The Benghazi Affair: A Parody Novel

by Ward Salud

  She had to go to high ground, she decided. It was the only thing she could do. If they were looking for her, they would more easily find her in the peaks than down below here.

  Pulling up the hood of her parka, Hillary began her ascent up the mountain. Minutes, hours, days? she continued, past the howling winds and unforgivable terrain. At first, she thought she would make it, but as she continued, she grew more and more tired, more and more listless.

  The snow and winds battered her as though sadistically, they wanted to beat her into submission. She thought of everything to keep going, Bill, Chelsea, the presidency, but soon, the trek proved to be too much. Her fatigue as well as her injuries caught up to her.

  On a side path of the mountain, Hillary dragged herself taking one heavy step after another.

  “With great humility and honor,” she shouted deliriously. A line of snow trailed from behind, caused by her dragging feet. “I accept your nomination to the Presidency of the United—”

  She collapsed. With a thud, she landed face down onto the snow. A rush of cold snow impacted her face, but she was too weakened to do anything about it.

  Her whole body ached, and the cold . . . it was so cold. This was it, Hillary thought almost with resignation. In her heart, she knew. She wasn’t going to make it.

  I’m sorry, she said to herself. The faces of Bill, Chelsea, her mom and dad, everyone she cared about flashed before her. For a moment, she thought she could reach out and touch their warm, lovely faces. I’m so sorry.

  Like her 2008 run for the presidency, it was not to be. It was over, and she laid there on the snow, waiting to finally meet her end . . .

  “Hillary . . .” a distinguished but haunting voice said. What? she thought. Was she hearing things?

  “Hillary . . .” the voice said again.

  Groggily, she picked her head up and looked around. In the blur, she could only see whiteness, the unrelenting whiteness of the landscape. Where was that voice coming from?

  Was it a hallucination? Or maybe . . . she was finally going crazy?

  Then, a figure stepped before her, and she craned her head up. A matronly woman in a shawl stood right in front of her with a stern but nonetheless caring visage. The hairstyle of her wavy, a pin-curl hair parted to the right, was reminiscent of the 1930’s.

  Hillary’s jaw slackened at the figure that gazed down at her.

  It was none other than Eleanor Roosevelt.

  •••

  Gun drawn, Huma readied for battle. She still hid behind the crates that were plentiful in the hangar.

  “I don’t want you dead,” Dee Romney said from afar. “You have to understand.”

  Huma squeezed the grip of her gun tighter. She didn’t know what he was talking about, and right now, she didn’t think much of it. She had a mission to complete.

  Deciding it was time, she swung to the side of the crate and pointed the gun straight at the HAARP plane cargo hold, its payload door ramp down, where she last saw Dee.

  He wasn’t there. The cargo hold of the plane was empty, but just moments before, she saw he was running for cover behind the side of the plane.

  Her eyes darted to every part of the HAARP plane, the wings, under the hold, and finally, the cargo hold itself. Where did he go? She could sworn he was just at the . . .

  He was atop the crates. She noticed him finally, but it was too late. Dee jumped down, right on top of her. Under his weight, she cried out as she fell to the ground losing her grip on her gun in the process, sending it clanging on the floor.

  Dee pressed his advantage and coming upon her, tried to grab onto her wrists while she was down on the ground. Remembering her Krav Maga training, she managed to free one of her wrists from his grasp, struck him in the face with her palm, and with a lift of her hips, pushed him off of her, throwing him to the side.

  She found her chance. Quickly, she went for her gun.

  “Gah,” he cried out, recovering from the blow, and soon, grabbed hold of her, sending them both back to the ground.

  Though hurting, Huma pressed on. With Dee struggling against her, she reached out to get her gun only to find Dee’s hands trying to grab her own hands away.

  She reached for her gun anyways, but Dee got there first. With a shove, he pushed her gun away, and it slid off further away from her towards the metal double doorway.

  But nearby, she found another weapon. A blowtorch, lay on its side close to one of the crates, and taking hold of it, she swung it right in his face, causing Dee to cry out at her sudden attack as he rolled back.

