The Benghazi Affair: A Parody Novel

by Ward Salud

  “Did you really think I’ll let you get away?” the familiar accent of #2 sounded over the COSA communication system.

  Huma glanced over at Dee, but he too didn’t know what was going on. The plane, meanwhile, continued on its trajectory, and if she didn’t know any better, the hurricane clouds seemed to be getting stronger.

  #2 laughed derisively. “I had a feeling you might betray me, Dee,” he said. “No matter,” he continued. “The auto-pilot will continue on its planned route . . . Target New York City,”

  Dee wrenched on the flight stick, but it remained stuck.

  “A shame to lose you, Dee, but you’ve done your part,” he said. “Oh and, Huma, watch that President of yours . . .”

  The voice cut out, and Huma could only sit there, confused at the turn of events. What was he talking about?

  Dee banged on the controls. “I’ve lost control,” he said in panic even as he still tried to fiddle with the controls. “It’s not my plane anymore.”

  •••

  The Situation Room erupted in cheers. They had seen the plane continue to veer away from the city, and the assembled National Security Council clapped and cheered at what had happened with some hugging each other. Smiles had erased their concerned frowns. It seemed that the worst was over.

  President Obama finally let down his guard, and for the first time since the Benghazi incident, he could relax, at least for a little bit. Vice President Joe Biden came over to him with a big smile on his face.

  “Now that’s a big f#@&% deal,” he said, giving him a bro hug, a clasp on one hand followed by a one-armed hug.

  Obama couldn’t help but smile as well. He instantly thought of Hillary to thank her for all she’s done. Huma’s safe too, but they had to make sure of that. “Looks like we’ve—”

  “What the . . .” someone in the room said.

  Both he and Joe turned, and he saw Secretary of Defense Panetta along with more and more people starting to stare at the screen. Obama noticed it too.

  Where before the swirling hurricane on the eastern seaboard shifted to the right towards the Atlantic Ocean, the hurricane now veered back to its original course all the way to the mainland.

  General Dempsey put the phone down on the conference table. His haunted face showed clearly what they already knew. “Sandy’s heading straight for New York,” he said.

  •••

  “There has to be another way!” Huma cried out. In front of her in the cargo hold, Dee was stoic. Over in the cockpit, at the front of the HAARP plane, the pilot’s seat was empty. The auto-pilot had taken full control of the aircraft.

  The HAARP array was out of their control as well, while the metallic barrels with red cables that snaked out of them continued to spew out the chemtrails outside.

  “If I destroy this plane,” he said. “The city might ride out the storm.”

  Dee had told her of his plan, that there was no other way, but Huma wanted to save him. He was still a US agent like her. “We just need to think, come up with another—”

  “No,” Dee interrupted, finally getting frustrated. “After what I’ve done . . .” He gulped, trying to control his emotions. “There are some things you can’t change,” he said to her. “No matter how much we want to.”

  Huma finally let the matter go. In his eyes, she saw there was no changing his mind. Throughout this whole ordeal, Dee had been an adversary, but these last few moments, they had worked together. It seemed so cruel for fate to be like this. He had already decided, she thought, and she simply looked down and nodded.

  When all was ready, Huma jumped out of the HAARP Plane. A parachute strapped to her back, she continued her descent as wind rushed against her face.

  In the eye of the hurricane, she didn’t suffer the dangerous gale force winds beyond the eyewall. Here, in the eye, it was almost . . . peaceful.

  She continued her descent, and behind her, finally, the HAARP plane exploded in a fiery ball. The blast reverberated everywhere. Yet, she continued to fly down.

  “Goodbye, Dee,” she said. Down on the seas below, an aircraft carrier, battling the rocky waves, sailed in. Jets had cleared the runway, but already the flight crew readied for her arrival, placing a red target marker on the flight deck and waving their arms at her.

