The Benghazi Affair: A Parody Novel

by Ward Salud

  “That’s us,” Hillary said, though she knew she was the only one going into the plane.

  Together, they headed towards the gate.

  “Call us,” Cheryl said aloud even as a crush of people began to separate her from her friends.

  “We’ll stay in touch,” Maggie called out, throwing her purse towards her.

  “I will,” she said to both of them as she caught the purse with her hand. The wave of people, though, pushed her away more and more, and Hillary had no choice but to move with the crowd.

  She followed the others on the jet bridge towards the actual plane. As she went inside the plane proper, a flight attendant greeted her, and inside, she shimmied her way past first class and business all the way to the cramped confines of coach.

  Seeing the seats squeezed together without thought or heed to human anatomy, Hillary instantly missed her SAM plane. Even on special missions, she took SAM, the plane designated for the Secretary of State, where she had her own private cabin. And she thought that was uncomfortable.

  The people already seated mumbled to themselves looking all too inconvenienced.

  Finally, she found her seat and tried to put her purse in the overhead bin.

  “I can help you with that,” a balding middle aged man in a Bahama shirt said.

  “No no,” she said, pushing past him and shoving the purse in. Her gun was inside, using a special sensor to fool the airport scanners.

  The middle aged man’s smile vanished, taking affront to her refusal to help her. “Geez, bitch,” he mumbled under his breath.

  Hillary ignored the insult. She was used to such epithets but usually on the internet like say YouTube comments and rarely to her face.

  She took a seat, but to her dismay it was the middle seat. Not even a window view, she thought. The one who did sit by the window already had his head on the porthole window fast asleep.

  A young woman, in a Juicy Couture tracksuit, sat down on the aisle seat beside her and quickly took out her iPhone and started texting.

  She was always interested in the views of young people, and this time was no different. Besides, she missed having someone to talk to. “Those are cute earrings,” she said, using her customary icebreaker. People were sometimes intimidated to see her, and she found complimenting others got the conversation going.

  The young woman, however, as if inconvenienced, only gave her a look and quickly went back to texting.

  Rebuffed, Hillary sat back in her cramped seating, already having lost both of the elbow rests to her seatmates.

  This is going to be a long flight, Hillary thought.

  •••

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  WASHINGTON, DC

  UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  SEPTEMBER 20, 2012

  The big screen video monitor now displayed the seal of the President of the United States, a bald eagle set against a blue and white backdrop clutching thirteen arrows and fig leaves in each of its claws. A moment before, President Obama had watched CIA agents storm the Muslim Brotherhood headquarters in Cairo, a rescue mission he ordered to free the captured Huma Abedin. The mission had been going well at first. Trained spies, both American and Egyptian with silencers in hand, neutralized the enemy first at the lobby and then to the inner bowels of the compound itself. Then, it all went wrong. The last image Obama saw was that of an agent, a spy cam sewed into his clothes, falling down to the ground. The screen went to static and then to the Presidential Seal itself.

  “What do you mean we lost them?” Obama said to CIA Director and Five-Star General David Petraeus who was in Langley, the CIA headquarters, speaking through the small touch panel built into the desk. The President was in the Situation Room, or more likely Situation Rooms. While there was a main conference room deep in the basement of the White House, the Situation Room encompassed all the individual rooms, support staff, and adjoining halls that served as the president’s base for the most confidential of American missions and reports. He chose a small office for this occasion not far from the other office where he watched Osama bin Laden brought to justice by American soldiers. Of course, Wolf Blitzer, the gray-maned and prodigiously bearded CNN host, had his own Situation Room, but Obama didn’t like thinking about that.

  Seated behind a desk in a leather executive chair, the President gripped a stress ball in his hand as he stared at the video monitor.

  “Ascertaining the situation, Mr. President,” Petraeus said through the touch panel. The communication capabilities of the White House allowed Obama to contact anyone around the world, all secured. “It’s almost like they knew we were coming,” he continued incredulously.

