The Benghazi Affair: A Parody Novel

by Ward Salud

  “It’s alright,” Bill said, kissing the top of her head. “You’re safe.”

  In his arms, she forgot about everything. Ever since the discovery of the imposter, there was like a force that pressed down on her that wouldn’t go away. Now that he was safe, she could finally breathe again.

  “You’re safe,” he repeated.

  She would have stayed in his arms forever, but soldiers, Army Rangers in full battle gear, suddenly stormed into the chamber. To the screams of the veiled women, the soldiers, in desert fatigues and holding up M-16’s, filed out one by one.

  The female ninjas all stood up, even reaching in for their knives, but they were caught off guard. Gun barrels pointed at them, and they stood down, knowing the futility of fighting back.

  They quickly encircled everyone in the room, careful to keep a keen eye on the veiled Iranian ninjas.

  “Gentlemen,” Bill said to the assembled soldiers with Hillary in his arms.

  The squad leader of the Army Rangers spoke up. “Come with us, Mr. President,” he said.

  Bill bit his lower lip but acquiesced. Ever so slightly, he let go of Hillary.

  The squad leader then turned to Hillary, “Madame Secretary,” he said with a slight nod.

  Bill finally let go of his embrace, and now standing beside him, she wiped her eyes and only nodded back at the squad leader.

  At last, Bill left her side, leaving her alone once more. Fate can be cruel like that, she thought as her husband headed towards the soldiers.

  As he went, the veiled women followed him with their eyes as though they too wished he wouldn’t leave them.

  Finally, securing their mission, several soldiers began to leave with the former president.

  Her mission finally went to the forefront of her mind. “Where’s Huma,” she asked.

  “Last reports had her at the control room, Madame Secretary,” the squad leader said, holding his M-16 and preparing to leave.

  She gripped her SIG Sauer anew. Time to end this, she thought.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Even as Javani raised his gun at Huma, she continued to look down at the computer console.

  Come on, she thought again. Inside the Master Control Room of the Fordow facility, the bar on the computer screen still progressed painfully slow. Sixty percent it read as the blue bar continued on its slow path.

  Hurry up will—and then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw something. On the window glass that looked out onto the whirling centrifuges, an Iranian man, in Revolutionary Guard uniform, had his gun raised at her.

  Her heart dropped, but instinctively, she acted. Quickly, she dropped down and kicked the wheeled chair over, which flung straight into Colonel Javani. “Aaagh!” he cried out as the chair rammed him.

  Huma didn’t have time to think. As Javani tried to shove the offending chair out of the way, she immediately lunged for him in an effort to disarm the colonel. Quickly, she took his arm and snapped it against her knee causing the gun to fall out of his hands and onto the floor.

  Javani grimaced, not expecting the attack, but he recovered and shoved her away, his strength causing her to fall back to the floor and her head slamming against the ground.

  The room spun out, the impact dazing her. Ohhhh, she thought. Instead of going after the errant pistol, however, Javani went after her.

  “Die!” he cried out as he pounced on her, and then, placing his beefy hands around her neck. Huma was too dazed to fight back, but the next thing she knew, Javani’s gripped at her neck and he squeezed.

  His hands were like a lock around her neck, and almost instantly, she found herself struggling to breathe.

  He gripped harder, putting more pressure, while squeezing his hands tighter around her neck. “Now you will die like the America you love.”

  Huma became more and more lightheaded. She couldn’t take much more of this, she thought. She had to do something . . .

  Somehow, she found the strength. Recalling her defensive training, she raised her lithe legs and began to wrap them around Javani’s neck.

  He noticed too late. Huma scissored her legs around his neck, and she too squeezed.

  Javani’s eyes bulged, finally realizing her countermove, but he somehow managed to squeeze even tighter. Huma fought for air even as she continued to squeeze with whatever strength she had left.

  Gritting her teeth, she focused all her attention to maintaining her leg hold on Javani’s neck.

