Chapter 1127: General Hammer (Patreon)

"It's not about saving the world—just the West Coast. More precisely, the Greater San Francisco area." As Rossi stepped out of an armored stretch Lincoln, he seemed to read Jack’s mind and answered the question lingering in his heart.

Jack struggled out of the pressurized flight suit with the help of two ground crew members, then accepted a shirt and suit jacket from Rossi and changed into them. "What the hell is going on?"

Seeing his prized protégé, Rossi’s grim expression finally eased a bit. "The details are top secret for now—we’ll talk when we reach the Pentagon. What I can tell you is this: Alcatraz is open for business again."

Sure enough, when he had met that "middle-aged Cage" figure, Dr. Stanley Goodsby, Jack had an ominous feeling—and now it had come true.

He had even looked into the infamous prison on the island called "The Rock," just across from the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. Unlike in his past life, in this world the prison hadn't closed until nearly thirty years ago.

Its most notorious inmate had been the Chicago mob boss "Godfather" Al Capone, who contracted syphilis—then an incurable disease—while imprisoned there, and died of complications from a cerebral hemorrhage eight years after his release.

This was Jack’s first time at the Pentagon. Deep in one of the countless subterranean levels, a long-table conference room was filled with a row of generals, all wearing various stars on their shoulders, seated across from sharply dressed civilians in suits.

Everyone looked grim, but compared to the civilians, Jack noticed a trace of schadenfreude in the expressions of the generals—with their 2 to 4 silver stars—scattered along the opposite side of the table.

U.S. general ranks were easy to identify—just count the stars. One silver star meant brigadier general, two for major general, three for lieutenant general, and four for full general.

There was also the five-star general rank, a ring of five stars—like General MacArthur (the one who liked to post comments on Chinese social media—ahem). In total, there have only been ten five-star generals in U.S. history, equivalent to a marshal in other nations.

Admiral Raymond Spruance, the famous World War II naval commander, was awarded the rank posthumously.

So technically, the U.S. does have "marshals"; the confusion lies in translation. The term commonly translated as "marshal"—"Marshal" in English—might be better rendered as "supreme commander" instead.

For example, the British naval title "Admiral of the Fleet" contains no "Marshal," yet it denotes a rank equal to that of a marshal.

This oddity in translating American ranks stems from a certain cultural hang-up among some Cerysian intellectuals, who even created elaborate, fantasized explanations—like some supposed deep respect for John J. Pershing, or the belief that American culture prefers to emphasize individual merit over hierarchical rank. Laughable, really.

Rossi and Jack were among the last to arrive. As they entered, everyone at the table turned to look at them in unison.

Jack didn’t recognize most of the attendees, especially the generals from different military branches. A few, though, he’d seen on TV and could name.

For instance, the bespectacled Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Al Clayman of the Army. And then there was the middle-aged woman with whom Jack had crossed paths before—Assistant Director of the FBI and Rossi’s "Little Muffin" (Chapter 471).

Next to "Little Muffin" sat an older man who looked even older than Rossi. Jack recognized him instantly—FBI Director Jim Womack, who had once awarded him a medal for valor.

The director was in his 60s, with thinning but neatly combed blond hair that had gone pale. Deep nasolabial folds lined his cheeks, and under his black tailcoat and sloppily tied bow tie, he looked like someone pulled straight out of a gala.

The director gave Rossi a slight nod and even forced a smile when he saw Jack, as if they were old friends—even though they'd only met once.

By contrast, Assistant Director Little Muffin’s smile was far more genuine. She pointed to the two seats beside her, inviting them to sit.

"Welcome, gentlemen." General Al Clayman, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, adjusted his glasses and began the meeting.

"Last night, General Francis Hammer led a unit of elite commandos posing as security inspectors to brazenly, and without bloodshed, remove fifteen E21 VX nerve gas missiles from the San Francisco Naval Ammunition Depot. One of his men died in the process. This afternoon, General Hammer and his loyal forces occupied Alcatraz Prison and took eighty-one hostages—including tourists and guides. He has aimed those VX missiles at the greater San Francisco Bay Area.

"These are photos of General Hammer from his time in Iraq, back when he was still a major."

As the general spoke, the wall-sized screen at the end of the table lit up with an image of a rugged Marine holding an M16, a cloth band wrapped around his forehead—he looked like Rambo.

Across from General Clayman sat another bespectacled man—the only other "young" person in the room besides Jack. He didn’t look a day over 40.

He was flipping through a file, clicking his tongue. "He carried out multiple missions during Operation Desert Storm, served in both Gulf Wars, the Kosovo conflict, and the Afghanistan War. Three Purple Hearts, two Silver Stars, and the Navy Medal of Honor? Good God, this guy's a legend!"

The Purple Heart is one of the most recognized combat injury awards in the U.S., even if it’s not a particularly high-ranking decoration. Still, every recipient has had a close brush with death—lucky ones wear it on their chests, unlucky ones have it awarded posthumously.

The Silver Star is a cross-service valor award with much more prestige. For instance, an Air Force pilot who becomes an ace (with five or more confirmed kills) would qualify for one.

