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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
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    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
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    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 hoped there were more. Once again,
    the heat was on him like a blanket, but even more stifling was
    the noise all around him—radios crackling, sirens blaring, men
    shouting. Loudest of all was the inferno itself, an endless surge
    of flames emitting a noise that was peculiar to fires this overwhelming, a strange cross between a roaring tidal wave and a gigantic wet bedsheet flapping in the breeze.
    “Watch it!”
    Directly overhead, a stream of water arched from the turret of
    a massive, yellow truck. It was one of several three-thousandgallon airport rescue and firefighting machines on the base, capable of dousing flames with 165 gallons of water per minute.
    It wasn’t even close to being enough.
    “Coming through!” A team of stretcher bearers streaked past.
    Major Jorgenson caught a glimpse of the blackened shell of a man
    on the gurney, his arms and legs twisted and shriveled like melted
    plastic. On impulse, he ran alongside and then took up the rear
    position, relieving one of the stretcher bearers who seemed to be
    on the verge of collapse.
    “Dear God,” he said. But his