The Benghazi Affair: A Parody Novel

by Ward Salud

  “The Sands of Allah.”

  Hearing the words, Huma looked up with even more concentration than before. Hillary wasn’t expecting that either. She listened more closely to what Barack was about to say.

  “The Revolutionary Guard of Iran as well as Al Qaeda teamed up to create this technology.” Obama pressed a button on the speakerphone again, and the screen this time switched to a video. An ocean, tranquil and peaceful, now appeared on the viewscreen.

  “They intend to detonate a tsunami bomb . . .” The video dove into the depths of the ocean. Past fish and other wildlife of the ocean as well as seaweed and other undersea fauna, the camera finally rested on a single bomb placed on the ocean floor. “The Sands of Allah,” Obama’s voiceover explained.

  On the bomb, a timer, the seconds in stark red, counted down:

  3 . . .

  2 . . .

  1 . . .

  The bomb exploded, disturbing the waters. The camera followed the shock wave until it breached the ocean surface. There, a wave formed, gradually gaining strength until it formed a massive tsunami like a wall of water as high as a skyscraper that extended to both ends of the horizon. “The tsunami will travel all the way to our shores.” The viewscreen switched once more to a map of the eastern seaboard of the United States, the mini skylines of New York and Washington, DC specifically on the map.

  “The Eastern Seaboard,” Obama explained. “That’s their target, and they’re using the former President as a human shield against any aerial strike.”

  At last, Obama appeared once more on the viewscreen. “You are to infiltrate this facility and neutralize this threat. I don’t need to tell you what will happen if we fail.”

  He glanced around Hillaryland Ops, at everyone in the darkened room. “Good luck, everyone,” he said to them. “And may God bless America,”

  Hillary let the gravity of the situation weigh on her. All her aides, too, seemed to be receiving the information with a combination of trepidation and resoluteness.

  Obama wasn’t done, though. The viewscreen didn’t cut off, and he was still there behind the Resolute desk. “Everyone, if you will, please, I’d like to speak to Hillary alone.”

  That caught her attention. Her aides all exchanged glances at one another and then a few at Hillary.

  She didn’t know what Barack wanted with her now. She hoped it wasn’t to dissuade her from going on the mission. She felt fine—more than fine actually. It was only a concussion . . .

  One by one, Dan, Philippe, Jake, Cheryl, and at last, Huma left the room. Obama didn’t say anything until Huma finally closed the door to Hillaryland Ops behind her. Satisfied, he seemed to be less stilted, more informal. A friendly and caring visage looked down on Hillary.

  “Are you sure about this?”

  Her suspicions were proven right. Barack did want to dissuade her from going. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I gotta go . . . for Bill.”

  “I’m just worried about you.” Obama said, concern on his face. “You’re more than my Secretary of State . . . you’re my friend.”

  The compliment warmed her heart. Once they were the most bitter of enemies, and now, she almost laughed at such a twist of fate. Barack didn’t have a league of rivals anymore, he had a league of friends.

  “I’m fine, Barack,” she said.

  Obama nodded as though he was expecting the answer. “Be careful out there,” he said quietly, and then, a mischievous glint appeared in his eyes and a quiet smile crossed his lips. “I need you here for 2016,” he said with a wink.

  Before she could quip back, the screen blacked out. Oh, that Barack, she thought as she stood in the dark, shaking her head with mild reproach.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SOMEWHERE ABOVE IRAN

  JANUARY 22, 2013

  The lettering on the plane clearly read UNITED STATES OF AMERICA as SAM, a Boeing C-32, flew through the Iranian skies. The plane sped through the dark night sky, and clouds whisked by, the quiet flight beguiling the mission Hillary and the rest of her DSS insertion team were about to take.

  Hillary, now wearing contacts as a substitute for her Fresnel prism glasses, was inside her own private cabin located in the middle of the aircraft. The plane itself, usually used on official Secretary of State duties, doubled as a military plane. The official schematics included a cockpit, followed by the air flight crew’s area, then the communications center, then Hillary’s private cabin, next the Senior Staff area, and finally, the designated press area in seating akin to coach, but in the back of the plane, there was a secret cargo area for use only by DSS agents.