  The President squeezed the stress ball into his grip. “Find out and get back to me,” he said. The sound feed cut out, and then, he threw the stress ball, causing a loud thud as it bounced against the wall and onto the floor.

  This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go, the President thought. The CIA said it would be an easy kill and retrieve mission, but obviously, they had grossly underestimated the Muslim Brotherhood. Things hadn’t exactly been going according to plan lately, Syria being the most glaring example.

  A mole was the most likely culprit, he knew. He’d been told of disturbing leaks of information, and Huma’s capture and now this disastrous mission only intensified his own suspicion that they’ve been compromised. But who? he asked himself, and he started hating himself for not knowing, for not being the change he knew he should be.

  And as each second ticked by, the more danger to Huma. They would know there was a rescue attempt for her, and he tried not to think of what they’ll do to her in retaliation.

  There was no time to waste now, he knew. He needed his best agent, even if that agent was someone he couldn’t fully control. He pressed a button on the touchscreen panel installed onto his oak desk.

  “Anita,” he said to the White House secretary. “Get me Philippe Reines.”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Anita Breckenridge said. The clacks of a keyboard sounded in the foreground. “Patching him through.”

  A moment later, the video display cut from the Presidential Seal to the deer-in-the-headlights look of Philippe Reines. Fortunately, he was already in Hillaryland Ops at the State Department. Hillary’s communication’s director sat at one of the worktables, his face cast in the soft glow of computer monitors.

  Obama stood up and put his hands on his hips. “Philippe, where’s Hillary?”

  “Hillary?” Philippe croaked. “Um, Hillary who?”

  “I don’t have time for one of your jokes,” Obama said, slightly annoyed. Normally, he would be in good spirits with him but not at this moment.

  “Oh that Hillary,” Philippe said with a nervous laugh. “Let me get that for you.” He proceeded to “type” away at the keyboard, though Obama could tell he wasn’t since he didn’t hear any sounds.

  Obama didn’t know what was up with Philippe. Though a jokester, he knew Philippe was more professional than this. “Get me Hillary,” he finally said.

  Philippe tugged at his shirt collar. “Um, um,” he said as his eyes shifted back and forth.

  At this point, he knew something was up with Hillary, and he wasn’t going to like it. “Tell me,” he said, staring straight at Philippe.

  At that moment, off in the corner, a door opened at Hillaryland Ops. Light filtered in for a moment, and then Dan Schwerin, Hillary’s speechwriter, came running in.

  “She landed in Cairo,” he said breathlessly, unaware Obama was watching through a monitor at a desk where Philippe sat. “I think we can actually pull this off!”

  His words seemed to hang in the air at both Hillaryland Ops and the White House Situation Room. Philippe palmed his face, while Obama only glared at the monitor afraid he was about to lose whatever composure he had left.

  •••

  EL MOKATTAM

  CAIRO, EGYPT

  SEPTEMBER 21, 2012

  Hillary Clinton, wearing a helmet to promote responsible h
ead safety, slowed her motorcycle and parked it by the side of the road. Putting her foot, in low-heeled pumps, to the ground to steady the motorcycle, she removed her helmet, revealing a headscarf that she now wore to disguise herself in the Islamic country, and then looked up at the imposing structure before her. The walled compound of the Muslim Brotherhood headquarters rose into the sky, the tallest building in Mokattam, and she knew inside, that Huma was there. She could already feel her there.

  It was afternoon in the sleepy suburb of Mokattam, and while a few pedestrians and vehicles passed by, no one recognized or even paid much attention to her. Just the way she wanted.

  She hopped off the motorcycle, and quietly removing the headscarf, she went into a side alley between the walls of the Muslim Brotherhood HQ and an apartment building. The wall of the compound was high, clearly giving Hillary flashbacks of the walls of Muammar Gaddafi’s compound in Tripoli, but it was not high enough.

  Using the carefully honed art of parkour, Hillary readied to scale the walls of the compound. But first, she had to use the apartments as a jumping off point.

