Goddamn, he was proud of his boys, every one of them. The best warriors, the best men in the whole God damned world.

The white haze was turning dark around the outside, like a tunnel. Funny. He couldn't even remember Donna's face, but he could see the SEALs he'd worked with and commanded over the years, every one of them, like they were right there with him.

"Proud... of... you," he said. Damn he was proud of his boys.

0306 hours (Zulu +3)

Helo Cowboy One

"Lieutenant!" Ellsworth was kneeling over the Stokes, both hands on the center of Cotter's chest, pumping down on a heart that stubbornly refused to beat. "God damn it, don't you die on me! Lieutenant!"

Roselli, at the L-T's head, had pulled off the O mask at Doc's instructions and was holding an AMBU mask over Cotter's bloody nose and mouth, squeezing the inflated bag to ventilate the Skipper's lungs.

Doc kept pumping at the Skipper's chest. "L-T! SEALs don't quit! They don't know how to quit! They're too stupid to quit! Lieutenant!"

At last, though, Ellsworth slumped back on his haunches, a stricken look on his face. "Goddamnit," he said, his voice empty. "God damn it to hell!"

"You did what you could, Doc," MacKenzie said.

Roselli stared at the L-T's face, stunned. The Lieutenant couldn't be dead... he couldn't!

Abruptly, Ellsworth shook off Mac's hand and resumed pumping at Cotter's heart, but Roselli already knew it was too late. They would keep working at him until they got him aboard a medevac at K-City, but it wasn't going to do one damned bit of good.

The Skipper was dead. Dead. Blown away by some half-assed rag-head who probably barely knew one end of a rifle from the other.

Roselli felt like he wanted to cry.

0950 hours (Zulu -5)

SEAL Seven Administrative Headquarters

Little Creek, Virginia

It was an informal hearing, though the two naval officers and one senior enlisted man sitting at the panel flanked by the U.S. and U.S. Navy flags gave the proceedings the air of a court-martial. Captain Coburn sat at the folding table between his Exec, Commander Monroe, and Senior Chief Hawkins. Morning sunlight filtered through the venetian blinds drawn over the windows. Chief Roselli stood in front of them at parade rest, feet braced apart and hands behind his back, but otherwise as rigid as if he'd been at attention.

"But when Lieutenant Cotter was hit," Coburn said, "it was your impression that the terminal building had already been cleared, was it not, Chief?"

"I don't know, sir. Things were kind of confused there for a bit."

"Sky Trapper was recording your communications at the time, Chief. Your exact words to Lieutenant DeWitt were, I believe..." He picked up a paper on the table and read from it. "Yes. 'The L-T is down. Damn it, I thought you said that fucking tower was fucking clear.'"

"Actually, Captain, I think I said something more like, uh, 'The L-T is down. Damn it. I shoulda snuck in, uh, snuck in and made sure it stayed clear.' Something like that. You know, sometimes it's kind of hard to make out what's being shouted over the Motorolas. Sir."

"Mmm. Understood." Coburn dropped the transcript and leaned back, his weight causing the folding metal chair to creak beneath him.

Coburn had been a SEAL for a long, long time, and he knew that Roselli was covering for DeWitt. SEALs always took care of their own. Always.

Monroe stirred at Coburn's side. "So what was your assessment of the tactical situation, Chief? Why wasn't the tower properly cleared?"

"Aw, shit, Sir. It was a big building, lots of rooms. We only had one platoon with a shitload of objectives. We just had four guys in the Delta element, plus Lieutenant DeWitt, to clear the tower. They could've missed someone, or a bad guy could've sneaked in after they'd gone through."

"In your opinion, should someone have been posted on that tower after it was cleared?"

Roselli shook his head. "That would've been hard to manage, Sir. We were stretched damned thin as it was with only fourteen guys. And we would've had to abandon the terminal anyway when we started pulling in the perimeter. I don't think we should've done things any differently than we did."

"I see," Coburn said. "Very well, Chief. Thank you very much. You're dismissed."

"Aye, aye, sir." Roselli turned, then stopped himself. "Uh, Captain?"

"Yes, Chief?"

"I just wanted to say that every man in the platoon did a wizard job on that op. And that includes Lieutenant DeWitt. If we'd had more men, maybe the L-T wouldn't've bought it. I don't know. But I don't think we can second-guess any of that now."

"We'll keep that in mind. Thank you, Chief."

After Roselli had left, Coburn looked at the papers on the table before him. "Is that it, George?"

"Yes, Sir," Monroe replied. They'd spent most of the previous day and all of that morning interviewing the men of Third Platoon. Their report, the result of the inquiry, would go up the chain of command to Rear Admiral Bainbridge, CONAVSPECWARGRU-Two.

The responses from the men had been interesting. Ellsworth was blaming himself for not being able to save Cotter, while DeWitt, naturally, had assumed responsibility for Cotter's death because Delta had missed the sniper in the terminal building. Every man in the platoon except DeWitt had formed a united front, insisting that DeWitt and Delta were not to blame for Cotter's death. Garcia, Frazier, Holt, and Nicholson had all suggested that the terminal could have been blown up after it was searched, but admitted that the 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!

"So, Captain?" Senior Chief Hawkins said, jolting Coburn's darkening thoughts. "What's the verdict?"

"Oh, DeWitt's in the clear. I have no doubts about that. You two?"

"Agreed," Monroe said. "My God, jerking nineteen men out from under the noses of a Republican Guard battalion, with only one wounded among the hostages?"

"And 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."