Operation Northwoods (2006) by James - Jack Swyteck ss Grippando Page A
Authors: James - Jack Swyteck ss Grippando
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set, watching from the foot of his bed.
A grainy image filled the screen, like bad footage from one of those media helicopters covering a police car chase. It was an aerial shot of a compound of some sort. Scores of small dwellings and other, larger buildings dotted the windswept landscape. There were patches of green, but overall the terrain had an arid quality, perfect for iguanas and banana rats--except for all the fences. Jack noticed miles of them. One- and two-lane roads cut across the topography like tiny scars, and a slew of vehicles seemed to be moving at high speed, though they looked like matchbox cars from this vantage point. In the background, a huge, black plume of smoke was rising like a menacing funnel cloud.
"What's going on?" he said into the phone.
"They're at the naval base in Guantanamo Bay. It's about your client."
"My client? Which one?"
"The crazy one."
"That doesn't exactly narrow things down," said Jack. "You know, the Haitian saint," said Theo.
Jack didn't bother to tell him that he wasn't actually a saint. "You mean Jean Saint Preux? What did he do?"
"What did he do?" said Theo, scoffing. "He set the fucking naval base on fire."
6:35 a.m., Guantanamo Bay, Cuba Camp Delta was a huge, glowing ember on the horizon, like the second rising of the sun. The towering plume of black smoke rose ever higher, fed feverishly by the raging furnace below. A gentle breeze from the Windward Passage only seemed to worsen matters--too weak to clear the smoke, just strong enough to spread a gloomy haze across the entire southeastern corner of the U. S. Naval Station at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.
Major Frost Jorgenson was speeding due south in the passenger seat of a U. S. marine Humvee. Even with the windows shut tight, the seeping smoke was making his eyes water.
"Unbelievable," he said as they drew closer to the camp.
"Yes, sir," said his driver. "Biggest fire I've ever seen."
Major Jorgenson was relatively new to "Gitmo," part of the stepped-up presence of U. S. Marines that had come with the creation of a permanent detention facility at Camp Delta for "enemy combatants"--suspected terrorists who had never been charged formally with a crime. Jorgenson was a bruiser even by marine standards. Four years of college football at Grambling University had prepared him well for a life of discipline, and old habits die hard. Before sunrise, he'd already run two miles and peeled off two hundred sit-ups. He was stepping out of the shower, dripping wet, when the telephone call had come from Fire Station No. 1. An explosion at Camp Delta. Possible casualties. Fire/Rescue dispatched. No details as yet. Almost immediately, he was fielding calls from his senior officers, including the brigadier general in charge of the entire detainee program, all of whom were demanding a situation report, pronto.
A guard waved them through the Camp Delta checkpoint.
"Unbelievable." The major was slightly embarrassed for having repeated himself, but it was involuntary, the only word that seemed to fit.
The Humvee stopped, and the soldiers rushed to strap on their gas masks as they jumped out of the vehicle. A wave of heat assaulted the major immediately, a stifling blow, as if he'd carelessly tossed a match onto a pile of oversoaked charcoal briquettes. Instinctively he brought a hand to his face, even though he was protected by the mask. After a few moments, the burning sensation subsided, but the visibility was only getting worse. Depending on the wind, it was like stepping into a foggy twilight, the low morning sun unable to penetrate the smoke. He grabbed a flashlight from the glove compartment.
Major Jorgenson walked briskly, stepping over rock-hard fire hoses and fallen debris, eventually finding himself in the staging area for the firefighting team from Fire Station No. 2. Thick, noxious smoke made it impossible to see beyond the three nearest fire trucks, though he was sure there were more, somewhere in the darkness. At least he
A grainy image filled the screen, like bad footage from one of those media helicopters covering a police car chase. It was an aerial shot of a compound of some sort. Scores of small dwellings and other, larger buildings dotted the windswept landscape. There were patches of green, but overall the terrain had an arid quality, perfect for iguanas and banana rats--except for all the fences. Jack noticed miles of them. One- and two-lane roads cut across the topography like tiny scars, and a slew of vehicles seemed to be moving at high speed, though they looked like matchbox cars from this vantage point. In the background, a huge, black plume of smoke was rising like a menacing funnel cloud.
"What's going on?" he said into the phone.
"They're at the naval base in Guantanamo Bay. It's about your client."
"My client? Which one?"
"The crazy one."
"That doesn't exactly narrow things down," said Jack. "You know, the Haitian saint," said Theo.
Jack didn't bother to tell him that he wasn't actually a saint. "You mean Jean Saint Preux? What did he do?"
"What did he do?" said Theo, scoffing. "He set the fucking naval base on fire."
6:35 a.m., Guantanamo Bay, Cuba Camp Delta was a huge, glowing ember on the horizon, like the second rising of the sun. The towering plume of black smoke rose ever higher, fed feverishly by the raging furnace below. A gentle breeze from the Windward Passage only seemed to worsen matters--too weak to clear the smoke, just strong enough to spread a gloomy haze across the entire southeastern corner of the U. S. Naval Station at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.
Major Frost Jorgenson was speeding due south in the passenger seat of a U. S. marine Humvee. Even with the windows shut tight, the seeping smoke was making his eyes water.
"Unbelievable," he said as they drew closer to the camp.
"Yes, sir," said his driver. "Biggest fire I've ever seen."
Major Jorgenson was relatively new to "Gitmo," part of the stepped-up presence of U. S. Marines that had come with the creation of a permanent detention facility at Camp Delta for "enemy combatants"--suspected terrorists who had never been charged formally with a crime. Jorgenson was a bruiser even by marine standards. Four years of college football at Grambling University had prepared him well for a life of discipline, and old habits die hard. Before sunrise, he'd already run two miles and peeled off two hundred sit-ups. He was stepping out of the shower, dripping wet, when the telephone call had come from Fire Station No. 1. An explosion at Camp Delta. Possible casualties. Fire/Rescue dispatched. No details as yet. Almost immediately, he was fielding calls from his senior officers, including the brigadier general in charge of the entire detainee program, all of whom were demanding a situation report, pronto.
A guard waved them through the Camp Delta checkpoint.
"Unbelievable." The major was slightly embarrassed for having repeated himself, but it was involuntary, the only word that seemed to fit.
The Humvee stopped, and the soldiers rushed to strap on their gas masks as they jumped out of the vehicle. A wave of heat assaulted the major immediately, a stifling blow, as if he'd carelessly tossed a match onto a pile of oversoaked charcoal briquettes. Instinctively he brought a hand to his face, even though he was protected by the mask. After a few moments, the burning sensation subsided, but the visibility was only getting worse. Depending on the wind, it was like stepping into a foggy twilight, the low morning sun unable to penetrate the smoke. He grabbed a flashlight from the glove compartment.
Major Jorgenson walked briskly, stepping over rock-hard fire hoses and fallen debris, eventually finding himself in the staging area for the firefighting team from Fire Station No. 2. Thick, noxious smoke made it impossible to see beyond the three nearest fire trucks, though he was sure there were more, somewhere in the darkness. At least he
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