Chapter 1148: Jack vs. the Helicopter (Foggy Situation) (Patreon)

"Stay here. Someone will come for you soon."
Down in the sewer, Mason pointed to a chubby tour guide, who looked like a pudgy Boy Scout and had a kind face. "Take care of these people. It'll all be over soon—you’ll all be fine."

"Y-yes, sir." The guide nodded vigorously, then turned to comfort the terrified and starved tourists, who had suffered two days and nights of hunger and fear.

As Mason turned to crawl back through the bomb-blasted maintenance shaft, a plump Black woman asked anxiously, "Sir, where are you going?"

"To check if a certain arrogant brat’s still alive," Mason muttered as he ducked into the drainage pipe.

——

Of course, Jack wasn’t dead. After rigging a booby trap, he had fallen back to the prison ward with a confiscated M16A4 from a sergeant whose neck he’d snapped, intending to ambush anyone who came looking.

He waited quietly—until a familiar wrinkled face showed up.

"You again?" Jack frowned.

"You sound disappointed to see me," Mason noted, catching the irritation in Jack’s voice.

Jack held back the urge to say, You're messing with my ambush plan, and instead handed Mason an M9—the U.S. military version of the Beretta 92F—then pointed overhead with a sigh.

"This is your last chance to leave. Don’t underestimate modern tech. The moment you step out from under the roof, the drones will spot you."

"Now I believe you genuinely want to help me escape." Mason slipped a tiny piece of paper into Jack’s pocket and gave it a pat.
"You like Caribbean islands?"

"This is the West Coast. What, you plan to swim through the Panama Canal?" Jack rolled his eyes and recited a phone number.
"Call this Ms. Anna. Tell her you're a fan of Joan Doe and want a signed novel. She’ll handle everything."

Mason silently memorized the number, about to thank him when the sound of helicopter rotors filled the air.

"They’re actually escaping without even grabbing more hostages?" Jack was baffled. That didn’t sound like something a seasoned general would do.

Recalling the bits of conversation he’d overheard, a realization hit him. He turned to Mason.
"If you're not in a rush, wanna come with me to check out the guardhouse?"

——

The command center still reeked of gunpowder and blood, like a battlefield.

General Hammer was slumped against the wall, holding a stainless steel M1911 in one hand and Major Buster’s body in the other, staring blankly at the ceiling like a man who had lost his soul.

"Don’t do anything stupid, General," Jack said as he entered cautiously, his M16A4 aimed at the man.

He and Mason both thought the general had gone catatonic from shock, but Hammer stirred and straightened. His weathered face hardened into that familiar soldierly sternness.

"Relax. I promised them I’d stay behind and face the consequences."

He hit the mag release. As the magazine dropped, he smoothly racked the slide, ejecting the chambered round. Then he stood and handed the pistol to Jack.

"This was given to me by the president after the Second Gulf War. Consider it your war trophy. Honestly, I’m surprised you’re not a Marine—not even a soldier."

Jack tucked the elegant pistol into his waistband and shook his head, not responding. He’d never seen the appeal in being a Marine—worst gear, hardest jobs.

He didn’t care about the general’s fate. He figured most folks at the Pentagon probably hoped the guy would just die quietly.

The reason he returned was because he needed a radio—his only shot at contacting the Joint Operations Command and reporting the hostages’ rescue.

While Jack racked his brain trying to recall the comms training he’d received back in Virginia Beach, Mason, who was zip-tying Hammer and watching out the window, suddenly said, "Jack, I think your friends might be in trouble."

Jack followed his gaze to the lighthouse and saw something alarming: the MH-53 Pave Low had already taken off from the dock, and the MH-60R Seahawk’s rotors were spinning fast, about to lift off.

But instead of flying low and heading out to sea to avoid radar—like Jack had expected—the Pave Low turned toward the lighthouse, its side-mounted guns opening fire.

Shit, these psychos are trying to vent their rage on the way out. Jack cursed silently, powerless to stop them.

Two VX missiles were still stored in the lighthouse. If they exploded, it wouldn’t just kill everyone on Alcatraz. Given the wind direction, even the mainland—including the Joint Command Center by Fisherman’s Wharf—could get contaminated.

Glancing down at his red-dot M16A4, Jack clenched his jaw and sprinted for the metal staircase leading to the roof.

——

The MH-53 Pave Low was a transport chopper, but it still packed 12.7mm heavy machine guns.

Circling around the cliffside, it began strafing the lighthouse. Glass shattered, chunks of concrete flew, and deadly ricochets echoed.

Fortunately, the SEALs weren’t helpless. Just as Jack reached the prison rooftop, two plumes of white smoke streaked skyward—shoulder-launched Stinger missiles.

The drone had delivered two launchers earlier, and after scaling the cliff, the SEALs had managed to haul them up using ropes.

Th-th-th-thump—

The Pave Low’s threat detection triggered immediately, prompting it to ascend and release flares.

One Stinger was tricked by the decoys and exploded harmlessly in the sky. The second, however, kept tracking and exploded right by the tail.

The massive aircraft spun out and plunged into the sea.

Before the SEALs could even exhale, the second chopper—the MH-60R Seahawk—launched a Hellfire missile at the lighthouse.

BOOM!
A massive explosion tore a gaping hole in the middle of the 30-meter-tall tower, like a giant beast had taken a bite. The entire structure looked ready to collapse.

Brrrrrrrrrrtttt—
Jack opened fire from over 400 meters away, but his 5.56 rounds merely sparked against the Seahawk’s armor.

The sudden return fire startled the pilot, making him hesitate to unload the rest of the Hellfires.

The Seahawk gained altitude and banked around, quickly spotting the tiny figure that dared to shoot.

Its 30mm autocannon fired, the tracers cutting through the air like Death’s whip, lashing toward Jack.

Tossing aside his empty rifle, Jack ran toward the gunfire, leaping from the prison roof nearly 20 meters down.

He rolled on impact, narrowly avoiding debris as cannon fire shredded the wall behind him. Activating a healing skill, he fixed the minor fractures in his ankle mid-stride, found his balance, and sprinted to cover.

His heart thundered. That might’ve been the closest call since his rebirth.

Overhead, the Seahawk roared past. Jack looked toward the cliff. Am I really going to have to jump off a cliff just to finish today’s mess?

As he squinted up to locate the chopper, four white contrails streaked across the sky—
BOOM!

The MH-60R Seahawk exploded mid-air, raining debris into the sea.

Two F/A-18 Hornets soared low over the water in a synchronized buzz, sonic clouds blooming from their wings. They flew so low the sea trailed long white shockwaves in their wake.

Only then did the delayed thunder of their passage reach the island.

Jack's boots skidded at the cliff’s edge, sending pebbles tumbling into the surf far below.