And the Medal of Honor is the highest U.S. military award—fewer than 4,000 recipients to date, and nearly a quarter awarded posthumously.

Considering that the U.S. has been at war for all but 21 years of its history, the weight of this medal is undeniable.

It’s issued by Congress and must be presented personally by the President, who serves as Commander-in-Chief. It's also the only U.S. military award that cannot be legally bought or sold—and it's illegal for non-recipients to wear it in public.

There are three versions of the medal—for the Navy, Army, and Air Force. As a former Marine, Hammer would have received the Navy version.

In WWII, John Basilone, the "Machine Gun Saint" said to have singlehandedly wiped out hundreds of Japanese troops, received the same medal.

So, strictly speaking, Brigadier General Hammer wasn’t just a war hero—he was a living legend.

General Clayman clearly shared Jack’s view. "Calling him a 'legend' seems more accurate, Mr. Sinclair."

"But his latest 'heroics' now include kidnapping and extortion," said the younger man, Sinclair, lightly mocking him while still flipping through the file.

Before he could go further, the general shot him a piercing glare over the top of his glasses, laced with unmistakable menace.

"Mr. Sinclair, General Hammer is a man bathed in glory."

The rest of Sinclair’s words died in his throat. His expression froze, and though his Adam’s apple bobbed, he didn’t dare speak again.

A red phone rang, breaking the tension. An aide picked it up, listened, then covered the receiver and looked at General Clayman.

"Sir, it’s him."

Clayman popped a piece of gum into his mouth and chewed quickly before ordering, "Patch him in."

Everyone turned to face the big screen. A thick cigar, freshly lit, appeared in view—clamped between thin lips.

His chin was clean-shaven, but the close-up view revealed a faint blue shadow of stubble.

As the screen zoomed out, General Clayman spoke with a familiar, almost cheerful tone.

"Frank—it’s me, Al Clayman."

With the camera now fully zoomed out, Jack finally saw the full face of General Hammer.

Gaunt cheeks, a hairline nearly at the top of his head—but the military buzz cut made him look sharp and vigorous.

Graying temples and crow’s feet showed his age, but his piercing gaze evoked one word in Jack’s mind: predatory.

This was a man forged in blood and fire.

"Hey, Al." General Hammer took a puff from his cigar and exhaled. "Long time no see. How’ve you been?"

"I don’t know, Frank—you tell me. Everyone here’s on edge," Clayman replied, still chewing gum, gesturing around the table.

"Then I’ll get to the point," Hammer said, not in the mood for small talk.

"Eighty-three Marines under my command died in silence. Just in the Himalayas and Macau alone, we lost forty-seven men."

"Southern border of Cerys and Macau?" Sinclair interrupted with a dissonant voice.

"We’ve never acknowledged military presence in those regions."

"Who the hell just spoke? Identify yourself!" Hammer’s tone turned instantly hostile, clearly angered by the interruption.

Jack glanced at Rossi, who gave him a bitter smile and silently mouthed the word: politician.

No need to guess Sinclair's identity, though—he volunteered it himself, even with a hint of smugness.

"Hayden Sinclair, Assistant to the President and Director of the White House Office of Liaison."

A scraping sound echoed from the other end as Hammer stood abruptly and leaned into the camera.

"How old are you, Director Sinclair?"

"I'm 33," the man replied, adjusting his glasses as if trying to project calm authority.

Director Womack glanced sideways at him, his expression plainly spelling out: idiot.

Hammer’s voice dripped with disdain. "Alright, Director Sinclair. I forgive your ignorance. Ten years ago, when you were just another frat boy getting high and banging co-eds, I was infiltrating Macau with CIA support, trying to neutralize a leaker. We lost sixteen men on that op.

"So, Al, why don’t you have someone bring over some duct tape for Director Sinclair’s mouth? He’s wasting my time."

With Sinclair visibly paling and wisely going silent, General Clayman adjusted his glasses.

"You may continue, Frank."

"Remember Desert Storm? All those pinpoint airstrikes on CNN? That was because I and my men were on the ground lasing targets. Twenty of my brothers never made it back from Baghdad.

"But all their sacrifice—all those dead—some listed as MIA because their bodies couldn’t be recovered, others given no funeral because their missions weren’t 'official.'"

His deep voice echoed through the underground chamber. This time, no one interrupted.

"Now, I’ve decided I won’t take it anymore. You will wire one billion dollars from the Red Sea Trading Company to an account I designate. Each of the 83 families will receive ten million in compensation.

"Is that clear enough for you?"

Feeling like he had just overheard something extremely classified, Jack raised a hand to half-cover his face and whispered to Rossi, "You sure I won’t get whacked after walking out that door?"

Rossi only gave him a helpless smile and shook his head. Even Director Jim Womack looked with surprise at General Clayman, whose face had turned grim.

"What’s this Red Sea Trading Company he’s talking about?"

The question was loud enough for Hammer to hear—and maybe that was intentional, since Jack’s boss clearly didn’t expect anyone on this side to answer it.