  They awaited her landing.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  WASHINGTON, DC

  UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  DECEMBER 11, 2012

  A single Presidential Medal of Freedom, opened prominently in its velvet medal case, remained on the Resolute Desk in the Oval Office. Hillary and three other agents faced President Obama, all standing erect and all stoic as they received their awards. The families of the men as well as Hillary’s aides, Cheryl, Jake, Philippe, and Dan, watched in silence behind them.

  “For great service and honor to the United States of America,” Obama said, pinning the Medal of Freedom to the suit jacket of a DSS agent, who only looked ahead, quiet but proud.

  Obama returned back to the Resolute desk and picked up the last Medal of Freedom. Hillary gulped knowing that she was next. She hated getting all this attention. She was a workhorse not a show horse, dammit.

  It had been a few weeks since the end of the Benghazi incident. Hurricane Sandy hit the tri-state area later that day and attacked New York. The damage was severe, billions in property losses, and tragically, many lives were lost. They did all they could, though, and prevented what could have been a worse disaster.

  President Obama won his reelection as well in a resounding victory over Mitt Romney, who on election night gave a gracious concession speech to the reelected President. However much she disagreed with Mitt’s politics, he was and always will be a gentleman and good family man.

  The ensuing weeks had been a fairly quiet one, relatively speaking. In her other job as Secretary of State, her efforts helped broker a ceasefire between the Israelis and Palestinians, and now, her time as Secretary of State was ending. It had been a rollercoaster four years, and the farewell tour she embarked on, visiting several countries in multiple nations, further placed in her mind how much of an honor her other job has been.

  “Hillary,” Obama said as he held the star-shaped Medal of Freedom. He held a hint of a smile on his lips. He was proud of his DSS agent and sometime Secretary of State as well.

  “For great service and honor to the United States of America,” he said. Hillary straightened herself as Barack pinned the medal to the lapel of her pantsuit jacket. Then, he leaned over to her ear. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For everything,” he finished, giving her a peck on the cheek.

  Obama finished the proceedings with one final speech commending them for all they’ve done and hoping this was not the last medal ceremony that he’ll see them, and then, with the proceedings truly ended, the families joined the agents. One agent’s wife kissed her husband rapturously, while another agent’s family took a picture with the President. The third agent’s family hugged one another and conversed quietly next to the marble bust of Abraham Lincoln, which gazed down almost forlorn.

  Hillary went to her Hillaryland aides. “So how many medals do you have now?” Philippe asked with a mischievous smile. “Three or is it four?”

  She could only shake her head at the gentle ribbing. She never got used to receiving such accolades and being the center of attention.

  “No one’s counting,” Cheryl Mills said. In a women’s business suit, she already held in her hand a folder with sheafs of paper inside detailing the next item on their itinerary as Jake and Dan hovered in the background.

  Hillary saw the anxious Cheryl and surmised they were already running late. She went over to Barack, said her thanks and goodbyes, and soon, they walked down the hall of the West Wing to head to the entrance of the White House where their State Department-issued Cadillac DTSs waited.

  “So how does it feel to save the day yet again?” Philippe said good-naturedly. He had a glint in his eye,
obviously enjoying ribbing his boss.

  Hillary gave him a bemused look and tried to hide her smile, though Cheryl beside her gave him a fiercer and more displeased frown. Philippe bit his lip and glanced innocently around.

  As much as she wanted to believe Philippe that all was well, she was afraid that Cheryl was right. They managed to stop Dee, but there was still much work yet to be done. #2 was still out there, and she was as surprised as anyone at Huma’s debriefing; that he had taken over the plane after Dee had a change of heart.

  Then, there’s the whirlwind final weeks left of her tenure as Secretary of State. She still had to make sure her reforms touching on women and girls especially Melanne’s position as Ambassador-at-Large for Global Women’s Issues were institutionalized at State. Such bureaucratic reforms didn’t get as much attention in the White House as her spy missions, but it still mattered. Women’s rights matter.

