Long Shot | 13 Hours: The Secret Soldiers of Benghazi

Chapter 15

As the trucks filed one by one into the compound, the men that had come with them started gathering everybody up so they could take them back to the airport and get them on a flight to anywhere that was safer than here.

"It's not safe out here." one of the men ordered the CIA personnel as they exited the buildings. "Keep going. Hurry! Get in the trucks! They could still be coming."

At the first sign of safety, the men and women scrambled to get into the trucks with as many bags of belongings as they could carry. I, on the other hand, headed back into the common room with Jack and helped him clean out Rone's cubby. We pulled out a few non-sentimental things first like a pistol and some bullets, but then we came to a photo of him and his family, and the smile on Rone's son's face tug at my heart strings.

When we were finished, we exited the building, gave it one last look before never seeing it again, and walked off to join the others. When we got back to the vehicles, I watched as Boon helped load the last of the deceased bodies into the back of a truck before groaning. "Let's go! What's the hold-up?"

"Your Chief, he won't exfil!" one of the men who had came in with Glen answered.

In utter disbelief, I walked over to Bob, who was sitting in a lawn chair like he was on vacation in Hawaii. "You what?" I glared down at him.

"I've got work to do." Bob replied. "I'm staying."

"For what?" Jack barked. "So that more guys like Ty and Glen have to come back here? And save your ass again? You're done here. Now, get in the fucking car!"

With those fine words of encouragement, Bob slowly rose from his chair and started making his way over to the vehicles. I caught the end of Tanto saying goodbye to Amahl as I joined the groups, and as Amahl gave a final wave and walked down the street in the opposite direction to his home, I patted Tanto on the back and we climbed into the back of one of the trucks.

Our drive back to the airport was a surreal sight, to say the least. Children lined the streets, watching us and playing like nothing bad had even happened, and I found myself wondering what they would grow up to become. Would they grow up to hate Americans just like their parents probably did, or would they grow up to be people like Amahl; people who stood out from the rest because they knew deep down what was right and what was wrong.

Or maybe that was where I misunderstood everything about the country that I had just spent nearly two months in. Maybe it wasn't about right and wrong, but instead proving something. Countries like Libya, ones that are poor and war ridden, they have a lot of bad reputation to handle. So maybe for them it isn't about doing what was morally right, maybe it was about doing what was right for their country. In times of trouble, people often believe that if you fight fire with fire, eventually something good will happen; one fire will die out, or maybe they will both destroy each other...but what happens more often than not is the fires combine, and suddenly there are no sides anymore, just people trying to survive.

The people of Libya, as to what I believed, were just trying to survive. They weren't bad people, they were survivors, and sometimes that meant doing bad things.

When we finally arrived at the airport, I smiled wide at the sight of the planes that were lined up and waiting to take us home. Of course, the plane that I and the other remaining GRS members (excluding Oz) would be taken wasn't there yet, but just the fact that the CIA staff were able to go home brought a warmth to my heart.

When the vehicles came to a stop, crying and cheering people made their way across the tarmac. Hopping out of the back of the truck, I walked over to Oz to offer some assistance, but he reused. "I walked into this country, I'm walking out." he insisted as he took step after step towards the waiting plane.