"Stay here. Someone'll come get you."
In the sewer, Mason pointed to the chubby, honest-looking guide, dressed like a Boy Scout. "Take care of these people. It'll all be over soon. You'll all be fine."
"Yes, yes, sir," the chubby man nodded rapidly, turning back to try to comfort the tourists, who had been tormented by fear and hunger for two days and one night.
Seeing Mason turning to return to the bomb-torn manhole, a plump, black woman asked worriedly.
"Sir, what are you going to do?"
"To see if some arrogant kid is dead." Mason said, ducking down and disappearing into the sewer pipe.
Of
course, Jack wasn't dead. After setting the booby trap, he returned to the prison area with the M16A4 assault rifle he'd taken from the sergeant whose neck he'd broken, intending to strike another blow.
Unexpectedly, after waiting for a long time, he heard the sound of footsteps, and the old face of Mason appeared before him.
"Why are you back?"
"You don't look like you want to see me again." The old man heard the impatience in his tone.
Jack thought to himself, "I can't do anything with you around, but he couldn't say that." He handed him an M9 pistol, also captured from his waistband—the US military version of the Beretta 92F—and pointed helplessly upward.
"This is your last chance to get out of here. Don't underestimate modern technology. The moment you leave the rooftop, you'll be spotted by drones."
"Now I believe you really want to let me go." The old man slipped a small note into Jack's pocket and patted it gently.
"Do you like tropical islands in the Caribbean?"
"This is the West Coast. Are you planning to swim through the Panama Canal?" Jack rolled his eyes and gave a phone number.
"Talk to Ms. Anna here. Tell her you're a fan of Joan Doe's novels and want an autographed copy. She'll arrange everything."
Mason repeated the number silently several times and was about to thank him when the sound of helicopter propellers came from outside the prison building.
"They actually chose to flee, without even returning to take hostages?" Jack found it incredulous. This didn't seem like the rational decision of a battle-hardened general.
Recalling the fragments of conversation he'd overheard earlier, Jack's heart stirred. He said to Mason, "If you're not in a hurry to leave, would you be interested in coming back to the guardhouse with me?"
The
guardhouse, used as a headquarters, was still filled with the mingled smell of gunpowder and blood, reminiscent of a battlefield.
General Hammer, clutching a stainless steel M1911 pistol, sat leaning against the wall, cradling Major Baxter's body. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, unblinking, as if he'd lost his soul.
"Don't be stupid, General." Jack pointed his M16A4 rifle at Hammer and slowly entered the room.
Just when he and Mason behind him thought the general had lost his mind due to the shock, Hammer had regained his composure, his steely features returning to the solemn expression characteristic of a soldier.
"Don't worry, I promised them I'll stay and take care of everything."
He pressed the magazine release, and as the magazine slid out, he expertly pulled the slide, ejecting the bullet from the chamber. Then, he slowly stood up and tossed the pistol to Jack.
"This was given to me personally by the president after the Second Gulf War. Now it's yours. Honestly, I'm surprised you're not a 'Marun,' or even a soldier."
Jack tucked the exquisite pistol into his waistband, shook his head, and didn't respond. He didn't understand what was so great about being a 'Marun,' using the worst equipment in the military while doing the hardest work.
He couldn't care less about the general's life or death, and he believed that most people in the Pentagon probably wished he were dead.
He had returned because Jack had no communication tools and needed to borrow the radio.
Just as he was thinking hard about the radio knowledge he had learned during training in Virginia Beach, trying to contact the joint operations center on the other side to tell them that all the hostages were safely rescued,
Mason, who was looking out the window while tying up Hammer with a cable tie he found, suddenly said, "Jack, the situation of your friends may be a little bad."
Jack looked in the direction of the lighthouse with a slightly dazed look in the direction of his gaze. He saw that among the two helicopters parked not far from the pier, the MH53 "Pave Low" had taken off, and the propeller of the other MH-60R Seahawk was also spinning at full speed, and it was about to take off.
