The Benghazi Affair: A Parody Novel

by Ward Salud

Just then, a younger man turned around, and his eyes grew wide as he saw her. “Hillary?” the younger man said, incredulously.

  Uh oh, she thought with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. The mention of her name brought her to the attention to the rest of the crowd. More and more heads turned toward her.

  “Hillary! Hillary!” the crowd began to shout. An older woman in a hijab headscarf stared at her with an open mouth as if she couldn’t believe the famous Secretary of State was in her suburban neighborhood.

  She backed away from the oncoming crowd. A few times as First Lady, she would go out into Washington, DC wearing a baseball cap as a disguise. The wide-eyed stares of those who recognized her reminded her of those in the crowd now.

  “No no, you’re mistaken,” she tried to say, but her attempts at obfuscation were drowned out by the increasingly excited chatter.

  “Hillary!” they cried out as they converged upon her. In all directions, she saw only their warm smiles, eager to meet her. “What are you doing here?” a voice from the crowd shouted aloud. “Where is your security?” another person asked aloud.

  An overeager fan went up beside her, and with a big smile, the young man held up his smartphone and snapped a picture. The camera shutter sounded, and Hillary already knew that picture wasn’t going to be her best one. A fleeting image of the picture appeared on the screen of the smartphone, the young man smiling and a blond long-tressed Hillary staring ahead as if caught unaware.

  On the roadway, another young man slowed on his motorcycle and stopped before the gathered crowd. “Out of the way!” the young man shouted to the crowd with a wave of his arm.

  Seeing him, Hillary got an idea. “Excuse me, pardon me” she said to the crowd, who followed her still as she wound her way.

  “Where’s Bill?” some in the crowd shouted after.

  “USA ok!” an older man said to her, giving a thumbs up sign.

  She moved past the crowd towards the young man seated on his motorcycle waiting for the crowd to disperse “Don’t have time to explain,” she said, and then, she grabbed the young man from his motorcycle seat and onto the ground.

  The crowd, once friendly, turned mildly hostile, and a chorus of hisses and boos greeted her. Like a heckler in a political rally, she ignored them. As she hopped onto the motorcycle, the young man only looked up with wide-eyed awe, a trace of recognition now on his youthful face. “Hillary?” he asked.

  “Contact the American embassy,” she said, readying herself on the motorcycle. The young man continued to look up, still shocked at his brush with celebrity. “Tell them Hillary sent you!”

  Holding the clutch and placing one foot on the ground for balance, she gunned the throttle and quickly circled the motorcycle to catch up to Dee. The motorcycle’s tires screeched as she rounded, causing tire marks on the road, and then, laying low, she began to speed away on the roadway. A middle aged man moved out of the way just in time to avoid Hillary’s path.

  As she rode, buildings whizzed past as she searched frantically for Dee’s stolen getaway car. He couldn’t have gone far, she said to herself. She didn’t know if she believed it or if she was just fooling herself.

  An intersection neared and rearing left onto Road No. 9, she saw it. Dee, in his bulky vehicle had a harder time at clearing traffic, but he tried anyways, weaving in and out of the lanes.

  Hillary gunned it again, the pavement screeching under the speed of the motorcycle. Dee was too far ahead, already heading down the curved downward slope of the El Mokattam Expressway.

  She couldn’t let him get away, and again, she pressed on the throttle, the motorcycle’s engines already screaming under the strain.

  With her speed, she quickly caught up to the vehicles ahead of her. A vehicle soon blocked her way, but deftly, she weaved past him. Not long after did she overtake the first vehicle than another vehicle soon appeared in front of her. Hillary quickly veered right just barely missing a collision with the second vehicle even as the air whooshed past her.

  Whew, that was close, she thought. She followed the curve of the road and soon, Road No. 9 turned to the El Mokattam roadway. The jumbled masses of buildings soon vanished as well to be replaced by the famed Mokattam hills. Heading down the roadway, the Mokattam hills, rocky and barren, rose ever higher around her.