  It seemed an eternity, and with every passing moment, she thought she would pass out, but at last, Javani’s grip weakened. Huma caught her breath, though she kept on squeezing.

  Javani’s face reddened as he struggled for breath. She couldn’t show him mercy. It was kill or be killed . . .

  With her scissored legs around his neck, she squeezed harder and harder until finally, her enemy met his end. His head slumped against her legs, but she squeezed again just in case.

  His lifeless body did not move. Crying out, she released her leg grip and rolled to the side even as Javani’s body collapsed to the floor.

  Huma breathed out, and her emotions finally caught up to her. She wanted to cry. Killing a man, it never did get any easier.

  She had to think of the mission, she reminded herself. Her conscience could wait.

  Leaving Javani dead on the floor, she limped to the computer console. She still gasped for breath as she went up and stared down at the screen.

  The blue bar reached the one hundred percent mark. The virus had finally been uploaded to the Iranian network, she knew.

  Huma breathed a sigh of relief. She did it, they all did it. Beyond the protective glass, the centrifuges spun around faster and faster. The virus told the centrifuges to spin wildly out of control, destabilizing the enrichment process. With her mission complete, the Iranians wouldn’t have enough material to create their tsunami bomb.

  She pressed her hand to her earpiece. Time to tell the President the good news . . .

  “Huma to base, Huma to—” Feedback screeched inside the earpiece making her reel from the sound. She hated it when that happened. “Huma to base,” she continued after the feedback died down. “Huma to base. Operation Hope is a—”

  Huma’s body slammed violently first against the computer console and then to the floor.

  Standing over her, Alessandra James glowered, a pipe in her hand. “Bitch,” she said disgustedly as she cast her menacing shadow. On the floor, Huma lay on her side, her eyes closed.

  She was unconscious.

  •••

  The visage of Hillary Clinton appeared on the circular window of the steel door. Her eyes scanned the chamber, and then, she kicked the door open, entering its confines, gun in hand.

  She hadn’t seen anybody inside the power generation area of the Fordow enrichment facility. With industrial machinery of pipes and tubes snaking in all directions, she crossed the central catwalk as turbine generators whirred in the background. The heat inside caused her to sweat even more, but she kept going.

  Her footsteps clanged on the grillwork of the steel catwalk as she hurried through. She didn’t know why, but she felt there was something wrong with Huma. She could feel it. I’m coming, Huma, she thought. I’m coming.

  To her surprise, smoke suddenly appeared on the catwalk, quickly engulfing the steel walkway. The attack came so suddenly, all Hillary could do was cover her mouth, but it was already too late.

  The smoke engulfed the entire area, and she began to cough and her eyes watered. Tear gas, she thought as she covered her mouth, but it wasn’t enough. She had to get through, try to find a way.

  Hillary ran as fast as she could. It was too much. Coughing hard, she finally fell on one knee even as she wheezed. She couldn’t believe it. She was so close, only to fail now, it felt like Hillarycare all over again.

  Hillary dropped the SIG Sauer, causing it to clang onto the catwalk, and she fell on all fours. As she hacked and coughed, a figure emerged from the smoke. Through the haze, a form
became clearer and clearer until finally, a man wearing a gas mask stepped towards Hillary triumphantly.

  She already knew who it was.

  #2.

  He strode towards her, kicked the gun away, sending it skittering on the catwalk, and promptly kicked her in the gut, his boot making its mark. Hillary cried out in pain even as already scarce air went out of her. She tasted the cold steel of the catwalk floor.

  “How does it feel, Hillary?” #2’s muffled voice scoffed as he stood over her. She tried to get up, but he kicked her again in the gut, which made her cry out once more. “To feel so powerless.”

  He peered down, seeing Hillary become weaker and weaker. “Now you know how we feel before the might of American hegemony!”

  The smoke from the tear gas thinned now, but it had already had done its work. Above her, #2’s gas-masked face, with its two oversized eye lenses, made it him seem more monstrous than he already he was. “We only, we only—”

  “Don’t you get it?!” #2 exploded as though somehow, the fact that Hillary was still as defiant as ever caused him to lose his temper. “Not everyone wants to be like you!” he sounded. “The West imposes its values on the rest of the world when we neither asked for it or welcomed it.”

