Exactly one hour after the shooting ended, President Wrightman spoke to the nation. He spoke from the White House front lawn, with the building lit up artistically in the background. He was not wearing a jacket and his shirtsleeves were rolled up everyman style, obviously to convey the impression that he had been hard at work and was only pausing for a brief time to give these casual, carefully crafted remarks. “I just wanted to take a minute to thank the brave men and women who risked their lives tonight for all of us. I want to make this pledge in front of all of you: my administration will continue to work relentlessly to seek out and kill our enemies. While we don’t know for sure yet exactly what role these terrorists played in the attacks, we are confident the information collected at this safe house undoubtedly will provide vital intelligence in our ongoing fight to protect each and every American.” He concluded with the usual God blesses. Reporters shouted preapproved questions at him (my guess), but he turned, gave an aloof Trumpian wave, and retreated to the White House. The pool camera held on him as he walked alone, head bowed and hands in his pockets, across the perfectly manicured lawn. Ah, the loneliness-of-the-president image.

It was almost midnight; the administration began offering up talking heads to make certain it got full credit for the apparent success of the operation. Among them was Colonel Anthony Ruggerio, who led the attack. His camo unit patch had been covered with tape for security reasons. He was still wearing his battle rattle, including personal armor, with the exception of his helmet, which had been replaced by a baseball cap and sunglasses. The cap had been pulled down over his sunglasses, which I guess was supposed to disguise his appearance from any terrorists who might be watching, but instead made him look like one of the characters from Mad magazine’s Spy vs. Spy comic strip.

The Special Ops community is pretty small, but I couldn’t remember crossing paths with a Colonel Ruggerio. But I definitely knew the type. This guy reveled in his tough-guyness. His tone in responding to reporters’ questions was a verbal flex: Shots were fired from the house. His men returned with increased intensity. Communications devices had been recovered. No intact bodies had been found yet, but the fires probably … A beginning, his men will go anywhere, do anything … Pleased to report his injured man will make a full recovery. Big victory for America over “those who would do us harm.” God bless.

Other spokespeople started showing up on other outlets, drilling the message into the American psyche: This was a great victory against international terrorism. America was on the march. The Wrightman administration is protecting you.

Rumors were popping up everywhere, like a digital Whac-A-Mole. Most of them, on the largest sites or feeds, were removed within minutes by the monitors or quickly countered. My favorite came from an anonymous poster on a Facebook Warrior group, which was a hub for active and former combat soldiers. G.I. José claimed that a friend of his on the assault team had told him that the only injury in the attack was one badly wrenched knee, which was caused by a soldier slipping on a pile of dog shit as he was advancing. As his legs went out from under him, he accidently fired his weapon into the air. His squad saw him suddenly fall backward, and hearing shots, assumed he had been hit by fire from the house—and opened up.