  Far up ahead, Dee’s vehicle was having an increasingly hard time with the Cairo traffic. It weaved in and out of traffic even as the traffic grew, all heading to Cairo proper. Hillary tried to keep one eye on the road but also on Dee in the distance. For the first time, she was thankful for Cairo traffic.

  Then, she saw it. Dee’s car entered sped towards a bridge over a ravine, the imposing walls and mosque of the Saladin Citadel rising in the distance, but before he could get there, his vehicle slammed into the backside of another’s. The crash of metal and debris crunched and shattered, an ear-splitting cacophony even from Hillary’s vantage point.

  Hillary caught up with some distance and pulled to the side of the road, awestruck at the violence. Not much remained of Dee’s vehicle. The side of the hood crunched in and off and along with the shattered glass and dripping oil, Hillary wondered if he could have survived such a crash. It reminded her a lot of her ill-fated healthcare push in '93.

  Vehicles passed by her, but they didn’t go far. Behind the wrecked cars, a traffic jam formed. Horns blared from impatient motorists, but a fair number of concerned Cairenes stepped out of their vehicles and warily went up to the crash site.

  Could he have survived? she thought.

  Dee answered her unspoken question. From out of the wreckage, he heaved himself out of the front seat and onto the remnants of the car. Dust streaked his face and blood poured form a gash on his forehead, but apparently he was still lucid.

  A couple of good Samaritans tried to come to his aid, but he only pushed them away as he headed to the road's edge.

  Hillary couldn’t believe it, and for a moment, she sat on her motorcycle stunned that Dee not only survived but was actually still making a run for it.

  Dee went to the road's edge and then, headed down the rocky hill. Shaken out of her complacency, she hurried out of the motorcycle, pulled out her SIG Sauer, and ran up to the side of the road. She couldn’t let him get away.

  Looking out, a connector road curved up to the hill road of El Mokattam, and among the teeming cars, Dee continued his escape with a hand on his injured side. She raised her SIG Sauer and took careful aim.

  Her expert marksmanship had him in her sights, but she couldn’t take it. Dammit, she said to herself. There was too much danger for collateral damage and hitting innocent civilians.

  Down below, Dee pressed on. Now past the connector road, his form headed up a street towards a jumble of squat, tenement-like buildings. Curiously enough, it wasn’t the buildings that were the most distinguishing feature of this section of Cairo. It was trash. Mounds and mounds of trash filled the space from the roads and alleys and even on the rooftops.

  Hillary wasted no time and immediately set down the rocky hill, scattering rocks and kicking up sand as she made her way down. Making it to the bottom of the hill, she then quickly gave chase even as Dee Romney entered the mysterious neighborhood filled with trash and rubbish . . .

  She doubled her effort, which, given her aging frame, was a feat, but she pressed on, chasing Dee until she too entered the neighborhood. It teemed with people, and melting into the busy street, she discreetly covered her nose and glanced around at the trash strewn neighborhood around her.

  It was the farthest thing from her home in Chappaqua. Not only was the trash openly strewn about, but some were in bags categorized and separated into cans or plastics as if it was used for collection.

  People went about their day in the neighborhood, but they, rather than shunning the trash, worked with it. A woman, her hair free and not covered by a headscarf, rummaged through the trash with her two children. Men in the crowd carried garbage bags over their shoulders, and another ma
n led his donkey, pulling a cart loaded with trash, down the street.

  She’d read about this place before perhaps by a vaguely remembered briefing by Jake or maybe it was a documentary, but searching her mind, she finally remembered. This was called Garbage City in Cairo, and these people were called the Zeballeen. A Coptic Christian people, the Zeballeen collected the trash of Cairo, and they rummaged through its contents looking for anything to sell and make a living. Even more impressive was their ability to recycle seventy-five percent of its contents to reuse. While she was ambivalent about the way the Zeballeen earned their living, she couldn’t help but admire their entrepreneurial spirit—

  Up ahead, she saw Dee’s hobbling form move through the crowd, and she picked up her pace. Though the air tasted rotten, she ignored it and made her way through the crowd, with some eyeing an obvious stranger in their little community.

  She went up the street, and she saw him again, hurrying through the crowd, though his injury slowed him down. Dee looked over his shoulder, a flicker of panic on his face and then turned back, increasing his speed.

