No Pit So Deep: The Cody Musket Story (3 page)

Chavez examined Harry to determine his condition. “Doesn’t look good. Head injury and a serious chest wound. He needs a hospital.” He did his best to stop the bleeding by making bandages from some of the clothing taken from the dead Taliban.

Chavez bandaged Cody’s neck. “We need to stitch this cut as soon as we can find cover again.”

“We’re hoping to evac the wounded sometime today if we can clear out some of these baggers tracking us,” Hondo added.

“Nice shooting.” Cody staggered back to his feet and leaned on the downed Hornet’s right stabilizer, which had been nearly hidden by a rockslide.

“What was it that shot you down?” Chavez asked.

“Dunno. We got no warning. A lucky shot with some handheld weapon, a manpad, a golden BB, a fluke.” Cody’s right calf and foot felt like a thousand wasp stings. He respired rapidly, his face contorted.

“Too low to eject?” Hondo asked.

“It was my call. Dodging the peaks, losing control. Then I saw this plateau. I don’t know.” Cody shook his head, “Maybe I should’ve —”

“Can’t second-guess yourself now, Lieutenant. Too late. Need to slow down that breathing. Can’t have you passing out on us.”

Cody exhaled slowly. “I was sitting up there at angels two zero on top of the world a few minutes ago.”

“Not so glorious as you thought, huh, Babe?”

Cody didn’t answer. His head was pounding, his burns were barely tolerable, and the bleeding cut on his neck stung as he perspired. Each step seemed more painful than the last while they ascended back up the embankment. He tried to bring his nerves under control.

“How far away is your hideout?” Cody would be forced to make it under his own power because Hondo and Chavez had to alternate carrying Harry — a load at 225 pounds.

“Bout a mile,” Chavez said. “What’re we gonna do with these kids?”

“We can’t take these little zits with us,” Hondo mumbled. “They’ll slow us down, and we’ll all buy a piece of this friggin’ wasteland.”

“Can’t let ‘em follow either,” Chavez added. “They’ll trail us almost to our hideout and then disappear and give away our location to the enemy.”

Hondo looked around nervously. “And something else to think about…” He turned and stared at the four frightened boys.

“Something else?” Cody sat down on a rock, trying to stay conscious.

“Babe, think about it.” Chavez continued Hondo’s thought. “If we let them go back, the Taliban will turn these kids into killers.”

“And what happens if we take them with us and get caught?” Cody wrapped a towel around his head to protect against the sun, and worked on slowing his respiration.

“They’ll torture and kill us,” Chavez stated with conviction. “And judging from the mindset of these butchers, they’ll probably torture the kids just for going with us. They’ll call ‘em traitors.”

“I know this is your show here on the ground,” Cody said, “but I vote we find a place to hide them.”

“Where are we gonna hide ‘em out here?” Hondo objected. “They aren’t safe with or without us. Problem is, we need to expedite.”

“So what are you saying?” Cody’s head was clearing.

Chavez glanced at the kids and then back. “All we’re saying, Babe, is sometimes there are no good answers out here. We let ‘em go, and they’ll be killing Marines in a couple o’ years.”

“Look, does either of you guys speak the language? Is there any way we can communicate with ‘em?”

Chavez shrugged. “I don’t think so, Babe. They don’t speak Arabic around here. We can try to leave them somewhere, but they won’t stay put.”

“I say we finish it now and get t’ell outta here,” Hondo grumbled. “They could be on us any second. They gotta be lookin’ for us.”

Chavez snapped back, “Stand down, Phillips. These are innocent kids we’re talkin’ about.”

“Stand down? We’re sittin’ here like — I mean it’s our butts on the plate.”

“You’re outa line, Petty Officer! SEALs protect innocents. We don’t kill ‘em!” Chavez outranked him.

“
Yessssir!”
Hondo scowled, as he forced an agitated salute and turned away.

“Why don’t we tie ‘em up? Leave them in a secure place?” Cody took a deep breath. “When the extraction helo arrives in a few hours, we can go back and pick ‘em up and take them with us, turn them over to the Red Cross or something like that. Lemme try to explain it to them. What do you think?” He winced.

“It sucks either way, Babe. What if the wild animals get ‘em?” Chavez stared at the four boys again who were now huddled together.

Hondo sat alone on a rock, scanning the hills with his range finder.

Chavez made the call. “Okay, Babe. Give it a shot. Like I said, sometimes there are no good solutions.”

Cody tried what little Arabic he knew, but the kids did not respond to any of it. The oldest frantically pleaded and began to cry. It was useless to try to understand him.

The men found a secluded place in a ravine and tied the four children with ropes and headbands they had taken off the Taliban. They bound them hand and foot and tied them to each other, making it impossible to escape. Despite the pleading of the children, the three men left and began the trek back toward their team’s hiding place with Hondo and Chavez alternating the task of carrying Seismo.