  They made it to the Grand Foyer of the White House where outside the impressive dark wood double doors waited their Cadillac DTSs. A grand piano stood in the far corner as Hillary stopped on the tessellated marble floors.

  “Well, that was an interesting day,” she said to them. There was still much to be done, but it’ll have to wait. “Go home guys,” she said. She stifled a yawn as fatigue got to her.

  They all nodded back, but Hillary noticed Cheryl holding another velvet medal case in her hand. It wasn’t hers since she asked Barack to send it later. That medal could only be for someone else . . .

  “Say, why didn’t Huma come to the ceremony?” she asked them, surmising the medal belonged to her.

  Cheryl held up the velvet case holding the Medal of Freedom and looked quizzically at it. “She’s at ‘The Building,’” she said, frowning that Huma didn’t join in the festivities. “Said she had unfinished business . . .”

  •••

  HARRY S. TRUMAN FEDERAL BUILDING

  WASHINGTON, DC

  UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  DECEMBER 11, 2012

  In her office on the seventh floor of the State Department, Huma stared at the screen of her desktop computer. The screen contained the translated documents captured from the Siachen Glacier Base. She didn’t know why she was reading these documents, but something was bothering her.

  Huma stopped reading and rubbed her eyes, a consequence of staring too much at a screen. Her office was nondescript, especially compared to her boss’s, but it served its purpose. Outside, automobiles rode by on Third Street, and the cityscape of midrises that constituted much of DC spread out onto the horizon. Several framed pictures sat prominently on her fairly messy desk, one of Anthony, her baby, and a picture of a younger her with then Senator Hillary and President Bill Clinton, smiling at the camera.

  She rolled back on her desk chair and reached down to take out a Dasani water bottle from her Chanel handbag. If she was honest with herself, it was what #2 said about the President that bothered her. Why would he say that about the President? she thought as she pressed the water bottle to her lips. The cool waters quenched her dry throat.

  The memory came clear in her mind.

  “Oh and, Huma,” she remembered #2 saying on the HAARP Plane. “Watch that President of yours.”

  She still had no idea why he would make that warning, and the tone in his voice, it held a knowing quality as though he wanted to spill the secret but couldn’t for any number of reasons.

  Huma placed the water bottle down on her desk. That was the second time someone accused the President as someone to watch out for, first her “informant” and now #2. She shook her head. Just a coincidence, she thought.

  As she screwed the cap back on the water bottle, her gaze fell on the picture with her and Mr. and Mrs. Clinton. Her with a Senator and a President . . .

  She gazed again at the picture, and a trouble thought intruded into her mind. Obama wasn’t the only President she knew . . .

  •••

  EMBASSY ROW

  WASHINGTON, DC

  UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  DECEMBER 11, 2012

  For what seemed like a godsend, Hillary rested on her beige couch in the living room of her Washington home, Whitehaven. She had just returned home to Embassy Row and haven’t had time to change from her pantsuit yet. As she relaxed, she picked up the remote from the coffee table and turned on the flat panel television.

  Time for some HGTV, she thought eagerly.

  “Which house will they choose?” the lady’s voice announced on the television. The TV was already on HGTV when it turned on. The next images showed House number one, two, and for a change of pace, a condo for number three.

  On the screen, a woman and her husband sat on a patio outside. “What do you think?” the woman asked. The husband gazed stiffly at his wife.

  “I don’t know, what do you think?”

  Hillary didn’t know and leaned forward on the couch, wondering what house the young couple would choose.

  Bill peered in from the hall. “Thought I heard you here,” the former President said. He wore a suit, and oddly enough, he did not smile when he greeted her.

  “Oh hi, Bill,” she said, keeping one eye on the TV, but apparently, the network moved on to the next show, this time an international version of the same house show. Guess she’ll never find out what house they chose, she thought.

  Bill entered the living room, his leather shoes tapping on the hard wood floor. “Didn’t expect you so soon . . .”

  Bill sat down beside her. “So what have you been up to?” he asked.

