Here's a mental exercise: picture a tropical paradise lost in an endless expanse of cerulean ocean. Glossy palm fronds twist in the temperate wind along immaculate, powder white beaches. Leathery sea turtles bob lazily offshore, and the light cacophony of birdsong accents the ambient sound of wind and waves.
Now add concrete. Lots and lots of concrete. And B-2 bombers. Toss in a few high-value terrorists, disembarking from an unmarked CIA jet, most likely hooded, shackled and headed for days and nights of the closest thing to torture that American interrogators can come up with while still claiming not to have...