Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 101: Recon Flight

High above the coastline of Bataan, the MQ-9 Reaper drone cut through the clouds like a silent predator. At 25,000 feet, it was all but invisible to those below. Its onboard FLIR and high-resolution EO/IR cameras scanned the terrain relentlessly, picking apart every detail of the sprawling base nestled between the ridgeline and the sea.

Inside the UAV Operations Center at the refinery, the hum of electronics filled the room. Screens glowed with telemetry data, maps, and live feeds. Javier Cruz sat at the controls, one hand on the joystick, the other hovering near the comms panel. His eyes flicked across the monitors as he zoomed in on various sectors of the military encampment below.

"Overwatch HQ, this is Reaper One-One. Eyes on target. Beginning full scan of Area Lima-Bravo. Feed live on Command Net Zero-One."

Inside his office at the refinery, Commander Thomas Estaris leaned forward from behind his desk. The monitors on the wall displayed crisp, real-time footage from the drone. A large tactical map was spread out across his table, and a cup of coffee sat untouched beside it. Logan stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching the feed in silence.

"Talk to me, Cruz," Thomas said sharply.

"Roger that, Commander," Cruz replied, adjusting the camera focus. "Grid square Foxtrot-Seven to India-Niner, we've got full visual. Layout looks like standard pre-war garrison structure. Central administrative block—two stories, reinforced concrete. East quadrant filled with modular tents—definitely temporary shelters. Civilians, evacuees, medical personnel. Estimate… 800 to 1,000 non-combatants."

Thomas exhaled through his nose, folding his arms.

"Visual confirmation on vehicles?"

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"Affirmative," Cruz responded. "Motor pool on the western perimeter. Seeing six Humvees, three M35 trucks, two armored V-150s—both look beat to hell, might be running on spare parts. One of them's missing the right turret panel."

"Any armor?"

"Negative on tanks. No APCs outside the V-150s. No tracked vehicles. Looks like they're light on heavy support."

Thomas turned to Logan. "They're not moving much, are they?"

"Nope," Logan replied. "They're static. Which means they're low on fuel or don't have enough to keep rotating patrols."

Cruz continued narrating from the ops room. "Main command building located at grid Golf-Eight. Guard rotation light—two men at the entrance, no overhead watch. Saw Villamor earlier. He's in and out of the main building. Looks like he's debriefing."

"Get me a headcount on armed personnel," Thomas said.

"Copy. Sweeping south perimeter now."

The camera swept over soldiers in tan fatigues standing guard around the base. Some manned sandbag checkpoints, others patrolled between tents and watchpoints. They were organized, yes, but there was fatigue in their movements—an edge of weariness.

"Estimation: 120 to 150 active-duty troops. Mixed uniforms, some ragged. I'm also seeing a handful of armed civilians—makeshift militia types, probably volunteers. Training level unknown."

"Condition of the base?" Thomas asked.

"Functional, but stretched," Cruz answered. "Food distribution near grid Echo-Six. Line's at least a hundred people deep. People are huddled under tarps, some showing signs of malnourishment. I'd say they're in survival mode—barely."

Thomas leaned back, running a hand down his face. "So Villamor wasn't lying."

"No, sir," Logan said. "That base is holding together with duct tape and prayer."

Thomas stared at the screen for a moment, watching a mother cradle her child near the food line. He didn't say anything for a while.

Then, Cruz came back in. "Command Net, be advised. Additional note: I have visual on outer defensive layout. Barbed wire in three concentric layers. Sandbagged MG nests on the southern approach. Two elevated sniper towers at the north end. Looks like they're prepping for a worst-case scenario."

"Any SAMs?" Thomas asked.

"Negative, Commander. No sign of any anti-air capability. Closest thing they've got are two M2 Browning emplacements. Nothing's aimed skyward."

"Good," Thomas murmured.

Logan turned to him. "So what's the call, boss? We offering help or waiting until they bleed dry?"

Thomas was quiet for a second.

"Neither," he finally said. "We watch. We wait. If they come to the table ready to talk, we listen. But I'm not sending convoys into a camp where one bad decision could cost us people."

Logan nodded. "Copy that."

Thomas tapped the corner of his desk, eyes still locked on the feed. "Reaper One-One, keep your bird in orbit until fuel threshold reaches 30 percent, then RTB. Log all coordinates and send the footage to my terminal."

"Wilco, Overwatch HQ. Reaper One-One out."

The screen flicked to thermal view, highlighting the density of the base. The warmth of bodies crammed into shelters. The stark contrast of a few powered buildings and the cold zones beyond the base's perimeter.

Thomas turned off the screen.

"Logan, prep a report for the negotiation team. I want them ready in seventy-two hours."

"You think they'll bite?"

Thomas stood from his chair.

"They're running out of time. And desperation always opens doors."

He walked toward the window, looking out at the distant ridgeline.

"Just make sure if they try anything stupid again… we shut that door for good."

Thomas left the room without another word.

He stepped out onto the catwalk overlooking the main yard. Below, mechanics worked on two armored jeeps, their hands greasy under the pale light of mounted floodlamps. Further off, a group of soldiers jogged laps around the compound, rifles slung, their discipline tight. It was orderly. Alive. And in a world where everything else had collapsed, that meant something.

The corridor outside was quiet, lit by flickering LEDs screwed into the concrete walls. Power was on everywhere, but here—deep inside the refinery—They kept things functional. Barebones, but steady. Reliable. He walked with his hands in his pockets, boots thudding softly on the polished floor as he passed by patrolling guards who nodded silently at his presence.

Thomas took a slow breath of the sea-laced air and leaned on the rail.

He didn't trust De Vera. Not yet. But Villamor? The man had backbone. Reason. That was rare these days.

The question was—how long could reason hold in a world that rewarded ruthlessness?

Thomas stared out toward the jungle.

War was coming. Maybe not today. But it was coming.

And Overwatch would be ready.