Chapter 1138: Welcome to Alcatraz (Patreon)

A small unmanned submarine was slowly lowered into the water, followed by two slightly larger "Shallow Water Delivery Vehicles." Jack bit down on his mouthpiece, waved toward the visibly worried Hannah and JJ, then leaned back and flipped into the bay.

The dive itself wasn't particularly difficult. Though they had to circle around to the far side of Alcatraz to reach the preselected drainage entrance, the entire distance was barely four kilometers.

As that old man Mason put it, "Give me a snorkel and a pair of fins, and I could do this with my eyes closed."

And he wasn't exaggerating. Except for a visibly nervous Goosby, the underwater approach was less a challenge and more a warm-up for the SEALs—hardly different from their daily PT sessions.

While the Mark-8 "Shallow Water Delivery Vehicle" could theoretically move at a top speed of 7 knots (about 13 km/h), once loaded with weapons, gear, and four to five personnel, they were crawling along at a much slower pace—barely 4 knots.

Fortunately, sea conditions were good, and the small unmanned submarine led the way. Though they didn't follow a perfectly straight course, they still reached their target quietly in just over thirty minutes.

It took Mason ten minutes to locate the drainage pipe entrance among thick clumps of seaweed and kelp—just one meter below the surface, embedded in the slick cliffside.

The grate covering the pipe was badly rusted, with a sizable hole in the middle. Whether it had been damaged by nature or by Mason himself during his escape decades ago, no one could say.

The drainage tunnel was narrow—barely wide enough for one person—and twisted slightly but wasn't more than 50 meters long, exactly what Mason had described: 57 steps.

Given that he had crawled out of here during low tide in total darkness, even Jack had to admit the old man had guts. That wasn't something just anyone could have pulled off.

Jack and B5 Brock Reynolds emerged silently from the reservoir pool like phantoms, rifles drawn—each sweeping half a circle to check their surroundings. Once clear, Brock sank back into the water and gave a silent tactical hand signal.

To avoid detection by any unusual signals, they were maintaining strict radio silence. Though everyone carried GPS trackers, such signals were useless underground. Until the radio blackout was lifted, there would be no backup—not even from the Predator drone circling high above.

After stripping off the heavy wetsuits, Jack pulled out his Type 83 canteen and handed it to a shivering Goosby. "Take a sip—but only a small one."

Despite being next to the Pacific like Los Angeles, San Francisco's waters remained notoriously cold due to oceanic currents. Even in summer, the temperature rarely rose above 20°C. While wetsuits offered insulation, the current 15–16°C water could still push anyone toward hypothermia.

But before Goosby could decide whether to drink, the canteen was snatched away by Mason, who had caught a whiff. He took a long swig, then let out a satisfied breath and exclaimed, "Nice—Red Label vodka. Just like I remember it."

Their current location wasn't quiet. An ancient gas turbine groaned constantly nearby, powering the island's electrical grid.

Jason Hayes walked the perimeter before stopping at a rusted, heavy iron door. He tried to turn the circular handle—no luck.

"Don't bother. That door can only be opened from the other side," Mason said as he handed the canteen back to Jack, crouching before the roaring boiler.

"What do you mean? How are you going to open it?"

Jason crouched beside him, following his gaze to the space beneath the boiler. A row of massive spinning wheels rotated endlessly—like a row of giant guillotines—with bursts of flame shooting out periodically from the furnace.

It looked like a miniature version of hell.

"Simple. I crawl through and open it from the other side," Mason said casually, like it was no big deal.

Sonny Quinn, who had just started unpacking breach charges from his kit, blinked and bent down to peer into the opening. He then glanced at Mason's calm demeanor and backed off slightly, shooting Jack a look full of schadenfreude.

"Good thing Jason assigned you to him."

Mason turned to Jack. "You coming with me?"

"Nope. I trust you—really," Jack replied, shrugging. He could get through it, sure, but how would he explain coming out unscathed if his clothes got scorched to bits?

"I still remember the timing. Hopefully it hasn't changed," Mason muttered, flattening himself to the floor and preparing to crawl.

"Wait." Jack pulled out his FK7.5 pistol and handed it over. "Take this. For defense. But that's my baby, so don't lose it—or I'll court your daughter when I get back."

Mason blinked, visibly thrown off. For a hardened SAS vet, he seemed unsure how to react to this young punk's cheek.

— — —

As Mason's silhouette vanished into the flickering glow, Clay whispered, "You think he'll just bail and leave us here?"

"Then we'll have to risk breaching the door," Jack replied with a shrug, unconcerned.

His short time with Mason had already taught him how to deal with Cold War-era spies—soft over hard. Threats and leverage wouldn't work on guys like this. Respect and a little trust, though? That might just do the trick.

Minutes passed—only four or five at most—but everyone felt like they'd been waiting for hours.

Even Jason, ever the professional, kept glancing at his Luminox military watch. Sonny, growing impatient, was just about to unpack the charges again when a heavy thump came from the door.

Ray Perry and Scott "Full Metal" Carter instantly took positions on either side of the iron slab, rifles raised to cover the slowly widening gap.

"Welcome to Alcatraz!" Mason's face appeared on the other side, drenched in sweat and still radiating heat.

He had made it.