  Hillary tried to get up on all fours on the steel grillwork but then fell back down. It felt as though she couldn’t find the strength to lift up her body anymore.

  “Your kind come in with your rights,” #2 spat, his voice filled with derision and disgust. “Your gay rights, your religious rights, your . . . women’s rights.”

  Upon hearing those words, she looked up again. His mocking words gave her strength. There was still fire inside of her. “Women’s rights,” she said laboriously. “are human rights,”

  “SHUT UP!” #2 screamed, kicking her again. Hillary winced in pain as once more she went down to the cold catwalk floor. “Don’t you ever just SHUT UP?!”

  She expected that attack however. She had hardened her abdominal muscles to partly deflect the blow, all to take this one chance. “AAARRGHHHH!” she screamed her savage war cry and mustering the last of her strength, Hillary Rodham Clinton picked herself up and lunged at #2 as a way of catching him by surprise, throw him off balance, anything to turn the tide of the fight.

  It didn’t work.

  #2 caught her by the wrist, halting her attack, and then, he turned her around and held her close to his gas masked face.

  “Just like America,” his muffled voice whispered menacingly as the last of the tear gas smoke dissipated around him. “Say one thing and do another.”

  He threw her down to the steel catwalk, and her body thudded against the grillwork until she rolled to a stop. Hillary breathed hard, all strength sapped.

  “Ah yes,” #2 said, finally noticing Hillary’s SIG Sauer on the catwalk. He went over and snatched it from the steel floor. “What better way to kill you than with your own gun,” he continued. The way he inspected the gun, it seemed as though, behind the gas mask, he held a wicked smile on his face.

  Hillary tried to pick herself up. If she couldn’t get out of this now, it would be the end of her. With both hands, she tried to heave herself up, but she couldn’t. Her body once more thudded against the catwalk even as she whimpered at the pain that coursed throughout her body.

  #2 pointed the muzzle of the gun at the prone Hillary on the catwalk grillwork. “Goodbye, Hillary,” he said.

  He pulled the trigger.

  She awaited the deathblow, the searing heat passing through her skull, which was where the gun was pointed. Whatever happened, she’d led a good life. Her only regret was not bringing #2 to justice. Others would replace her, there always were.

  She closed her eyes and waited for what seemed like an eternity. A second and then two. Still, there was nothing.

  The trigger clicked again. “Huh?” #2 said, looking mystified at the SIG Sauer in his hand, wondering why the gun didn’t fire.

  Hillary made her move. This time, she went after the gun. In a simultaneous move, she grabbed his wrist with one hand and with her other hand wrenched the gun away from him. Quickly, she turned the gun around and fired the SIG Sauer straight at the terrorist.

  This time, it fired. The bullet hit its mark, and #2 immediately went down to the catwalk floor. His body lay still on the grillwork as she continued to point the gun at the now decommissioned terrorist.

  Hillary caught her breath. Finally, it was the end, she thought. Her SIG Sauer, she told herself, it had smart-gun technology. Jake mentioned back at the Waldorf that only she could fire the gun since the weapon only responded to her handprints. Score one for gun safety, she thought, making a mental note to push for increased gun safety legislation if . . . and when she ran for—

  A steel pipe suddenly slammed against the back of her skull, and Hillary fell forward, hitting her head against the railing and onto the catwalk floor once more. The double blow dazed her, and as piercing pain rang in her head as well as feeling wet, matted blood on her hair, the room spun about.

  Behind her, Alessandra James, brandishing a steel pipe, towered over her. “You BITCH!” she cried out derisively. “Why do you always have to ruin everything?!”

