A BMW convertible appeared at the scene on the other side of the road. It was Cody’s neighbor, Felix Anderson.
“Call 911!” Cody shouted, as he felt for his pocketknife. He intended to cut away Cannon’s shirt around the wound so he could stop the bleeding, but his peripheral vision signaled red alert. The sedan was in reverse, barreling backward at an angry speed, tires smoking, returning to the scene.
Cody was out of bullets, and now killers bore down on him from a half block away. With the disabled officer bleeding to death underneath him, he heard familiar words inside his head — analyze, stay within yourself, don’t lose your head, finish it.
He fumbled for Cannon’s sidearm, still holstered somewhere underneath the officer’s body. He located the weapon — a Glock 40 — heavy artillery compared to his small .380. He ripped the gun from its holster and screamed at Felix to take cover, but his neighbor, who had already dialed 911, opted to jerk his car into reverse, burn rubber, and squeal away from the scene.
Cody pointed the officer’s sidearm at the approaching sedan and opened fire. The car slid to a halt and then reversed course again. It raced away at high speed, charged through a flashing red light, swerved out of control and slammed into a gigantic oak tree a quarter mile away.
Cody frantically resumed trying to save Morris Cannon. He shed his blood-spattered evening jacket and then yanked off his own shirt, rolled it up like a snowball, and crammed it against the wound. He glanced away momentarily. Flashing lights in the distance. Help is on the way.
“Hang in there, Morris. Hang on. Help is coming. Stay with me.”
Morris struggled to speak. “Cody, Cody. I was at your last game — the World Series.” He coughed and wheezed. “It was my brother’s last game, too.”
“That’s right. It was when I had the Achilles injury.”
“Help him, Cody — my brother, Mike. He’s in a lot o’ trouble.” The officer’s words were now barely audible.
“I don’t know how to do it. Dammit, Cody. I don’t know how to do this.”
“How to do what?”
“Die.”
“Come on, Morris! Don’t give up!”
“They’ve killed me.” Slow speech, his words were slurred. “I’m involved . . . bad stuff. Help Mike. He’s in over his head. I can’t be forgiven.” He struggled to gain a breath and then held it.
“Extreme sin requires an extreme sacrifice to cover it,” Cody said. “Jesus made that sacrifice. Give Him your heart. Ask Him. He’ll forgive you.” Cody spoke with urgency. Officer Cannon was slipping away.
“Jesu —” The officer exhaled his last.
Within minutes, the street was alive with emergency responders — flashing lights, police and fire vehicles, people running, scratchy radio transmissions.
“Lemme see your hands!” The first officer to disembark from a police vehicle was a rookie. Four others had arrived almost simultaneously.
Cody glanced up. Five weapons aimed at him. Both handguns he had fired lay on the ground next to the dead officer. Steam was rising into the cool night air from the hot muzzle of the blood-slippery Glock.
In the darkness, with his bloody face and hair, he was not recognized by any of the traumatized police. All they saw was a shirtless, bloody, unidentified man kneeling over a fallen fellow officer. There were no witnesses present. Felix had left the scene. The nervous officers had no idea what had just occurred.
“I live just a mile from here. My name is —”
“Move away from him! Step away now and get on the ground!” The conversation was going only one direction. Uncertainty and panic were dressed in blue uniforms with badges and guns.
Cody rose from his kneeling position with his bloody hands in the air, intending to step over Cannon’s body and lie facedown on the pavement as instructed. They could sort it out later.
But his weak left Achilles, remnants of an old World Series injury, betrayed him and he toppled back to the ground. He reached out with his left arm to break his fall, but his hand touched the pavement only inches from the two weapons.
Five police officers fired their guns. Cody fell across the dead officer’s chest.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Brandi heard her cell ringing. She stepped from the shower, pulled Cody's robe around herself, then picked up her phone. It was the police. She screamed for Knoxi and told her the shocking news. Her sons, Raymond and Cody Jr. were not at home.
"Help me find my clothes!” Brandi shouted, as Knoxi came rushing into the bedroom. “I can’t think straight.”
Knoxi helped her mother find everything and then tried unsuccessfully to call her brothers.
The Mini Coupe, which Brandi had driven home from the airport, was nearly out of gas, so they frantically jumped into Cody’s truck. The rear tires screamed as Brandi backed out of the garage, turned, and then accelerated down the circular driveway toward the street.
Knoxi switched on the radio. A special report was in progress.
"…has taken place on the west side of town. Former Houston Astros star third baseman and designated hitter Cody Musket, who played twelve seasons, has been shot. He was rushed in critical condition to Methodist Hospital moments ago with multiple gunshot wounds. Tina Anderson of station KPRC in Houston is standing by at the scene.”
“Thank you, Kareem. One question asked is why Musket was not driving his F-570 truck with the CODY-12 license plates tonight. Officers say they would have recognized his truck had he been driving it. But tonight, for some reason, he was in his wife’s Mustang. The story gets even more bizarre. There is a dead police officer at the scene. Another vehicle has been found a half mile away with two armed gunmen dead inside. Right now, the motive for the shooting is unclear. Was Musket the target, or was it the officer? Back to you, Kareem.”