  Concealing her SIG Sauer as best she could, she moved through the crowd to reach Dee. In the distance, however, Dee reached down for his gun and then raised the Grach pistol up high, his finger on the trigger.

  BANG BANG

  Just as he wanted, panic ensued amongst the crowd, and a mad rush began away from the source of the gunfire. Hillary caught the wave of the crowd even as screams sounded. In the chaos, she pulled out her gun and pointed. The crowd had thinned around Dee, and she could see him more clearly than before, although the crowd bumping against her from every which way didn’t help matters.

  She pointed at Dee’s hobbling form, but the more she tried to aim, the more people got in the way. It was too much of a risk, she thought. She couldn’t risk it.

  Once more, she managed her way through the crowd and hurried to catch up even as Dee turned a corner into a trash strewn alleyway.

  Hillary made it and looked for any sign of Dee, but to her distress, she couldn’t find him. The alleyway was dark with the buildings seemed to be too close together, but it was more or less deserted with the occasional goat feeding on the rubbish, she should be able to see him.

  Gun at the ready, Hillary entered the darkened alleyway. He couldn’t have gone far, she knew. But where did he go?

  As she made her way, she warily searched for Dee as piles and piles of garbage-filled trash bags seemed to grow beside her. He was around here somewhere. All she had to do was find him.

  Even as she passed, the trash heap beside her burst out, sending plastic bags filled with trash spreading in all directions. Dee finally made his move. Out of the trash heap, he lunged at her.

  Hillary noticed, but it was too late. She fired, but Dee parried her hand away, causing the shot to go astray as well as sending the gun loose from her grip. As the gun escaped her hand, she cried out at the sudden attack.

  Dee struck her again, this time aiming his fist at her abdomen, but Hillary regained her bearings, was able to grab hold of his wrist, and deflect the blow away from her.

  It was Hillary’s turn to attack. Trained in the arts of Muay Thai as well as Krav Maga, the martial arts originating from Israel and now used by the CIA and DSS, she kicked and punched at Dee with furious speed, even as Dee blocked her attacks. Hillary especially liked Krav Maga because like politics it was no holds barred, it allowed her to fight dirty if necessary.

  She kicked at his groin, hoping to incapacitate him, but Dee deflected the blow with his arm, causing her to lose her balance and stumble away from him.

  Dee didn’t waste this opportunity to escape. Quickly, he ran over and began to ascend the trash heap up to the rooftop of the tenement building. She wasn’t going to let him get away. Hillary followed him towards the trash heap and went up the rubbish pile as well. Leaks and juices from the trash and plastic bags seeped to her hands and stained her pantsuit with some of the trash leakage even landing on her face, but she didn’t let it faze her.

  Dee continued upwards, but she was able to catch up until finally she reached up and grabbed hold of his ankle. At first, he tried to shake her loose, but then, he found a better idea. With his other foot, he kicked at another set of trash, sending it cascading down her.

  Crying out, she had no choice but to let go and shield herself from the oncoming mini avalanche of trash. Once it passed by her, she saw with dismay that Dee made his way onto the tenement roof.

  She climbed up once more, now feeling the slightest fatigue set in. Still, she pressed on and up onto the tenement roof . . . only to find Dee waiting for her with a pilfered shiv made from a sharpened piece of corrugated metal in his hand.

  He stabbed at her, but with her reflexes, she dodged just in time, grabbed his wrist and twisted it, causing him to cry out and lose his grip on the shiv. Hillary caught it and kicked him, sending him back away from her. Even here, trash filled the rooftops around its edges, some even hanging over the edge, and with new weapon in hand, she attacked.

  She slashed at him with her shiv, sending deadly arc after deadly arc, causing him to back away as he continuously tried to avoid her slashes. Hillary slashed away, but he kept moving back and back even as she did not relent.

  Dee kept moving back until there was nowhere else to go. On the tenement rooftop’s edge, Dee stepped back a bit too far and with arms flailing back, began to lose his balance.