  With a deep breath, Hillary made a running start, placed her foot onto the apartment wall, and then jumped up, where just in time, she grabbed onto the a tiny balcony ledge. She heaved herself up and onto the balcony ledge where she hoped no one was watching. Hard part’s over with, she thought.

  She climbed again onto a balustrade and jumped up once more, grabbing hold of another balcony ledge on the next floor up. Up she went again onto the balcony where she was now able to look down upon the wall like being on top of a public opinion poll.

  Not wanting people to notice her, she quickly climbed onto the railing, first jumping down onto the top coping of the wall and then down to the courtyard of the Muslim Brotherhood compound itself. Hurriedly, she stole onto a veranda and hugged the side of the wall to mask her infiltration. Removing her SIG Sauer from the shoulder holster hidden underneath her pantsuit jacket, she then looked out onto the courtyard. Curiously enough, no one was there. The place seemed oddly deserted. The Muslim Brotherhood was in power now in Egypt led by the increasingly dictatorial Mohamed Morsi after decades of being forced underground. Yet, no Brotherhood members guarded or milled about their main party headquarters.

  Maybe there was a rally, Hillary said to herself. Or maybe Obama’s men got here first. She pressed on with her mission. At the front door with her SIG Sauer at the ready, she prodded the door and peeked in.

  She drew back a breath. Two bodies, clearly of Muslim Brotherhood members, lay on the floor of the small darkened lobby, while another person’s body hung limp against the reception desk with a blank expression on his face. Hillary gulped and entered. Gun at the ready, she carefully made her way through the lobby on the lookout past the dead—

  BZZZT BZZZT BZZZT

  Hillary stopped. A cell phone vibrated in her pantsuit jacket pocket. She had earlier obtained a spare cell phone in case of an emergency, having left her BlackBerry back in Whitehaven to prevent it from being tracked. Somehow, she knew she wasn’t going to like what the other person on the line would say.

  “—llary,” The voice of President Obama came through as she pressed the spare cell phone to her ear. “I gave you express orders—”

  She had hoped this wouldn’t happen. “I told you, Barack,” she replied, feeling slightly guilty at her insubordination. “I’ll do what I have to. I’m willing to accept whatever punish—”

  Her instincts caught something, and she whirled about with her SIG Sauer pointed towards the hallway adjoining the lobby. Somebody was there.

  “It’s me,” Huma said, stepping out of the shadows. She looked tired with her usually immaculate hair uncharacteristically unkempt, but she was okay. “It’s me,” she repeated, holding her hands up in front of her

  “Huma?” Hillary asked, almost as if she couldn’t believe she was standing there. She was so worried about her wellbeing and now that she was there . . .

  Hillary went up, and both protégé and mentor embraced. “But how?” Hillary asked, pulling back and facing her.

  “I’ll explain later,” Huma replied. She let go of Hillary's embrace and instantly went towards the corpse of a Muslim Brotherhood member on the floor where she quickly kneeled and found a spare gun on his person.

  “Let’s go,” Hillary said, looking out at the courtyard and back to safety now that the mission was complete

  Huma checked the Makarov pistol for ammo, and finding some, she pushed the clip back into the gun. “This is urgent, we have to—”

  “Hillary?” Obama said, coming through the cell phone. “What’s happening there, Hillary?”

  “I have her,” Hillary said back, putting the cell phone back to her ear. “We’re about to—”

  “We can’t,” Huma interrupted as she stood back. She glanced at the cell phone, seeming to notice it for the first time, and then looked past Hillary to the darkened inner hallways of the Muslim Brotherhood headquarters itself.

  “The files,” she said, looking back at her boss. “I found files in my earlier mission. It’s about Benghazi . . .”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Hillary’s cell phone sounded once again with a stern voice. Hillary, return at once,” Obama said. His voice became inaudible, momentarily disrupting their communication. “—turn at once. Do you hear me?!”

  Huma’s eyes flickered between her boss and the cell phone. “The Sands of Allah,” Huma said finally. “In the computer files, it mentioned something about the Sands of Allah. It has something to do with the Benghazi attack.”