Knoxi’s face was flushed with tears. “Mama, how long will it take to get to the hospital?”
“I dunno. Depends on traffic. Keep trying to call your brothers.” Brandi’s head was pounding as she tuned her ear to the broadcast again.
"…Also standing by is Dancer Coleman, KPRC roving sports reporter, former Houston Astros shortstop, who is in downtown Houston at the…”
Knoxi turned it off. “Mama, why don’t you let me drive? I dunno how you can —”
“Knoxi, just try to call the boys.”
“Why don’t you call them and let me drive, Mama? I mean —”
“Baby, I wouldn’t even be able to read the screen on the phone. My eyes are too blurry.”
“Mama, if you can’t read the screen, how can you drive?”
“Well, do you think you’re any better off? Look in the mirror. Look at yourself.”
Knoxi finally reached Raymond on his cell.
“Raymond! Where are you guys? You’re where? The Riveras’ home? Listen, Ray. Daddy’s been shot! Turn on the news. They took him to Methodist. We’re coming to pick you both up.”
Raymond and Cody Jr. had ridden their bicycles to the home of school friends while Cody, Brandi and Knoxi had slept. They scrambled to the Riveras’ game room and tuned to the radio broadcast while they waited for Brandi and Knoxi to arrive.
“. . . and the Muskets’ eighteen-year-old daughter just returned from Rome, where she addressed an international human trafficking conference. She confirmed rumors that she had indeed been rescued twelve years ago by a group of commandos led by her father. Rumors have also surfaced that Musket, a former Medal of Honor winner, has begun to lead a double life — that his Planned Childhood Foundation, which has established twelve orphanages on foreign continents, is a front for financing illegal clandestine child rescue missions in third-world countries . . .”
“Not true! Why does the press always have to twist things?” Eleven-year-old Raymond was stressed and angry as the broadcast continued.
“Brandi Musket, a former women’s basketball star at Stanford and . . .”
Raymond punched the off button. “Yadda, yadda, yadda. Fine. Let’s go.
I hear Dad’s truck.” Brandi was in the driveway honking the horn.
The boys said hurried good-byes to their friends and rushed to the truck outside. One look at his mother’s face and eleven-year-old Raymond was ready to take matters into his own hands.
“Want me to drive, Mama?”
“No, Raymond. Just get in.”
“But sometimes Dad lets me when —”
“Are you kidding? You’re only eleven! He lets you drive?”
“Well, sure. At José and Mia’s ranch sometimes.”
“Too many crowded roads and you don’t even have a license. I’m gonna have to fight traffic all the way. Three conventions in town and the Rockets are playing the Spurs tonight.”
“But you’re crying. How you gonna drive like that?”
“Raymond! Just get in!” She sniffled and wiped tears from her face.
“Tell Mama to let me drive, Ray.” Knoxi wiped her eyes, trying to look composed.
“You? You’re a crappy driver!”
“No, I’m not! Sure, freeways make me nervous, but —”
“Just ‘cause you can fly an airplane doesn’t make you a good driver.”
“Kids! Please! I’m driving, that’s final. Get in, Raymond!”
He yanked open the back door, jumped in, and then reached over the seat and twisted the keys from the ignition. He leaped from the truck, ran toward a redwood fence, pulled himself up, and catapulted into the adjacent yard.
“Mom! You let him take your keys?” Nine-year-old Cody Jr. had already settled himself into the back seat.
Brandi caught her breath. She watched her older son with both anger and pride as he gracefully breached the eight-foot fence and disappeared with the keys.
She shook her head. “He’s exactly like his father.”
Knoxi immediately got out of the truck and opened the back door.
“Scoot over, little brother.”
“What?”
“Cody! Move your butt!”
His light dawned. “Wait. I get it. That’s Mr. Sakimoto’s house on the other side of the fence.” Cody scooted to the middle.
Knoxi slid in next to him. “We can cry now, Mama. Neither of us will have to drive.”
“I know.” Brandi wiped her eyes again as she lifted herself over the console and collapsed into the bucket seat on the passenger side. Knoxi leaned forward and clutched her mother’s shoulders.
A moment later, Raymond and forty-nine-year-old Yasumi Sakimoto, internationally celebrated Formula One racing driver, came bounding through a gate near the front of the property and sprinted toward the vehicle. Cody’s truck was in capable hands as it blistered the road to the hospital.
Angels Two Zero
Twenty years earlier —
Afghanistan skies had cleared overnight. Winds that had kicked up sand as high as fifteen thousand feet for nearly two days had subsided. The hills in northern Helmand Province were clearly visible from eighty nautical miles away.
US Marine Second Lieutenant Cody “Babe” Musket, age 23, glanced over his shoulder. Through the canopy of his F/A-18D Hornet he focused on an Afghan canyon far below — rugged country.
He was accompanied by his “wizo” (weapons systems officer), Harry “Seismo” Stanton, who flew in the back seat. His aircraft was part of Lima Flight — three Hornets that had launched from the USS Harry Truman at 0800.