But instead of flying low, evading radar detection and heading out to sea as Jack had predicted, the Pave Low flew toward the lighthouse and began strafing it with its onboard machine guns. "
Damn! These lunatics were still thinking about venting their anger before they left," Jack cursed inwardly, but he was helpless.
The lighthouse still had two VX missiles. If they were to explode, it would be a disaster. No one on this Devil's Island would survive. And with today's wind, the Joint Operations Center on the other side of Fisherman's Wharf and the surrounding coastal areas would likely be affected.
Looking at the M16A4, which only had a red dot scope in its hand, Jack gritted his teeth and rushed out of the guardhouse, heading for the metal staircase leading to the rooftop. While the
MH53
Pave Low was a transport helicopter, it also carried a 12.7mm heavy machine gun.
After taking off, it circled around to the seaward side of the cliff and began firing non-stop at the lighthouse. Glass and rubble flew everywhere, and bullets occasionally ricocheted dangerously off the solid concrete walls.
Fortunately, the SEALs were not completely defenseless. Just as Jack reached the roof of the prison building, two plumes of white smoke split the air almost simultaneously, signaling the arrival of shoulder-fired Stinger missiles.
The drone had previously delivered only two Stinger anti-aircraft missile launchers, and after successfully scaling the cliff, the SEALs hadn't forgotten to use slings to haul both up.
"Puff, puff, puff, puff."
The Pave Low began to gain altitude the instant the warning radar sounded. Almost simultaneously, the two Stingers were released, and decoy flares were released.
One Stinger missed, trailing a long trail as it exploded into a ball of fireworks within the decoy, but the other Stinger continued its trajectory, exploding almost directly behind the helicopter's tail.
As the massive Pave Low spun and plunged into the sea, the seals inside the lighthouse barely had time to catch their breath when a flash of fire flashed from the pylons of another MH-60R Seahawk, which had just taken flight, and a Hellfire missile swooped down on the lighthouse.
Amidst the deafening explosion, the midsection of the thirty- or forty-meter-tall tower seemed to have been ripped open by a monster, a gaping hole instantly appearing, its precarious position threatened.
"Da da da da da da."
Jack, a good four or five hundred meters away from the Seahawk, nearly pulled the trigger, but the meager 5.56mm rounds only managed to create a few sparks on the thick armor.
The sudden attack had clearly startled the helicopter pilot, who abandoned his plan to unleash all the Hellfire missiles from his wing.
After climbing slightly higher, the Seahawk swung around and quickly spotted the figure on the distant rooftop who had dared to shoot at him.
The 30mm cannon beneath the cabin instantly opened fire, its trajectory like a whip of death lashing out, lashing directly at Jack.
Throwing away the broken gun, now empty, Jack leaped forward, leaping from the nearly twenty-meter-high prison rooftop.
He used the momentum to roll, dodging the shattered wall behind him. He instantly used healing magic to repair his slightly fractured ankle. Jack stumbled a few steps before regaining his composure.
He dashed behind the other side of the building before the Seahawk could adjust its direction and fire again. Someone's heart was pounding. This was probably the closest he'd ever been to death since his rebirth.
Listening to the thud of the helicopter's propellers speeding overhead, Jack looked toward the cliff before him and wondered if he had to force himself to jump again to complete his day.
Just as he squinted his eyes and looked up at the sky, searching for the helicopter, four straight white lines streaked across the sky. An MH-60R Seahawk exploded in a fireball, its wreckage slowly falling into the sea.
Then, two F/A-18s, accompanied by white sonic booms, came careening low over the sea, so low that they left two long shock waves on the pale blue surface.
Only then did a rumbling sound like muffled thunder finally arrive.
The soles of Jack's military boots also scraped a gray trail on the ground, landing just at the edge of the cliff, and a few small stones rustled and rolled into the sea.
(End of this chapter)