  A cup of coffee rested untouched on her private desk as she looked wistfully out the plane window, hands on her chin. Outside, the night clouds rolled by like it was any other ordinary flight, like Bill was home safe and sound as always.

  It wasn’t true, though. They were on their way to Fordow, Iran where Bill was held, and they were tasked to destroy the Sands of Allah weapon, a mission that she didn’t know if she was even coming back from. One thing was certain in her mind, though: she would lay down her life if she knew Bill was coming back.

  The intercom sounded, and Hillary looked up to hear the message from the captain.

  “Nearing target site,” the intercom said.

  She acknowledged the message and picked up her SIG Sauer to ready it for the battle ahead. As she checked on the clip of the gun, however, her eyes noticed a framed picture of Bill on her desk. Bill, in the photo, smiled a radiant smile accompanied by his lined, handsome face; his full, silver hair; and always, that light in his eyes.

  She put the gun down on the desk. Oh, Bill, she thought, staring at the picture. Ever since, she’d heard the news it was like a part of her was missing. They’d been apart before, but it was different this time. She couldn’t feel him, like he was lost somewhere. A lump caught in her throat, and she tried to contain her emotions. The thing was, she thought laughing to herself, that he was probably coping better than she was. People always said how he was soft on the outside but tough on the inside while she was the exact opposite, and they were right. Bill had always been stronger than her.

  The door opened slightly, and Hillary looked over to see who it was. Huma peeked in, she too seemed concerned. “It’s time,” she said.

  Hillary nodded at her, and Huma left as quickly as she came in.

  Her heart began to beat fast, but she breathed in to calm her nerves. She reached over and caressed her husband’s framed picture. “I’m coming, Bill,” she whispered, and with that, she grabbed her gun and put it the shoulder holster inside her pantsuit jacket.

  She opened the door, and outside of her cabin, everyone busied themselves for the mission ahead. Her aides, Cheryl, Jake, and Dan faced each other on an executive table setup, turned to her, wordlessly expressing their concern. Farther up from her cabin, Philippe, with the other communications personnel, manned the communications center, a bank of computer consoles stuffed together for their use. At the back of the plane, the DSS agents filed down the cramped center aisle to head to the cargo bay.

  She didn’t say anything, there was nothing to say. Without a word, she inched her way down the center aisle, careful not to bump onto the non-DSS agents. Past the “Line of Death,” a line that separated the press pool from the rest of the State Department personnel, she went, and at the end of the journey, a flight attendant held the door open into the cargo bay. The young woman said nothing, but she too knew the gravity of the mission.

  Hillary gave a slight smile at them both, to show her appreciation. The flight staff could be unappreciated, but they provided their meals and tried to make them as comfortable as possible. They were as important to the mission as anyone else on this plane.

  The young woman, a brunette, glanced away, though her eyes wandered back for a moment, eyes filled with admiration.

  At last, Hillary entered the cargo bay where her fellow DSS agents already began to suit up for the High Altitude Low Opening or H.A.L.O jump.
Some had finished wearing the flight suit on their body, a helmet, and a gas mask on their face. They didn’t say anything to her. As far as they were concerned, she was just another agent, and Hillary liked it that way.

  “Mrs. Clinton,” Huma said at the corner of the steel-walled cargo bay. She already had her flight suit on, and she stood by a crate where Hillary's own equipment rested.

  Hillary went over, but it was Huma who opened the crate for her. Once more, no words were said as both of them suited up, first the flight suit, then the helmet, and then, finally the mask and goggles, though her aide only had the latter two to worry about.

  Hillary didn’t know how long they waited, standing there with the other DSS agents, saying nothing, all staring ahead at the payload door ramp waiting for it to open. It was like a dream, that’s what it was, like a hazy dream . . .

  At last, the rear payload door opened, carefully arcing down. A small slit at first, the gap then widened as the dark clouds became visible and the wind rushed in.

