Redemption - Call of Duty - Black Ops - Full Mission Walkthrough - Final Mission #cod #blackops
2Time was bleeding away. Hours—maybe less—before Nova 6 clouds would spread across U.S. cities, choking millions and lighting the fuse to global annihilation. The only path forward was through fire. Jason Hudson led the charge.
The Rusalka, drifting silently off the Cuban coast, held more than steel and Soviet lies—it was the source of the numbers, the final key to Dragovich’s nightmare. A fleet of helicopters bore down upon it like birds of war. At the helm of a Huey gunship, Mason took to the skies, death strapped to his wrists.
Anti-aircraft fire lit the horizon in violent arcs, pounding the air with lethal intent. Mason danced through them, unleashing missiles and rockets until the deck flamed and blackened, metal groaning in defeat. Weaver’s team descended fast and hard on the helipad.
As the bow erupted with gunfire, Hudson and Mason provided cover, reducing the Soviet resistance to smoldering wreckage. A Hind Mi-24 tore through the clouds, loosing rockets. Mason gritted his teeth and fired back with relentless fury, downing the beast in a plume of smoke. The Huey trembled—then screamed. Metal tore. Warning alarms blared. Mason fought the controls until they crashed down onto the helipad, blades snapping against steel.
Thrown against the console, half-blind, Mason stumbled out. He lived. Hudson, too. There was no pause for breath.
Together, they tore through the starboard deck—gunfire cutting down soldiers like wheat in a firestorm. Two Mi-8 HIPs arrived, death swirling from their doors. Mason unleashed Valkyrie rockets, catching both in their arcs, watching their shattered hulls fall flaming into the ocean.
Below deck, the true horror was revealed.
The Rusalka was a mask. Beneath its hull lay an underwater station, humming with cold precision. The Numbers were still broadcasting. Mason’s nightmare hadn’t ended—it had only submerged.
Hudson called in the Navy. “Sink it.”
Weaver pulled out. The sea swallowed the sky as Hudson and Mason dove beneath, swimming into the metal belly of madness.
The corridors were a tomb filled with soldiers who refused to die quietly. Blood clouded the water as the pair fought their way to the command center. Every bullet echoed like a scream in a coffin.
Finally, the console. Mason smashed through the lockouts, fingers dancing over controls. The Numbers fell silent. Silence, at last.
But Dragovich awaited him. Ghosts do not die easily.
A shot cracked. Hudson’s voice. Mason turned. Dragovich rushed, weapon drawn. The two collided—hands grasping, knees thrashing. Mason roared, yanked him from the platform. Both plunged into the abyss. Salt and blood filled his mouth. Dragovich clawed, cursed. Mason pressed him down—deeper, deeper—until breath ceased and silence reigned.
He surfaced with Hudson beside him, lungs screaming.
Above them, salvation: battleships, helos, patrol boats—a fleet of angels forged in steel. Weaver hauled Mason onto a rescue craft, eyes burning with grim satisfaction. “It is over. We won.”
Mason looked past him, to the horizon stained by the setting sun.
“For now,” he muttered.
But the past had sharp teeth. And Mason’s demons weren’t done.
The sea faded. The screen of memory played on.
A woman recited numbers—mechanical, cryptic. 11/22. Texas. 6.5 millimeter. Grainy footage flickered: Kennedy, smiling, shaking hands in Dallas. The motorcade. The waving crowd.
Time reversed.
The camera lingered.
In the mass of onlookers, eyes locked on the President’s car—was Mason. Silent. Cold. Waiting.
His whisper cracked the silence: “Ascension.”
Not all wars end on the battlefield. Some continue in the shadows, echoing through minds scarred by control, vengeance, and choices never truly made.