Free Seal Team Seven by Keith Douglass

sniper could well have slipped in from someplace else, in which case he could have capped the Lieutenant from the rubble as easily as from the tower walkway. Coburn knew from long experience that there was no way to second-guess the men on the ground from the safe and sane security of some CONUS headquarters basement.
    He had a feeling, though, that there was going to be one hell of a lot of second-guessing this time around. Ever since the new Administration had come in, the political climate in Washington had turned distinctly chilly toward the military, and especially toward the military’s elite forces. There were people in the House and on Capitol Hill, including the current head of the House Military Affairs Committee, who distrusted the elites, who associated covert operations with black, dirty, or illegal ops, with “wetwork” and lying to Congress. Hell, there were admirals and generals at the Pentagon who hated the special-operations forces, who claimed the elites grabbed the best men, the best equipment, and the lion’s share of dwindling military appropriations. Together, the anti-special-forces people in the Pentagon and the anti-military people in Congress had formed an unlikely alliance with the goal of eliminating the elite military forces entirely. To that end, the HMAC had been holding special, televised meetings all week on the subject of special-forces appropriations, and the way things were going so far, it was all too likely that the SEALs were going to be closed down.
    Coburn’s entire naval career had spanned most of the SEAL Teams’ existence. It hurt to think they might soon be cut. God damn it to hell , he thought. I’d like to see a battleship pull off what Third Platoon just did!
    â€œSo, Captain?” Senior Chief Hawkins said, jolting Coburn’s darkening thoughts. “What’s the verdict?”
    â€œOh, DeWitt’s in the clear. I have no doubts about that. You two?”
    â€œAgreed,” Monroe said. “My God, jerking nineteen men out from under the noses of a Republican Guard battalion, with only one wounded among the hostages?”
    â€œAnd only one casualty among the raiding forces. That’s pretty damned good, no matter how you look at it. The whole platoon did magnificently. I’ll stress that in my report.”
    â€œRoger that, sir,” Hawkins said dryly. “But will they buy it up on the Hill?”
    â€œGod knows, Ed. The way things have been going up there lately, we’re going to be lucky if we have a Navy left when they get done with their cuts.” He stood, gathering his papers. “Well, gentlemen, let’s get squared away and get the hell out of here. We have long drives ahead of us if we’re going to make that funeral this afternoon.”

1615 hours (Zulu—5) Arlington National Cemetery
    Rank upon rank upon gleaming white rank of tombstones graced those gentle, tree-shaped slopes of the Arlington National Cemetery. At the top of the hill among ancient, spreading oaks rested the brooding, white-pillared facade of the Custis-Lee Mansion, while opposite, across the dark, bridge-spanned reach of the Potomac, the white marble government buildings and monuments of Washington, D.C., shimmered beneath the haze-masked afternoon sun. Southeast, masked by trees, was the five-sided sprawl of the Pentagon; a mile to the northwest, also invisible, was the Iwo Jima Memorial. Arlington seemed suspended in time, removed somehow from the clutter and rush of the modern world, even when its stillness was broken by the roar of commercial airliners thundering over the Potomac from Washington National . . .
    . . . or by the sharp report of volleyed rifle fire.
    The last echoes of the military salute hung suspended above the lines of tombstones and the grassy hillsides. As the final crack of the third volley faded, a Navy bugler in dress blues raised his instrument to his lips and began intoning the mournful,