  When your opponent is drowning, Hillary thought, recalling her friend and Bill’s 1992 campaign manager “Ragin Cajun” James Carville’s famous saying, throw the son of a bitch an anvil. Shiv in hand, Hillary lunged forward to stab at the increasingly precarious Dee.

  He, however, was not done quite yet. Even as Hillary lunged forward, Dee grabbed hold of Hillary’s pantsuit lapel and wrenched back. To her horror, they both hurtled over the side of the tenement roof with both of their bodies falling over the edge.

  Hillary fell to the ground . . .

  Onto a bed of trash, breaking her fall. She soon became submerged in the trash heap, and for a moment, all was darkness as trash completely engulfed her.

  Hillary flailed about trying to free herself from the mountain of trash she found herself in. If she wasn’t careful, she could suffocate in there.

  A moment later, Hillary got herself out and gasped aloud as she breathed in air. She didn’t have time to be thankful. Remembering Dee, she looked around wildly for any sign of him, but she saw only the trash that was everywhere in Garbage City.

  He was gone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  WASHINGTON, DC

  UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  SEPTEMBER 22, 2012

  The portrait of George Washington, dour and dressed in a colonial military uniform, gazed down at President Obama seated at his Resolute desk. It was an overcast day casting a shadow over the Oval Office that normally would be bathed in sunlight. As he sat, the President read a report in his hand, while both Hillary and Huma stood at attention awaiting his word.

  “I couldn’t get anymore,” Huma said. Now dressed impeccably in a Donna Karan business casual three-quarter sleeve tunic and pants, it seemed hard to believe she was a prisoner of the Muslim Brotherhood just a day ago. “I tried but the room was blasted. Most of the files were destroyed beyond recognition.”

  Seated in front of them behind the desk, Obama kept reading the classified report sent in by Huma. “The Sands of Allah . . .” he said gravely.

  Huma gulped slightly at the mention of the words and then nodded. “From what I was able to read, it had something to do with the stolen HAARP device.”

  Hillary felt like she wasn’t even in the room, but she tried anyways to stand resolutely in her orange pantsuit, the same pantsuit she wore to the 2008 Democratic National Convention. Barack had been cold to her ever since she got back from Cairo. She couldn’t blame him after what she’d done.

  Obama looked up for a moment from his reading, but
only to Huma and never to her. Then, he leafed through to another page of Huma’s classified report. The manila folder the report came in, with the word “CLASSIFIED” stamped in red lettering, lay off to the side on the President's desk.

  “Dee as well,” Obama said finally, his tone seemingly neutral but buried deep, there was anger there. The mention of the name caught Hillary’s attention. She knew first-hand the young Romney’s complete defection.

  “I apologize, Mr. President,” Huma said. “We failed to capture him.” She glanced warily at Hillary for a moment.

  Obama nodded, his demeanor signaling that he didn’t blame them. “His defection. It’s . . . concerning.”

  Hillary bent her head. It was her fault he was able to get away. The mission was to rescue Huma, but Dee’s escape made her feel like the mission was a failure all the same.

  The odd thing was she didn’t know why Dee would defect. There was no indication from his dossier that he had converted to Al Qaeda’s radical interpretation of Islam. As much as she tried to figure it out, she couldn’t find a reason why Dee would betray his country, a country that had blessed him with its riches as a scion of the Romney clan.

  Hillary straightened her posture once more and faced Obama at his desk. Sometimes, she thought, Barack was like ice, she couldn’t tell what lay beneath. It was hard to tell what displeased him more, her insubordination or Dee’s escape. Knowing him, it was probably both.

  Obama shuffled the report and threw it to the side of his desk, a weary look on his handsome, now more mature, face. “Our agents did find who Dee’s working for.” He picked up the classified folder on the desk, opened it, and handed a couple of pages to Huma, who, in turn, took it and handed a page to her.

  Hillary took hold of the page, and there, a portrait of a handsome Middle Eastern man in a Saudi thawb garment and the ghutra and iqal Arabian head covering looked back at her. She was taken aback a bit. A terrorist in her mind conjured images of a monstrous individual, but this man was clearly handsome, almost charming. The word “WANTED” and “#2” was scrawled atop the attractive man’s head.