Fifteen yards in, Avigliano’s third operative, a muscle-bound comedian named Carlson, removed two claymore mines from his backpack and handed one of them to Harvath. Where the claymore usually read, “Front Toward Enemy,” Carlson had made a slight change. He had placed a long piece of masking tape with writing on it that read, “Have a Nice Day.” Carlson flashed Harvath a thumbs-up and moved to the other side of the narrow canyon. Once the devices were set, the two men ran to catch up with the others.

Thirty seconds later they heard the sound of the fragmentation grenades detonating inside the rotunda. Someone had found the booby-trapped captain of the guard. Harvath hoped that Adara and her brother had stumbled across the body together, but he doubted they’d been that lucky.

The signature clack-clack-clack of Ak-47 fire erupted from behind them in the canyon. Adara Nidal’s men were hot on their trail.

The canyon was the most dangerous part of Avigliano’s escape plan, as it acted like a funnel, channeling all of the terrorists’ fire right at them. The only thing they could do was keep on running.

They then heard the sound of the claymores detonating behind them. Hailstorms of steel ball bearings propelled by the exploding hunks of C4, showered anyone within fifty meters in front of the antipersonnel devices. Agonizing screams followed from the few men who had actually survived, but had been torn to bits. This bought the team a little time, but not much.

Avigliano worked his radio, calling in their status, as his long legs kept propelling him forward. “Big John, Big John. This is Point Guard. We have the package. I repeat. We have the package. Kick the tires and light the fires. Point Guard out.”

Harvath mouthed, Big John? to DeWolfe, who was running alongside Meg Cassidy and who answered, “That’s our exfil,” short for exfiltration.

It seemed to take an eternity to run the almost mile and a half, but suddenly, the canyon ended and opened up onto a wide, barren plain. Avigliano and his men quickly removed the camouflage netting that disguised their Fast Attack Vehicle.

“Where’s the other FAV?” asked Harvath.

“That’s it. There aren’t any other ones,” said Carlson as he handed Harvath and Meg encrypted radios with headsets. “We’re going tisket-tasket.”

Harvath knew what that meant. He and Meg would be riding in the supply baskets on either side of the vehicle. Harvath quickly helped Meg secure her radio and then belted her into one of the baskets.

“She knows how to use one of these, right?” asked DeWolfe as he handed Meg his Mod Zero.

“I’m a fast learner,” replied Meg, who grabbed the weapon with her right hand and held out her left for extra clips of ammunition.

Harvath hopped in the opposite basket and strapped himself into the modified shoulder straps. Carlson tossed him his Mod Zero, and in less than a minute they were rolling.

Avigliano was behind the wheel with DeWolfe sitting next to him manning the Mark 19 grenade launcher. Up top, Carlson had his choice of either the forward.50-caliber machine gun or a 7.62 millimeter covering their rear. In addition, he carried one Stinger antiaircraft missile as well as an AT4 antitank missile. As it turned out, they were going to need everything they had.

50

With an added fuel bladder, the FAV had a range of approximately five hundred miles. The amount of terrain Avigliano and his team had already covered to locate Harvath and Cassidy, coupled with the fact that there were now five people riding in the FAV, as opposed to the customary three, made for a drastic reduction in the vehicle’s range.

The exfiltration plan called for the team to rendezvous with a Boeing MH-47 Chinook helicopter, code-named Big John. Flying low to avoid Libyan radar, the blacked-out copter would touch down in the uninhabited desert just south of the Tunisian border, drop its rear cargo door, and the team would drive the FAV right up the ramp. Then they would lift off and disappear like shadows in the night. That was the best-case scenario.

The northern edge of the Ubari Sand Sea was a combination of flowing sand dunes and rock-strewn gullies known as wadis. The FAV hammered the terrain, racing straight up numerous steep dunes and tearing straight down the opposite sides. After they crested what DeWolfe said was the last major dune on their topo-map, Harvath caught a flash of something in the distance. Engaging his lip mike, he said, “Contact. Eleven o’clock.”

DeWolfe, the FAV’s navigator, pulled a pair of night-vision binoculars out of a bag strapped down next to him. Though the team were all wearing night-vision goggles, the binoculars afforded greater range.

“What do you have?” asked Avigliano.

“Looks like five Land Rovers, each with 7.62s mounted up top. I’d be willing to bet they’re Libyan regulars.”

“Have they seen us?” asked Avigliano.

“Looks like it. They’re changing course right now.”

Upon hearing that piece of good news, Carlson, sitting in the rear, only had one response, “Fuck.”

“What’s going on?” asked Meg.

“Little change of plans,” said Harvath.

“Hold on, everybody,” yelled Avigliano as he pulled the wheel hard to the right and steered the FAV in a new direction.

“We don’t have enough fuel for this Gordo,” said DeWolfe.

“We’re just going to have to set a new rendezvous point with Big John.”

“Big John is already coming deeper into uncle Mu’ammar’s backyard than he wants to.”

“Tough shit. He’s going to have to come in further,” said Avigliano.

“Roger that. Should we tell him we’ve got company?”

“You bet your ass. Tell him it’s going to be a hot exfil.”

DeWolfe picked a location five miles ahead and radioed the coordinates to Big John.

No longer concerned with fuel consumption, Avigliano pinned the accelerator to the floor. An enormous sand dune loomed in front of them, and they took it at full speed.

As they hit the top of the dune, they found themselves in midair. Instead of a gradual descent down the other side, the dune was backed up against the rugged slope of an incredibly steep drop-off leading into a deep wadi. The FAV launched off the dune and hung in the air for what seemed like an eternity, before crashing onto a treacherously inclined hill of loose and shifting rock.

Avigliano strained against the wheel, trying to prevent the FAV from flipping over. Jagged boulders reached out on both sides and attempted to tear the vehicle to pieces. Avigliano finally got control, but only for a few moments. He attempted to steer it toward the floor of the wadi, but something was wrong. He thought for a moment that the problem was due to the unstable scree that they were driving down. He gave the FAV more gas, then more still. It picked up speed, but it had stopped responding to the steering wheel altogether.

A small dune appeared to their left, and almost as if of its own accord, the FAV headed right for it. Avigliano tapped the brakes, but in the wash of loose rocks, that only sent the back end fishtailing out of control as they continued to pound down the hill.

“Brace yourselves!” he yelled. “We’re going in hard!”

Hard was an understatement. Seconds later, they hit the dune at full speed. Shoulder belts dug into flesh and heads snapped forward, then came racing back. The steering wheel saved Avigliano, but DeWolfe was not as lucky. Despite his shoulder harness and helmet, he hit his head hard enough to be knocked unconscious. Carlson slammed his left shoulder against the fifty-caliber machine gun. After the HAHO jump and the beating he had taken at the hands of Adara Nidal’s guards, Harvath was sore all over, but no one area seemed to be any worse now than before the crash. He unbuckled himself from the basket and ran around the FAV to Meg who was already undoing her own straps.