  Now free, she picked herself back up and held the blowtorch threateningly in front of her. She’ll take any advantage she can get.

  Dee, also up, took a step back upon seeing her newfound weapon. Huma started it. A sheath of fire erupted from the mouth of the blowtorch, and she pointed it straight at Dee like a miniature flamethrower. She didn’t want to kill him, she thought, but she’ll do it if she had too.

  Dee expertly parried her attack. The heat from the blowtorch slightly singed her fingers, but she pointed it again with Dee once more parrying the second strike.

  She pointed the blowtorch once more, but he was too fast for her.

  With almost preternatural speed, he deflected the blowtorch from him, which sent the flame veering away. Then, he grabbed onto her wrist and twisted it. The pain shot through her, and she cried out immediately. As the blowtorch clanged to the ground, Dee twisted her arm back towards him and spun behind her, putting her into a rear hold, her arm twisted back behind her and his hand across her chin and mouth.

  Huma struggled, trying to get out from his grip, but he held on firmly. “I told you, I don’t want to kill you,” he said to her. His hand was across her face, and she knew he could easily snap her neck.

  “Time to end the Benghazi affair,” he whispered to her. Covering her mouth, he began to drag her to the cargo hold of the converted C-17 that was now the HAARP plane.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Hillary fell to the snow. Up high on the mountain, the wind blew down drifting snow fiercely as though it didn’t want trespassers onto its realm.

  “I can’t do it,” she cried out. She could taste the snow. “I can’t do it.” she repeated, slumping her head onto the snow and ice.

  “Get up!” Eleanor Roosevelt, wearing a shawl and a matronly, handwoven dress, reproached. A small flower hat graced her head. Though the snow blew all around and the cold crept in, the former First Lady didn’t seem bothered by the cold. “That’s not the Hillary I know!”

  She had explained earlier she was the ghost of Eleanor Roosevelt, and Hillary didn’t seem surprised at all. Eleanor had actually visited her before. After the failure of her healthcare plan, one of the darkest days of her First Ladyship, Eleanor came to her, summoned in a séance with the help of “human potential researcher” Dr. Jean Houston. It helped her get through those dark days and many dark days after.

  “It’s over,” Hillary said with resignation, not bothering to lift her head from the snow which numbed her skin more and more. Her whole body had shut down. Eleanor had asked too much from any woman, let alone a woman in her sixties. “It’s over.”

  Eleanor grimly gazed down and narrowed her eyes at her. “Get up!” she said, kicking Hillary’s prone form on the ground with her flat-heeled shoe. “You were First Lady of the United States. Get up!”

  Hillary stayed there on the snowy ground. She was done listening or more precisely, her body was done listening.

  Eleanor kicked her again. “Get up, Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton!”

  The kick did nothing, Hillary continued to lay there. Undeterred, FDR’s First Lady kicked her a third time. “Get up, Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton!”

  There was nothing Eleanor could say. Already, the cold bit into the skin of her face as sleep, wondrous sleep, beckoned to her. Her eyes began to close. Let history be her judge. Maybe, she could sleep right here . . .

  Eleanor Roosevelt saw Hil
lary ready to sleep and crouched beside her. She stared at Hillary’s heavy eyes. “Get up,” Eleanor reproached. “. . . President Hillary Rodham Clinton!”

  Her eyes glanced up. She was right. She can’t give up yet. The future still had to be fought. She still wanted to serve the United States. A familiar saying quoted back at her, something she always said growing up as a Midwestern Methodist girl. The sort of convoluted saying went: Do all the good that you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can . . . and it sort of went on and on, but Hillary got the message.

  She roused from her prone form. “That’s it!” Eleanor cheered.

  Hillary then raised herself to one knee, her aching body protesting every step of the way.

  “Go on, Hillary!” Eleanor continued. “You want to break that glass ceiling, do you?!”

  Somehow, she managed to pick herself up. Her whole body was close to numb from the cold, and without any prodding from the former First Lady, and though her knees ached, she began to step with one foot after another towards the summit of the mountain.

