Jonah and his team members stayed concealed in the shadows just down from the front of the target building as the other team waited behind it.

Finally, Alpha checked back in. “Jonah, this is Alpha. It looks like the roof entry is metal, pretty thick, but the hinges are on the outside. With a little bit of give glue, I think we can breach it.” Give glue referred to the small tubes of specially formulated acid paste that the teams carried with them on missions where doors would need to be breached and hinges couldn’t simply be blown away. Once applied, it ate through almost any type of metal in only a matter of seconds.

“Hold on, Alpha,” said Jonah. “Bravo, are you in position?”

“Roger. Good to go,” came the voice of the Bravo leader.

“Okay then, Alpha. Start the glue, and let us know when you’re ready,” said Jonah.

Creeping beneath the windows of the house, Jonah and his men made their way to the old wooden front door. As he’d figured, it was locked, but it would be nothing for them.

“Watchdog, you got the door in case they don’t like Avon calling?” asked Jonah.

“Knock, knock, motherfucker. Just like when we did Qaddafi. I’ve gotcha covered,” replied Watchdog.

“Alpha, how are we doing?”

“Almost there.”

“Good, listen up. Just like we planned. Fast and furious. Flash bangs first. Does everyone copy?”

“Bravo. Roger.”

“Alpha. Roger…And it looks like we are ready to crash the party. On your command, Jonah. Over.”

The men in the sit room held their breath.

“Okay. On my command. Firemen, take your positions. Pitchers, ready your flash bangs. We go in five…four…three…two…one. Now!”

In sync, Jonah’s men breached their respective entry points, tossed in their flash bangs, and quickly followed once the concussions had detonated.

What Rapid Return’s recovery team never had a chance to see was the white-hot blaze that moments later appeared on Chaperone’s screen as the entire street, and the house they had entered, were reduced to dust. The SEALs, including their sniper, never saw it coming.

32

At the same moment Chaperone showed the building exploding, the night-vision images from the SEAL battle cams disappeared and were replaced on each monitor with a chilling two-word message: Off Line.

The shock and silence in the sit room were quickly replaced by a frenzy of activity. Glancing up at the monitor that fed a live picture from JSOC command, Harvath noticed it was chaotic there as well.

Every phone in the sit room was being used by people trying to figure out what had happened. Scot was closest to General Venrick, and he listened as Venrick tried to get a handle on things. “…We were able to figure that out from here. It looks like it was a very big one. At least one to two square blocks from what Chaperone is showing us right now…

“First things first. Can we confirm the status of the Rapid Return team?…What about the Israeli assets on-site?…My God. Only one? Have him get in there and get a better look… We have got to get confirmation. If there are injured men there, we need to get them out… I agree. We began to worry about it as well, but it’s a little late for that now… All right. Get on the Israelis, and get back to me as soon as you get an update. In the meantime, I want you to roll back the tape on the battle cams to one minute before they went off-line and feed it back here in slow mo… Negative. Until we know what the situation is, all teams are to stand by. That’s it. Get going.”

The general shook his head in disgust, feeling he should have pressed the vice president harder to postpone the recovery attempt until they had gathered more intelligence. Instead, a crack SEAL team had walked right into a trap. His increased dislike of the vice president was surpassed only by the shame he felt in losing men under his command. This had been a half-baked idea from the start and he should have stopped it.

As JSOC command fed back the battle cam images in slow mo, the general used his com link to give orders to freeze-frame certain images and rewind others. A team of military experts, aided by the ATF, would be poring over these pictures for months ascertaining whether there was one blast or several, where the blast or blasts originated, as well as what type of explosive device was used. But for now, the general needed to put together his own picture of what had happened.

The images showed that each of the assault teams was able to successfully breach its entry point and pitch in its flash bangs, hoping to stun any immediate targets with the blinding white light and concussion tremors they emitted. After the teams entered, the battle cams showed that they moved quickly and began to secure the rooms on their respective levels. The cams showed what appeared to be sleeping men in some of the rooms, but would the kidnappers actually booby-trap themselves?

Before any of the men could be secured with the plastic riot cuffs that the teams always carried, there was a bright flash and the cams went off-line. Because of the need for his vision to be unimpaired while he looked through the night-vision scope on his rifle, the sniper’s battle cam wasn’t of much help. His goggles had been placed on top of his pack, off to his left-hand side. His images lasted for only a few frames more than those of his teammates, who presumably were at the epicenter of the explosion. Whatever had been used was extremely powerful. Chances were low to absolutely nonexistent that any of the team had survived.

In the midst of the chaos, no one noticed that the president’s direct line rang and that the vice president’s chief of staff had answered it until he cupped the mouthpiece and screamed for everyone to quiet down.

The entire room was taken aback. His face was ashen. “How did you get this number?” DaFina asked.

Lawlor knew exactly who was on the phone and was the first one to react. He picked up the phone in front of him and dialed faster than he ever had in his life. When a voice answered on the other end, he gave his name, password, and location. He gave the orders to begin a trace and was floored by the response, “No can do.”

“What?” Lawlor hissed into the phone. “You’ve got to be kidding me. This is a matter of national security. Now trace the damn call!”

Lawlor’s boss, FBI director Sorce put a hand on his arm and whispered, “Gary, they can’t trace any calls coming or going from the sit room. It’s impossible.”

“What do you mean, impossible?” he asked.

“When the room and equipment were updated, so were the communications. The lines had to be tap- and trace-proof. Besides, who would have ever envisioned a scenario like this where a trace would be necessary?”

Lawlor felt impotent. All he could do was sit and watch. The worst of it was that DaFina was doing all of the talking.

“He wants me to put him on speakerphone. How do I do that?” DaFina asked, once again cupping the mouthpiece.

Two button punches later and the cyborg-style voice that Lawlor remembered all too well clicked out of the overhead speakers.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” the voice said.

Since the kidnappers had originally established contact with Lawlor, no one objected as he rose from his seat to walk over to the active phone. As he rounded the table, Vice President Marshfield held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks. Lawlor was stunned.

The voice continued, “I trust your vice president is present?”

DaFina slid the phone toward him. “Yes, I am here. Who is this?”

“More silly games,” said the voice. “You know exactly who this is. Did you enjoy our little demonstration?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Mr. Vice President, I will say this only once. Do not play games with me.”

“Where is the president?”