  She thought for a moment about what she was going to do. Barack was the President, but she already knew she had to investigate the matter. Besides, this was like another 3 AM phone call. She had to answer it.

  “Hillary!” Obama said again in the cell phone. “Hill—” Hillary turned off the spare cell phone, and put it back in her pantsuit jacket. Huma could only give a concerned glance at what happened.

  Raising up her SIG Sauer, Hillary nodded at Huma, who only lowered her gaze for a moment but nodded back at her. As they made their way through the marbled lobby, with Islamic calligraphy on its walls, they made their way to the adjoining hallway.

  “What happened?” Hillary said as they hurried through the hall.

  “I’m not exactly sure,” Huma replied, keeping her gun close. “I heard shouts outside my cell, but in the chaos, I managed to pick a lock.” They came upon a stairwell that went upwards to the inner sanctum of the Muslim Brotherhood.

  Hillary led the way up the stairwell with Huma following close behind.

  “A double agent,” Huma said, trailing behind her boss. As Hillary made her way up, she looked back, the words concerning her. In spycraft, the double agent was the most dangerous spy of all.

  “I was captured by a double agent named Dee,” Huma said, her beautiful face saddened by the memory.

  “Dee?” Hillary asked. “Dee who?”

  “Dee . . .” As they rounded a corner, a Caucasian man emerged from a room into the hallway. A keffiyeh covered his face, and holding a gun at his side, he threw something into the room he had just left. “Romney,” Huma finished.

  Upon seeing them, Dee ran back, firing his Grach pistol as he did so, but Hillary quickly grabbed Huma and hid them behind the cover of a wall. The shots rang out, just barely missing them.

  “I guess we found Dee,” Hillary said. She stepped out of her hiding spot and fired her SIG Sauer only to see his form round a corner, vanishing out of sight.

  She wasn’t about to let him get away. “Get what you can!” Hillary said to Huma. As Hillary ran ahead however . . .

  BOOM

  An explosion blasted from the room, sending a ball of fire out and wood, plaster, and debris spraying in all directions. It forced Hillary back and onto the floor as smoke filled the air.

  Huma came to her side. “Are you alright?” she asked, coughing.

  Her ears rang, but she nodded anyways. “Do what
I told you,” she said, coughing. “Go!”

  Huma needed no prodding. She ran ahead into the billowing smoke to retrieve whatever computer files she could obtain from the destroyed server room.

  Coughing again, Hillary picked herself up, ready for round two with the double agent. Where did he go? she asked herself. Like many of her decisions, she decided to poll her intuition.

  In general, where do you think Dee has gone? she asked herself. 58 percent, an overwhelming majority of herself, felt he fled outside and searched for a getaway vehicle. 10 percent of her intuition said to the roof, possibly an aerial vehicle, while the rest was split between hiding inside or meeting up with accomplices.

  The decision made, she looked outside through the busted windows. She couldn’t catch up to him, but if she could find a shortcut . . .

  Quickly, she hopped from the windowsill, the shards of broken glass biting into her hand, onto a landing outside. She was now on the hanging roof of the headquarters, and there, she could see the full sweep of Al Mokattam, with the hazy Cairo skyline of domed mosques, squat buildings, and minarets faint in the distance.

  Down below, on the street past the walled gate of the Muslim Brotherhood building, Dee had already thrown a driver off his stopped vehicle. Before he finished the carjacking, he first glared at Hillary and then hopped onto the driver’s seat. A crowd began to gather with their hands upraised to accost the mysterious man for the theft of the vehicle, but Dee ignored them and gripped the steering wheel.

  She had no time to spare. Hillary ran and hopped down first to the coping of the front wall and then onto solid ground, doing a forward roll as she landed on the street. Hustling, she ran to the crowd, but Dee had already escaped. The engine roared and the wheels screeched against the pavement to head up to the expressway.

  Hillary couldn’t believe her luck. She thought about trying to shoot at him, but the crowd had already blocked the view shouting invectives at the escaping thief. She still had her motorcycle, though maybe she could . . .