Chasing Ghosts: Camp Lemonnier

Anne didn't know of the camps' existence
and probably never even heard of Djibouti,
but there it was, not too far from Yemen and
close enough to Somalia for easy pickings.
As soon as Rummy completed it, he knew it
was a masterpiece, a fighting outpost fit for his daily brag. 
Cheney, as savage as always,
also wanted to be where the action was.
Having outmaneuvered the CIA, he set his sights on stateless actors,
people who were about to disappear into his black hole and travel 
deeper into secret black sites hidden carefully inside his black ops world.
Rummy and Dick smoked their cigars, but W wasn't old enough to join them.
They wanted to kill:  to find THEM, fix THEM, and finish THEM.
In a sort of targeted killing, the killing began.
America had the best instructors in Seal Team 6 and 
Delta Force and the US Army Rangers and, shh, quiet, please. 
Initially, there had been some talk about interrogation, and water boarding
but that passed along with a digested supper and before nightly prayers.
The Joint Special Operations Command wanted to go further and they would.
Their clever lawyers worked up a plan to claim extreme action was within legal bounds.
Lethal drone attacks smartly flew from bases far from any American campus,
so student term papers could still be written in a sleepy atmosphere.
Anne didn't know who was piloting the planes,
but it couldn't be Captain John Yossarian, since he was a B-25 bombardier
flying from memories collected during World War II.
The cat fight between the Pentagon and the CIA continued as a small skirmish,
not liable to detract from the larger mission of giving prisoners
rectal examinations in the hope of finding weapons of mass destruction.
And body cavity checks were carried out and diapers worn
by members of the White House staff,
so they wouldn't need to urinate or defecate on themselves.
Congressional involvement?  The boys figured a workaround for that:
If there's any interference, kill'em.
This inability to understand the enormous historical resonance and relevance of
our dance with death is a failure of the current generation.
Someday, there will be no one left to say "I'm sorry."
Anne didn't know it would end this way.