They could still hear the cries of the four boys until just before they arrived at the camp. With each step, Cody wanted to go back.

When they finally dragged into the hideout, Cody had reached his limit. He collapsed onto a large flat rock underneath a ledge. Chavez gave him a shot of morphine, then wrapped his burns and stitched the cut on his neck.

Cody looked around. They had taken refuge at the base of a cliff that extended several hundred feet upward. It was early afternoon, and the sun had moved just behind the tops of the rocks, thus placing him in the shade. Positioned in the shadowy recesses along the bottom of the escarpment, he and the others hoped to make themselves invisible.

“How you doin’, Lieutenant?” It was Major Simon Hendrix, commander of the mission, sitting farther back underneath the ledge. Two rounds had shattered his left shoulder and collarbone, and the resulting fall had inflicted a head injury. Morphine had slowed his speech. His face was splotched with reddish-gray mud. He wore a bloody head bandage and his dark eyes were bloodshot and puffy.

“I’ll live, Sir. Looks like you took one through the shoulder? Hopefully, we can be outta here in an hour or so.”

“Take another look around you, son. Reality is, this retreat is safe for now, but it’s just a matter of time. Can’t get a helo in here because of the rocks and the cliff behind us. We’ll have to abandon this location just to find a vertical landing zone.”

Even with the morphine, the major’s voice was commanding, articulate, resolute.

“We also have three injured now, Babe, including Seismo,” Chavez reminded. “Gonna be impossible to relocate again and avoid detection. And I can tell you for sure, Seismo won’t make it if we don’t get him to a hospital.”

“What about the kids we left in that ravine?”

“No way, Babe. Suicide if we go back to get them without a gunship for cover. Right now, looks like we’re gonna have to fight our way out of here. Shoot-n-scoot may be our only option, but the odds will be twenty-to-one.”

“A Parthian shot?
We gonna try it tonight?”

“Won’t work, Babe,” Hondo spit out. “Too hazardous without the full moon, especially carrying wounded. Bullock stepped on loose rocks in broad daylight and fell thirty feet.” He pointed to the other injured SEAL, Jeffry Bullock, age 28, who was grimacing even after receiving morphine. “He’s laid up over there with a broken ankle and shattered hip.”

“Besides that, son, you forget that the Parthian shot required horses.” Major Hendrix gutted out a smile. “And they didn’t teach that at the Academy.”

Due to the extended mission and additional wounded, medical supplies were running low, including pain meds. Cody’s adrenaline rush now abandoned him. With morphine and the exhaustion, he fell asleep and did not awake until 0500 the next morning.

Four years later —

Houston, Sunday, July 6 — Oakland right-hander Jake Grim stood in front of the pitcher’s mound and glared toward home plate. His wiry hair curled upward from underneath the sides of his cap. His rugged beard, gnarly expression, and six-foot seven-inch frame afforded him an intimidating presence like that of a giant Neanderthal on steroids.

Cody Musket, rookie third baseman, stepped out of the batter’s box, removed his batting helmet, and wiped perspiration from his eyes. With a full count and bases loaded with two outs, his team trailing by two runs, Cody had fouled off three nasty sinkers in a row.

It was the bottom of the ninth inning. The crowd was on its feet. It had come down to a mind game between one of the best veteran relief pitchers in baseball and a rookie hitter who had been with the big league club only ten weeks.

Astros broadcaster Bobby Dodge had the call.

“…Grim stretches, checks the runners. And here comes the payoff pitch again. Musket sends a soft line drive down the right field line. It’s slicing…but it’s a fair ball! One run across! Two runs score! And now here comes Bustamante around third! The throw to the plate is off-line! The Astros win again! The ‘Stros have now won their eighth in a row as they prepare to leave town for a three-game series in Philadelphia, and then three games with Pittsburgh beginning next Friday, leading up to the All-Star break…”

*     *     *

Pittsburgh, Friday, July 11 — Musket! Musket, wake up!” Mark Stiller, Cody’s roommate, shook him by the shoulders. “Cody, wake up! You gotta come out of it!”

“Uh, what time is it, Stills?” Cody sat up and held his head in his hands.

“Man, it’s almost five o’clock in the afternoon. The game’s been rained out. You were losing it. When I walked in you were yelling ‘mayday’ again.”

“Uh, did I say anything else?”

“Yeah, you said something about some kids. You’re livin’ in a fog, man. You should get some help. What would you do if I wasn’t here? Like the other time when you got up and walked into the wall at the Marriot in Baltimore — blood all over the dang carpet, five stitches on your head.”

“Hey, no sweat. I fell asleep. Just had a bad dream, that’s all.”