  “Not much,” she said, focusing on the television show. The screen showed another young couple visiting the canals of Amsterdam. “Secretary of State stuff mostly. Haven’t been sent on another mission yet,” she continued, still watching the TV. “You?”

  Hearing the question, Bill shook his head disdainfully. “Someone from the DNC called me, something about attending an event for a county chair in Pennsylvania.” He laughed scoffingly. “Can you believe it? Already after the election, and people are already asking for advice and help,” he continued, and then he sighed. “I say they should just stay put and leave me alone.”

  The diatribe made Hillary turn her head. It wasn’t like Bill to say that. He loved politics and would never grouse about attending some party function. This time, the TV was the furthest thing from her mind.

  “They called earlier last week, trying to book me for some Jackson Jefferson dinner,” he complained. “Ugh.”

  Hillary only watched her husband in quiet shock. Then, she noticed his hand, and it clicked in her head. His hands, so strong and firm, she loved so much, they weren’t shaking at all . . .

  “You’re not Bill,” she said almost in a whisper.

  The former President caught those words, and a momentary frown appeared on his lips. “What?” he asked, smiling again in an easygoing manner.

  Hillary stood up from the couch and took a step back. “You’re not Bill,” she said.

  Bill got up as well. “What are you talking about?” he asked coming over to her as though trying to give her a hug.

  Quickly, she grabbed a lamp that was on the end table and held it up as a shield. “You’re not Bill,” she said, full of certainty.

  “It’s me,” the President said. “Come here, give me a hug,” he said.

  “I don’t know who you are,” she said, still holding up the lamp in front of her. It was his hands that tipped her off. Bill loved to meet people so much and signed so many autographs that he damaged his hands, causing them to shake. As he held out his hands, this person, this imposter’s hands were steady.

  “Where’s my Bill?” she asked, her voice breaking. Tears began to form in her eyes.

  All pretenses gone, his smile vanished, and only antipathy remained. “All right, Heeellarry,” he snarled, his accent changing noticeably from Southern to Middle Eastern. “I wondered how long it would take you to finally figure it out.”

  Hillary backed up and held the lamp in front o
f her as her only weapon. Her mind whirled at what had just happened. She was under attack in her own home and Bill. Where was Bill?

  “My master planned it all from the beginning,” he said. A sneer on what was clearly Bill’s face. “And you Americans fell for it like the willing dogs that you are.” He took a step forward. “Now your use is at an end . . .”

  To Hillary’s horror, the man who looked like Bill reached to the side of his neck and pierced the skin with his fingers. Then, he tore off the apparent mask to reveal a Middle Eastern man beneath even as the latex remnants of his disguise jutted out from the neck.

  In the imposter’s eyes, there was nothing but hatred for her, and reaching into his suit jacket, he pulled a knife. “Die, American witch!” he cried out fanatically as he charged at her.

  •••

  Huma ran out of the State Department Building onto the curved drive entranceway. Ever since the Kenyan and Tanzanian embassy bombings in the late 90s, crash bollards, made of steel, had been placed there for security purposes especially to prevent car bombs.

  It was President Clinton who was the mole. She didn’t have anything other than a suspicion, but she was sure of it. She didn’t know what happened, but she had to warn her boss. Calls to her boss went unanswered.

  Unlike many parts of DC, tourists didn’t visit the State Department all that much preferring instead the more popular sights like the White House or the National Mall. True to form, only State Department employees milled in and out of building and on the plaza. A few looked at her quizzically, wondering perhaps what she was doing.

  Huma looked out. She needed a taxi, but all she found were passing cars and a bike or two. She thought about flagging a bike but decided against it.

  A taxi, she thought. That was her best bet. Quickly, she ran straight for the National Mall where taxis simply milled about in popular tourist spots like the Washington Monument or the Lincoln Memorial. It was late afternoon, but they should still be around.

  Hold on Mrs. Clinton, she thought as she ran by the block long State Department. The National Mall was on the other side. I’m coming.