2nd May, 2011
A plume of smoke coils and drifts into the cool, dark night over Pakistan as our HU-60 spins out of control 50ft. above Bilal Town.
"We're hit!" the pilot shouts into the radio amidst a hiss of fire extinguishers. "Abort the mission! Repeat: ABORT THE MISSION!"
"Bullshit!" I yell, forcing my way into the cockpit. I wrestle the radio from the pilot's fear-drenched hands and address the squadron. "Cancel that last order, fellas - I'm going in myself."
"But it's suicide!" a young marine whimpers behind me. "You're gonna die! We're all gonna die!"
"Get a hold of yourself, soldier!" I command him, grabbing his lapel and slapping some sense into the little pipsqueak. "What's your name, son?"
"O'Neill, sir. Robert O'Neill... My friends call me Bobby."
"Listen, O'Neill," I reply. "This isn't about you or me: it's about justice. If we don't take down that son of a bitch right now, all the O'Neill's and the Robert's and the Bobby's in this world won't live to see tomorrow. You get that, soldier-?"
"Aye, sir!" he exclaims, clicking his heels together with renewed vigour.
"Good on you, son," I say, and slap him again. As the Black Hawk levels out above the compound at Abbottabad, the other Navy SEALs salute me as I strap on a parachute and leap out of the chopper towards my destiny. I free-fall for what seems like an eternity before crashing through the Waziristan Haveli skylight. I land on my feet amidst a shower of broken glass that handily despatches everyone else in the room save for my target.
"Osama," I purr, raising my .48 with a sardonic twinkle in my eye. "Hope you don't mind me dropping by..."
"So we meet again, English! I should've killed you when I had the chance."
"Well, I'm sorry if I gave you the run around..." I retort, dashing round the room as he exhausts the magazine in his 1979 American-issue AK-47. Catching the last bullet between my teeth as a show of defiance, I kick him in the balls and take aim at his forehead. His tongue suddenly shoots out of his mouth and squeezes itself around my gun hand, forcing me to drop the .48 and fall to my knees.
"Not tho fahtht..." he lisps, raising himself above me as he seizes hold of my throat. His tongue snaps back into his jaw, licking his lips with a malevolent glee. "Your Yankee Doodle friends should've known it would take more than a superman to defeat me, English! It would take... a god!"
"Then you're all Allah luck," I quip, and spit the bullet I caught into his right temple. He falls to the ground, still clutching my neck.
"The horror..." he murmurs, the light in his eyes starting to fade as his hand slackens. "The horror..."
I close his eyes, strike a match with my chin stubble and light a cigar. A sudden burst of static pierces the eerie calm as my radio crackles to life.
"White Lightning, this is Strongbow. Do you copy?"
"Copy that, Strongbow. This is White Lightning. Tell the President it's over. Tell him... democracy is safe once again."