  “Woooooooo!” Eleanor cried out behind her as she raised both arms slowly and then wiggling her fingers. Hillary had already advanced a few steps when she thought she could take another. “Pig! Sooie!” Eleanor finished.

  She couldn’t help but be encouraged. It was the hog call from her days as a law professor cheering on the Razorbacks football team back in Arkansas.

  Newly invigorated, she continued her ascent up the mountain. As though threatened, the wind blew down ever fiercer and the snow pounded against her, but she pressed on up and up the side of the mountain. Her body no longer complained. There was hurt there, but it was tempered by something else. Her will, perhaps. The presence of Eleanor? Her faith in The Lord? She didn’t know, but she pressed on.

  “Eighteen million cracks, Hillary,” Eleanor chided her, trying to encourage her even more. “The nation’s highest glass ceiling still has eighteen million cracks!”

  Hillary only gritted her teeth and trudged up the mountain. One foot after the other. That was all she could concentrate on. One foot after another until finally, miraculously, she made it. She made it to the summit of the mountain.

  As Eleanor joined her, Hillary, breathing hard, gazed down from the summit.

  It was so . . . beautiful.

  The peaks, the valleys, the never ending range of mountains, the snow that went seemingly to the ends of the earth, she watched it all from her vantage point as if she was on top of Creation itself. The sun lit up in the horizon, and the clouds, the whitest of clouds, wisped by so close she could grasp it.

  Eleanor Roosevelt, with a thin smile, beamed proudly at her. Then, she leaned in closer. “You know what you have to do . . .”

  Hillary knew what she was talking about. She gazed down from the summit where a thousand-foot fall would surely kill anyone foolish enough to take the leap . . .

  She placed a hand inside her parka and retrieved a flare gun. Then, she pointed it at the sky, but first, she glanced over at Eleanor, who simply nodded at her.

  BANG

  The flare went up and up and finally exploded in the sky a burst of red and orange smoke in an otherwise blue horizon.

  There was nothing left to do, Hillary thought. Here’s to hoping . . .

  Moments later, Eleanor pointed towards the distance. “Look!” she said eagerly.

  A Black Hawk helicopter appeared over the horizon, its rotors beating in continuous fashion, and headed towards her. They had seen her flare, Hillary thought rapturously. They were coming for her.

  The helicopter flew closer and closer until finally, it hovered just above her. The updraft from the helicopter swept the snow in all directions, forcing her to shield herself with her arms. It finally touched land, and from the cargo hold, Cheryl and Jake, both in parkas, hopped out and hurried towards her.

  “Are you alright!” Cheryl asked her as she and Jake threw a blanket over her shoulders and led her back into the cargo hold of the helicopter. As they took her away, Hillary only glanced back at Eleanor, who stood there smiling serenely at her.

  “We heard what happened,” Cheryl continued over the din of the helicopter’s blades. “It’s a miracle you survived out here!”

  Hillary wasn’t listening. As they loaded her into the Black Hawk cargo hold, a technician placed a second blanket over her. She only continued to gaze at Eleanor. A part of her didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay, keep Eleanor company.

  The Black Hawk lifted off, and as it rose into the air, Eleanor Roosevelt, down below with the snow drifting past her from the helicopter's wind gusts, waved goodbye to her. She kept waiving goodbye until finally, she vanished from the summit itself.

  “Goodbye, Eleanor,” Hillary, clutched inside a blanket, whispered as the Black Hawk helicopter banked away towards seeming safety.

  •••

  SOMEWHERE ABOVE THE SAHARA

  OCTOBER 22, 2012

  The sands beneath it, the HAARP plane, its antenna arrays sticking up in its middle like spires, flew in the sky. Through the cockpit windows, Dee Romney sat in the pilot’s seat determinedly flying the converted C-17 for his final mission.

  And past the cockpit enclosure and down the access stairs, in the cargo hold of the plane, Huma, on the floor, gradually opened her eyes.