  Hillary gulped, knowing that thousands of feet below them, Bill was down there, all alone . . .

  Perhaps seeing the concern in her eyes, Huma spoke up. “We’ll get him back,” she said to her.

  She didn’t reply, her eyes told Huma all about her gratitude.

  The H.A.L.O jump began at last. The first of the DSS agents ran over and jumped over the edge and into the night sky. The rest of the DSS agents followed, and Hillary and Huma brought up the rear. One by one, they jumped over the edge, and finally, it was Hillary’s turn. Huma jumped over first, and behind her, she ran and jumped . . .

  All of them sped down to earth. Hillary opened her arms and feet wide as the cold air rushed at her skin and through her flight suit.

  As she fell, the sight mesmerized her. Clouds came and went, and the night, the beautiful night, it seemed to cloak everything as though she was swallowed up in it. Though she had her gas mask on, the air was thin, and with the skies falling fast, Hillary dreamed . . .

  In England, by a lake and a sunset over the horizon, Bill, a younger Bill, kneeled before her. He had a ring in his hand. “Will you marry me?” he asked, an earnest look on his face.

  She remembered that. She stood there, confused and conflicted “Not now,” she said, pain in her voice.

  Another memory intruded. This time, she was alone in her old home in Fayetteville, holding her beautiful baby Chelsea in her arms, “You have to help me,” she said to her infant daughter. “We have to work together.”

  The memory vanished, and another one appeared. This time, she was in Chicago, and the wide convention podium faced a large crowd who carried placards and signs that read “CHICAGO WELCOMES HILLARY” and “WELCOME HOME HILLARY.” 1996 Democratic National Convention.

  “Yes, it takes a village,” she said to them.

  The crowd erupted into applause, and the First Lady her began again. “And it takes a president . . .”

  It swirled back into the recesses of her mind and onto another one. Bill in a gurney. It was his heart surgery, and as the nurses wheeled him away, she held onto his hand as long as she could until finally, their fingers no longer touched—

  The parachute cord deployed, yanking her out of her reverie. As the parachute opened overhead, Hillary saw the sparse sands of Iran below, ground closing in . . .

  •••

  FORDOW NUCLEAR ENRICHMENT FACILITY

  FORDOW, IRAN

  JANUARY 22, 2013

  Close to the holy city of Qom, deep in the bowels of a mountain, Alessandra James shopped on her iPhone. She was in the Master Control Room of the Fordow Nuclear Enrichment Facility. A computer station occupied the front of the chamber with a window view overlooking the nuclear centrifuges, the metallic cylindrical objects spinning fast with deadly efficiency. Overhead lights illuminated the space as stone encapsulated the whole of the structure, several stalactites stabbing down.

  Alessandra, wearing a designer manteaux, something that Iranian women wear a lot of apparently, sat in a wheeled chair and poured all her attention on the smartphone screen, trying to tune out the argument around her.

  “You said it would be ready by now,” #2, in military fatigues and keffiyeh, cried out.

  “We’re already at capacity,” a man argued back. His name was Achmed Javani, a colonel of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard. “If you hadn’t lost the HAARP array . . .”

  Alessandra tuned them out. Their conversation was so boring, she thought.

  If she was honest with herself, though, she was getting a bit of cabin fever. She hadn’t been allowed to leave this mountain stronghold ever since they arrived in this country. Iran. Who names their country I-ran anyways, she thought annoyedly. She almost preferred the Himalayan base.

  The place did have Wi-Fi, though, so she liked that. To her disappointment, Iran didn’t have a Neiman Marcus or much shopping at all for that matter. They did make some lovely headscarves, but they weren’t designer so she didn’t wear them. She didn’t want to seem like she was slumming even though she really was.

  She sighed. At least the sex was good.

  “The centrifuges are spinning as fast as they can!” Javani insisted. “They can’t go any faster.”

  “Well, tell your men to work faster,” #2 said, wagging his finger. Alessandra remembered how her man explained the plan, something about eclipsing 9/11 . . .

  “The Americans could be coming here for all we know,” #2 continued. “Especially that bitch, Hillary.”