“Yeah, right. Like the time I found you lyin’ in the hallway in Tampa and you didn’t even know where you were? Yeah, that was a bad dream too. Man, it’s been four years. Whatever happened over there, you need to get over it. But, what the hey, I mean it’s your business, your life, your career.”

Cody took a long breath, then walked over to the bathroom sink and splashed his face. “I heard about the game being rained out, so I took a snooze.” He carried a towel back to the bed, sat on the edge and wiped his face. "Gotta find something to do with myself tonight.”

“I’m leaving right now to pick up Sandy at the airport,” Mark said. “We’re going to her aunt’s house in Harrisburg tonight.” Mark put on his cap and walked toward the door. “Get some help, Musket. You don’t trust me. I get that. But you gotta friggin’ trust somebody.”

From the eleventh floor of the Marriott, Cody could see PNC Ballpark in the distance. An early, wet darkness had befallen the city.
Still raining. Gonna be a boring night.

This was the evening he had dreaded — his first rainout since joining the Astros. In his previous three years, in the minor leagues, he had not done rainouts well. Boredom was something he feared.

He sat in his plush hotel room looking through the
Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
. He flipped through the TV channels, stopping at local KDFG-TV in time to catch a sports report.

“We turn our attention to sports now, as KDFG’s Peggy Kravchuk is standing by at PNC Park. Peggy, lots of rain today.”

“That’s right, Cliff. And it looks like more dark clouds are on the way.”             

“Well, Peggy, tell us what to expect from this red-hot Astros team.”

“Cliff, the visiting Astros have been ignited by the surprising emergence of rookie third baseman Cody Musket. At only five foot nine inches, he’s leading the American League in home runs and is carrying a hefty .329 batting average. He has been up from Houston’s Double-A team at Corpus Christi just since late April and…”

He turned it off, put on a Pirates T-shirt, stepped into a pair of Wrangler jeans, and donned a Pirates baseball cap. Hopefully, wearing the Pirates gear would keep him from being recognized.

Earlier in the hotel lobby, he had been handed a VIP pass to a premiere screening of a new Superman movie. It was showing at a popular mall near the hotel. The superhero film would have to do — anything to get his mind off the boredom and bad dreams.

The rain had let up temporarily, so he took to the wet sidewalks and sloshed his way toward the mall four blocks away.

Wearing his Wranglers, Payless tennies, and the Pirates cap and shirt, he blended well while passing through the lobby of the Cinema 18 in Maxstone Memorial Matrix. It wouldn’t have been this easy in Houston where he was already a celebrity, but in this mall, situated less than a mile from the Allegheny River, he was just a guy going to the movie on a Friday night without a date.

He arrived at the Cinema 18 early and decided to visit the concessions. As he stood in line, he overheard a young woman engaged in a cell phone conversation with her father. He could not see her because she stood behind a freestanding bulletin board, but he was intrigued as he listened.

“No, Daddy, Speedy broke up with me. We went out twice, and then he asked me to move in. When I told him I wasn’t going to sleep with another guy until marriage, he acted like I was violating his rights or something. Every guy I meet wants only one thing — to hit on me.”

Cody strained to hear every word. His left ear had suffered hearing damage in Afghanistan, so he turned his head to get his right ear closer.

“It’s been a horrible day. First, Tanner McNair canceled for my Sunday-night show. He’s leaving town right after the game Sunday ‘cause he’s a last-minute selection for the All-Star Game in Detroit.”

Now Cody’s curiosity was piqued. Tanner McNair, Pittsburgh Pirates right fielder, was his best friend from high school.
This chick must be well connected. What Sunday-night show?

“Then this afternoon these creepy-looking guys followed me.” Silence. “Yes, I know, Daddy, but lots of editorial writers have death threats.
”

Cody wanted to maneuver into position to see her, but a rail stood between him and the bulletin board. Editorials? Threats?

“I’m going to that premiere I told you about — the new Superman movie.” Silence. “I know, Daddy, but I can’t let them scare me. I just need to chill.”

Normally in Pittsburgh at 6:00 p.m. in July, bright daylight would be in order. But today, with foreboding skies of black clouds and drizzle, Cody saw it as a picture of what his life had become — lots of rain and thunder and very little sunshine.

Though he could not see her behind the bulletin board, something in her voice reminded him of sunlight and better days. She was going to the same movie, and she knew his best friend.
I gotta find out who she is.

But mingling made him nervous. He was a freak. His clothing hid most of his physical scars, but what female in her right mind would want to be seen with him at a beach or similar social event? And the scars on his soul went just as deep. Who would want to endure his mental state?

Finally, she emerged. Stunning, early twenties, slender and athletic with long, dark brown hair, she reminded him of a Shakespeare quote —
“I ne’er saw true beauty ‘till this night.”