  Uhhhh, she thought groggily. The instant she woke she remembered what had happened—her capture by Dee, but glancing around at her steel confines, she didn’t exactly know where she was.

  Huma sat herself up, and trying and failing to yank her hand to her head, she finally noticed the handcuffs around her wrist.

  She must be in the HAARP array plane, she thought, looking around. It was a typical hold of a cargo plane. The jump seats that lined against the plane’s steel walls, the relatively vast hold with its steel floor, and the loadmaster station and galley spaces at the front of the cargo hold with access stairs that led up to the cockpit.

  Still, the inside of the HAARP plane was different. Ballast barrels, large black metallic containers, lined the back of the cargo hold with individual canisters strewn about. Cables snaked from the middle to the barrels and then up and around the walls onto burned metal, as though it was grafted onto the plane. What is that? she thought, thinking that it didn't look like the HAARP array.

  It wasn’t her most pressing concern however. A vague burning chemical smell permeated the air and irritated her nose. She sniffed, though that didn’t really get rid of the smell.

  “Sulfur dioxide,” a voice said. It was Dee and he stepped down from the metallic access stairs and into the cargo hold.

  It was the chemical he used to knock her out, she knew, and glancing around, she surmised it was the same chemicals inside those ballast barrels and canisters.

  Dee continued onto the loadmaster station, sat down on the seat, and began to check on the various instruments.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked him.

  The seated Dee Romney kept his eyes on the loadmaster station’s computer console and instruments. “I’m no traitor,” he said. “On the contrary,” he continued. He turned to her. “With this plane,” his eyes taking in the entirety of his creation. “I’ll secure victory for my father and set America back on track.”

  Huma felt like she couldn’t recognize Dee anymore.

  “Whatever you’re planning, it won’t work,” she said. “It’s America’s decision, not yours. It’s not your place.”

  Her words didn’t seem to have the desired effect. He looked at her with almost despairing eyes. “It has to work,” he said. “Your President spread so many filthy lies about my father when he’s the one who turned five percent unemployment to ten!”

  Reflexively, Huma bristled at the central talking point of the Romney campaign. While the unemployment rate did rise to ten percent, the unemployment rate began to rise sharply during Bush’s term, predating Obama’s presidency. She wanted to say it was Bush’s policies
that caused the Great Recession, but she had to focus. “This is how you’re going to help your father?” she asked him, still trying to get through to her once fellow agent. “With this plane?”

  Dee scoffed. “When my father sees what I’ve done for him, after I’ve secured the presidency for him,” he gulped and balled his fist. His eyes reddened, holding back tears. “He will come to me, and he will love me.”

  Huma could only lean back against the metal wall. The words sank into her and she knew there was nothing she could do to convince him otherwise. Whatever was going to happen, Dee planned to take it all the way.

  •••

  BAGRAM AIR FORCE BASE

  PARWAN PROVINCE, AFGHANISTAN

  OCTOBER 22, 2012

  Bagram Air Force Base was a flurry of activity. Military personnel rushed about the runway, while around them, low-slung buildings and tents constituted the extent of the airfield’s structures.

  SAM, the Secretary of State’s blue and white Boeing C-32, sat on the runway, its engines already rearing to go. As the barren mountains of Afghanistan rose in the distance, Cheryl and Jake led Hillary down the stairwell pressed against the C-130, a smaller variant of the C-17 Globemaster plane. A blanket still shrouded her, though she had taken off her parka and now just wore her pantsuit.

  Jake led her down to the ground as he held Hillary’s hand to keep her steady. Dan and Philippe along with the medical staff, holding first aid kits, quickly hurried towards her.

  “I don’t need medical help,” she said, waving them off as they led her to the SAM plane. Cheryl followed closely behind.

  “We have to,” Philippe protested. “You were out there for two days.”

  “Just take me to Washington,” she said, waving a hand away as a medic tried to wipe her forehead.

  Continuing onto SAM, they all glanced towards Cheryl, who simply nodded at them.

  Philippe shrugged, and the medical staff stood still as they continued onwards. A group of personnel led the stairwell and lined it up alongside SAM.