need them again."
"Yes, sir."
Men stepped back from the tubes, some rolling their shoulders, others grabbing canteens or wiping sweat and dust from their faces. The air still carried the smell of propellant and heated metal, but the motion had slowed.
The barrage was over, for now.
Griggs turned back toward the radio operator.
"Get those birds ready," he said. "They're cleared to proceed on my mark."
The operator nodded sharply, already bringing the handset up.
"Overlord to Falcon, stand by for tasking. You are cleared to engage on command."
A brief pause—
Then the reply came through.
"Falcon copies. Standing by."
The operator glanced back at Griggs and gave a firm nod.
"They're ready, sir."
Griggs looked out toward the distant smoke one more time.
"Let's finish it," he said quietly.
•••
The moment the mortars fell silent—
The city seemed to hold its breath.
From the cockpit, the absence of constant impacts was immediate. No more rising flashes. No more rolling thunder. Just a lingering haze stretched across the skyline, thick with dust and smoke.
"Impact zone's gone quiet," the co-pilot/gunner muttered, scanning through the sensors.
"Yeah," the pilot replied, steady on the controls. "That's our window."
The two Apaches pushed forward.
Rotors bit into the air as they advanced toward the target area, maintaining altitude just above the drifting cloud. As they closed in, the downwash from their blades began to tear into the smoke, pulling it apart in slow, churning waves.
Visibility came in fragments at first.
Then the ground revealed itself.
What lay below was no longer a uniform mass.
The bombardment had done its work.
Large sections of the horde had been obliterated, the center of the impact zone littered with collapsed bodies, broken forms layered over one another. The ground itself looked torn apart, scarred by continuous airburst detonations.
But it wasn't empty. Far from it. Movement persisted.
Thousands still stood—scattered, uneven, but still converging, still pressing inward from the edges. The outer layers had survived the worst of the barrage, and now they filled the gaps, drawn by instinct, by sound, by the remnants of motion.
The co-pilot adjusted his view, tracking the movement.
"Still a lot down there," he said.
The pilot exhaled slowly. "More than enough."
The second Apache drifted into position off their flank, maintaining spacing as both aircraft circled the target area. Their rotors continued to break apart the smoke, widening the window of visibility with each pass.
Then—
The radio came alive.
"Falcon, Overlord. You are cleared to engage. Repeat, cleared hot."
The pilot didn't hesitate.
"Falcon copies. Engaging."
A brief pause—
Then he switched channels.
"Viper Two, this is Viper One," he called to the second Apache. "We're going in. Same pattern. Work the outer edges, collapse inward."
"Copy that, Viper One," came the response. "Let's clean it up."
The pilot steadied the aircraft, angling the nose slightly downward.
"Guns," he said.
"Up," the co-pilot confirmed, hands already moving over the controls.
The chain gun beneath the nose tracked with precision, locking onto the shifting mass below.
"Target rich environment," the gunner muttered.
"Send it."
The first burst tore through the air.
A rapid, mechanical roar erupted from beneath the helicopter as the 30mm chain gun opened fire. Tracers cut through the space between air and ground, stitching across the horde in controlled sweeps.
The effect was immediate.
Walkers in the line of fire were torn apart, bodies collapsing in violent succession as the rounds punched through them with overwhelming force. The gun tracked smoothly, pivoting as the gunner adjusted aim, carving through clusters with calculated precision.
"Good hits," the pilot said, banking slightly to maintain angle.
To their right, the second Apache opened up as well.
Another stream of fire cut into the mass, overlapping fields of destruction as both aircraft worked in tandem. They didn't linger in one spot, constantly adjusting position, circling, shifting angles to maximize coverage.
"Switching to HE," the gunner called out.
"Do it."
A pair of rockets dropped free.
They streaked downward in quick succession—
Then detonated on impact.
The explosions ripped through the tightly packed walkers, sending debris outward and tearing open entire sections of the horde. The blast forced a brief break in the density, only for the surrounding mass to begin filling the gap again.
"Splash," the gunner confirmed.
"Keep them coming."
The second Apache mirrored the action, its own rockets impacting moments later, adding to the chaos below.
From above, the scene was controlled destruction.
The mortars had broken the structure of the horde.
The Apaches were finishing the job.
They worked methodically.
Sweeping passes with the chain guns.
Short, precise rocket strikes into denser clusters.
Constant movement.
No wasted motion.
"Watch your left," Viper Two called. "You've got movement pushing in from that side."
"Got it," Viper One replied, adjusting course slightly. "Engaging."
Another burst of 30mm fire cut across the advancing edge, dropping walkers in a line as the aircraft banked smoothly, maintaining momentum.
Below, the horde was no longer cohesive.
It was breaking.
Sections collapsing under sustained fire, movement becoming disorganized as the continuous strikes thinned their numbers.
But still—
There were many.
"Ammo check?" the pilot asked.
"Good for now," the gunner replied. "Plenty left to work with."
The pilot gave a slight nod, eyes fixed on the ground.
"Then we keep going."
Above the shattered remains of the horde, the two Apaches continued their assault.
Until nothing below could keep moving.