The O2 rushed right out of his chest. He tried not to stare as she passed, but his captive eyes could not resist.

“Please, cowboy, leave
something
on me.” The sassy filly spirited away, hastening her steps, pink flip-flops flipping and flopping underneath her heels on the worn-out carpet. Something told Cody she wasn’t interested in meeting him —
not now, not ever
.

As he approached the turnstile, the skies outside rumbled again — another storm rolling across the Allegheny. He handed his free pass to the attendant, a slightly-built young man with freckles, a wad of gum in his cheek, orange hair, and wearing a micro ruby nose ring.

“Theater Five, sir, down the hall to your left. And what she really meant was, she’s dying to be rode.”

Cody tightened his jaw, yanked his stamped movie pass back from the attendant, and followed about fifty paces behind the captivating mystery woman. He visualized how she would look with summer sunlight shining on her face and hair.

She wore a dark brown summer blouse, the words “Coco Made Me Poor” written across the front in pink letters. With bleached cutoff jeans and a small leather purse barely large enough for her smartphone, she gracefully swayed before him like five feet, seven inches of heaven.

Was she only an apparition? Despite her display of contempt, her heavenly presence had at least temporarily calmed his storms that lurked in the night, but he would need to work up some grit just to approach her. What could he possibly say to interest her in knowing him?

Suddenly, his fantasy was shattered by a loud crash. Three men wearing ski masks had breached a nearby emergency exit from the outside. They raced into the building, brutally seized the angel of his affection, and began yanking her toward the door.

“Leave me alone! Get away! Someone call the police! Help me!” She resisted, fighting, scratching, twisting, and screaming. Her tenacity angered the abductors, so they slammed her down and dragged her across the grimy carpet toward the exit. They pulled her by the hair and from behind by the neck of her Coco shirt, which squeezed off her windpipe and ripped the blouse.

She coughed and gasped for breath while they tugged her closer and closer to the door, but still she resisted. They battered her with profane verbal abuse and extreme brutality — an apparent effort to intimidate her into submission.

Like lightning striking desert sands, the attack on this innocent woman had detonated Cody’s beautiful dream into a molten rage. Adrenaline drove his legs forward like a runaway diesel. His steely forearms tightened. He was back in Afghanistan and ready to hurt somebody.

Receptors on full alert, he heard every sound and saw every movement. The rush, the horror, and the intensity — a cocktail of emotions he had tried to forget for four years.

And then he witnessed something remarkable. As though a cool breeze had swept across the young woman’s face, she stopped fighting and closed her eyes. Her settled expression suggested an uncommon resolve to remain collected and to gather her thoughts.

As he charged forward, Cody never slowed, but he returned to his senses. Navy SEALs had taught him how to win —
analyze, stay within yourself, don’t lose your head, finish it.

He reasoned. They had specifically targeted her. They had it all planned out. They would have a getaway vehicle waiting in the parking lot on the other side of the exit. If they managed to get her through that door, she’d be gone forever.

“Let her go! The police are on their way!”

He had a plan — attempt to scare them off with the threat of police intervention. If that didn’t work, use force. He had only seconds to decide.

Like his last mission in Afghanistan, showing presence failed to scare off the attackers. The three men ignored him. While two dragged and choked her, the third assailant attempted to place a white cloth over her nose and mouth.

Cody leaped over a rail and positioned himself in front of the door, blocking their path.

“I said let go of her!”

His growling voice was now a command.
“I’m not letting you get her through this door!”
The words echoed in the hallway junction and resonated like that of five men.

Cody had their attention. He was a threat. If he managed to delay their getaway, they would risk the arrival of authorities. Time was not their ally. A successful abduction depended upon speed.

The individual holding the white cloth screamed a profane and loud ultimatum back at Cody — a command to either move or be cut to shreds. The shouting drew more people to the scene.

The perpetrator swung around and faced the bystanders. He waved the white cloth above his head and pointed to the battered woman on the floor.

“Let this be a lesson to anybody that friggin’ goes to war with us!”

With her purse, phone and flip-flops scattered in the hallway, overpowered and held down by the other two men, she glanced up at Cody through disheveled hair that clung to her face. She tried to speak but could only gasp for air.

Cody was a coiled spring.

The assailant flung the white cloth into the air and charged toward him, brandishing a cheap but deadly AK assault knife. Cody never flinched, and the attacker suddenly hesitated. Cody then swept the legs from under the offender, separated him from his knife and slammed him facedown against the floor with extreme prejudice.

Cody turned. A second attacker, already charging forward with a knife, stopped when he saw blood and teeth lying on the floor in front of his unconscious predecessor. A grisly command from Cody put him on the carpet.