  As Hillary groaned on the grillwork of the catwalk floor, clutching the back of her bloodied head, tears streamed down Alessandra’s face, slightly smudging her makeup. “You killed him,” she said, giving one glance back at the still form of #2 behind her. Then anger swept over her. “I’ll avenge you, my love,” she said. Then, she turned back to her with a menacing glare. “I’ll do what your enemies could never do, Hillary,” she continued. “End your political career!”

  Hillary tried to crawl forwards, trying to get away from her new attacker, but Alessandra followed closely behind. She scraped the steel pipe along the railing, causing a screeching sound even as Hillary continued to try to get away. The blood, which began as a small gash, now poured from her wound, staining Hillary’s blonde hair.

  Alessandra raised the steel pipe high. “DIE, HILLARY!”

  Hillary could only look away and wait for the strike. She conjured every last bit of her training on how to handle a blow, and quickly tensed her body. True, she didn’t know how much more her body could take especially since she was already a Baby Boomer, but she had to. What choice did she have?

  The blow never came.

  A gunshot rang out, and Hillary looked up, seeing Alessandra with a look of shock on her face. Blood poured from her lips, and then, the steel pipe fell from her hand, clanging to the catwalk. At last, the end of Alessandra came. She first dropped to her knees and then, her body crumpled to the floor.

  Hillary could only stare ahead at the sudden turn of events. The questions would have caught up to her except her questions were already being answered.

  #2, now without a gas mask, revealing his handsome face, stepped unsteadily over Alessandra’s dead body as he held a gun in his hand. He grasped at his side.

  “Only I . . . may kill you,” he said with difficulty, blood running down the side of his mouth.

  He pointed the gun straight at her. “No . . . more games.” This time, Hillary thought, there was no escaping. In this life, there can be only so much luck. She closed her eyes. Bill and Chelsea, she thought. She wanted her last thoughts to be about them.

  Instead of a shot however, she found herself getting picked up, a hand put over her mouth, and a gun pointed at her head. Using her as a human shield, #2 carefully put her between himself and his new enemies.

  Hillary barely had time to comprehend, but the scene before her answered her questions. Soldiers had stormed into the water containment area, and their M-16’s pointed straight at him or more precisely, them.

  Huma stood with the other soldiers, gun in hand. Upon seeing her boss as a hostage, she looked crestfallen.

  “One move, and she’s dead,” #2 warned, and once more, he pressed his gun against her temple.

  The soldiers didn’t budge, only pointing their semi-automatic we
apons at them. Their eyes wandered over to Huma, who took a deep breath.

  Hillary wanted to tell them to shoot #2 and not let him use her as a human shield, but even as she tried to squirm away, he tightened his grip. He was too strong.

  Huma gulped, and then, with eyes drawn down, she nodded at the men, who slowly drew down their weapons.

  With his hand over Hillary’s mouth, #2 took his chance at escape, and prodding her along, he forced her to go with him, the soldiers and Huma reluctantly letting them through.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  #2 led Hillary through the corridors and stairways of the Fordow facility. She tried to fight back, find some sort of opening, but he was too strong for her, his gun menacingly pressed close to her temple.

  “There’s still time,” Hillary urged him as they went up another flight of stairs. Sweat collected on her forehead whether it be from the circumstances or the heat itself, she didn’t know. “You can come in peacefully.”

  #2 only scoffed. “Don’t play the good girl act with me,” he said. “Besides . . .” They made it to the landing at the top of the stairs, and then, he gazed expectantly down the long, dank corridor. “I have a surprise for you.”

  Hillary didn’t like the sound of that. “Even if you kill me, you won’t get away,” she said as he continued to drag her through the corridor. “Barack will see to that.”

  “On the contrary, Hillary,” he said, making their way to a steel door. A glass window held a hint of what was inside, but it was too murky to see everything. “I’m always one step ahead.”

  He kicked the door open, and inside was some sort of . . . heliport. Dim lighting peered down from the high ceilings with exposed steel braces supporting the roof, and on the floor was a landing area. White markings indicated the landing spots except it wasn’t a helicopter that occupied it. Instead, a set of Predator drones rested on their landing spots, but a take-off point was nowhere to be seen.