  She caught that. Hillary was a bitch, she snorted. Her shoulder still felt the effects of their fight. Ugh, bitch.

  “No need to worry,” Javani said. He went over to a computer console connected to a wall of monitors. He typed on the console inputs, and the monitors turned on, revealing black and white closed circuit television security cam footage. It pointed to the tunnel entrances outside the mountain, all showing the dark of night and deserted dirt roads. “As you can see,” he said, mockingly gesturing to the CCTV footage. “We are in no danger whatsoever.”

  The footage seemed to have mollified #2, and his shoulders visibly relaxed. “Pray that it remains this way,” he replied. He put his arms on his hips and took a deep breath.

  Alessandra once more tuned them out and returned to her phone. Ooh, those look like cute shoes, she thought, staring at a set of black stilettos. Too bad they didn’t have a Bloomingdale’s in Iran, she thought miffed.

  As they all looked away from each other each lost in their own thoughts or in Alessandra’s case, shopping, a slight burst of static scrambled the third monitor on the left . . .

  •••

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  WASHINGTON, DC

  UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  JANUARY 22, 2013

  Cheers and shouts rang in the Situation Room in the White House. The assembled National Security Council including Vice President Biden pumped their fist in the air or clapped as they faced the front of the room. The viewscreen was blank, however. Instead, they focused on the voice from the CIA on the other end.

  “Successful insertion,” the voice said.

  At the head of the conference table, Obama breathed a sigh of relief. Still many more ordeals to go, he thought.

  They had tasked an asset to implant a computer virus into the Fordow computer system. As it had an intranet as opposed to an internet, meaning their system was closed to the outside world, they couldn’t remotely send the virus to the facility. Instead, they had to utilize one of their assets. If he had failed, their mission would have been over before it began.

  The computer virus placed file video into the computer’s CCTV footage so instead of seeing Hillary’s drop team making landfall over Fordow’s tunnel entrances, they saw old file footage of a quiet night instead.

  Obama looked out at the NSC staff and Joe once more. They had become serious again, the effects of their initial victory already worn.

  There was no doubt in Obama’s mind that they were thinking what he was
thinking. Now it’s all up to Hillary, he thought.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The parachute in the air, emblazoned with the American flag, Hillary descended from the sky and finally onto the nighttime landscape of Fordow. Under cover of night, she landed by the side of a tunnel entrance as her parachute billowed down and the mountain loomed in the background.

  Some of her compatriots were already there, and each of them, including Huma, took care to unhook their parachute packs and ready their weapons. Huma, herself, checked the ammo clip of her gun and unzipped her flight suit designed by Michael Kors.

  Hillary did the same. With more DSS agents landing by her, she too unhooked the parachute’s risers, leaving it on the ground, and unzipped her flight suit, revealing her battle pantsuit underneath.

  This was it, she knew. The start of the mission. It wasn’t going to be easy, she thought. A dual mission objective like this one, what would take precedence? If they had to choose only one, destroy the facility that housed the Sands of Allah or rescue Bill, she didn’t want to think about what she would choose.

  There she goes again, she thought. Second guessing herself. Sometimes, she wished she had more of Bill’s optimism and trust, which can, as she often told him, sound naïve, but it did give you confidence. Maybe that’s why he had so much of it.

  Shaking all her doubts away, she took out her SIG Sauer from the shoulder holster inside her pantsuit jacket and addressed the DSS agents. “Mission A Place Called Hope is a go!” she said aloud.

  As if on cue, a lone truck barreled down the dusty road. Its headlights beamed menacingly forward, but none of the DSS agents showed any sign of concern. This was all part of the plan.

  The truck drove by, and silently each of the DSS agents clambered on. Hillary herself hung off the side of the passenger side door. Her hand held onto the side view mirror as the truck drove on from the dusty road and into the tunnel entrance.

  The dark of night was replaced by the dark of the tunnel and the eerie glow of artificial light. The truck drove onwards to its destination, and Hillary, still hanging onto the side view mirror, took out a device from an inner pocket of her pantsuit jacket.