Cody Musket, flying Lima Three, was in his element. Never mind that eighty miles ahead was a hotbed for Taliban activity, the most dangerous area of the war. The exhilaration of being in control of such power — sea level to twenty thousand feet in one minute — and then living for several hours in a different world was intoxicating. This had been his childhood dream.
“Hey, Babe, I heard you got drafted by the Phillies outta college.” The transmission came from Keyshawn “Hawker” Harris, flying Lima Two.
“It was Houston. They drafted me in round twenty-seven.”
“So how come you didn’t play ball?”
“You kidding, Hawker? And miss all this?”
“You went to Texas A&M, Babe, right?”
“Snap ding! Hawker, you’re just full of bogus intel.”
“I been accused of being full o’ worse. ‘Snap ding?’ Wha duz that mean?”
“Just somethin’ Jungle Dawg used to say.”
“Detroit Pistons? That Jungle Dawg? You mean you know that guy?”
“Affirmative. I roomed with him at Baylor, home of the fighting Baylor Bears, and best of all, Lady Bears basketball.”
“No way! Can you get me his autograph? I heard he’s a wannabe flyer.”
“Haven’t seen JD in a while.”
Hey, you gotta be pretty smart to go to Baylor, right, Babe?”
“Okay, Hawker, that’s gotta be a trick question. We all know you went to Nebraska.”
“Well, I heard you graduated in three years, and if you’re that smart, you should know what language the natives are speakin’ down there on the ground. Arabic?”
“They speak some local dialect, not Arabic.”
“But if they spoke Arabic, you’d understand it, right?”
“I took Arabic in college. I know poquito no mucho.”
“That’s not Arabic. Sounds like Spanish. Wha duz it mean?”
“Means ‘a little, not much,’” Seismo cut in.
“So, Babe, then how do you say ‘a little, not much’ in Arabic?”
“I have no idea.”
Babe now had a visual of the target area. From twenty thousand feet (angels two zero), the beauty of the untamed mountainous world beneath was surreal. It was both desolate and magnificent, a bizarre blend of fantasy and reality. Hard to believe there is a war goin’ on down there.
While attending flight school, Cody had been tagged by his mates as “Babe” after hitting three home runs in an exhibition game against the Pensacola Blue Wahoos, a minor league affiliate of the Cincinnati Reds. His previous call sign “Rambo,” which he had worn because of his martial arts expertise, was dropped in favor of the new call sign after his home run prowess was revealed.
“Tighten it up, Marines, nearing target area. All eyes.” Captain Roger “Snake” Stabler was in command, flying Lima One.
A team of Navy SEALS based on the Truman was trapped in the hills ahead. Cody, a Marine, had befriended the team and had worked out with them aboard the boat. Though Cody had taught martial arts while in college, the SEALs had schooled him on the mental aspects of real combat as opposed to merely fighting for sport.
The SEAL team had been dispatched to rescue eight survivors of a Chinook helicopter crash, but the Taliban had arrived first and had taken the crash survivors as POWs. The SEALs’ presence had been discovered, and now they needed air support so that a helo could enter the zone and extract them from the area.
“Lima One to Badger 29, do you read me?” Snake was calling the Joint Tactical Air Controller (JTAC) embedded in the SEAL team below.
“Roger, Lima One, this is Badger 29. Read you loud and clear. Target is at our two-niner-zero, four clicks. Stand by for coordinates.”
Snake answered back. “Roger that. We’re comin’ in for a closer look.”
Then Snake barked out commands in rapid succession. “Babe, maintain angels two zero. Hawker, you’re with me. Break left on three! Three, two, one, break!”
Babe, flying Lima Three, was to circle and observe from twenty thousand feet while the other two aircraft dropped to five thousand feet above the terrain.
Lima One soon had a visual on the enemy. The entire region was crawling with hostiles on the hunt and out for blood. Some of them were getting too close.
“Badger 29, this is Lima One with hostiles in sight. Hold your ears, gentlemen. We’re gonna yell at ‘em and see if we can scare ‘em off.”
Step 1 protocol for flying ground cover was to “show presence” or “yell” at the enemy — simply fly overhead at five thousand feet and hope the screaming rumble of jet engines would strike terro
r and send them wisely retreating. It usually worked, avoiding the use of deadly ordnance.
Forces on the ground were unable to make a visual sighting of the Hornets due to the bright morning sunlight. The thunderous roar echoed off the surrounding hills, making it difficult to determine the direction from which the gruesome sound came.
On this particular occasion, showing presence did not work. The proximity of the village, with the high probability of collateral damage, made the Taliban think that the Hornets were bluffing. Taliban forces simply took cover for a few minutes and then continued their advance — a bad decision.
Lima Flight received clearance to open fire on the enemy.
Cody was ordered to descend and follow the other two aircraft for a deadly strafing run. Twenty-millimeter canons and Maverick missiles would create a hellish death trap but would not create a problem for the village, according to Snake’s calculations, as long as the aircraft descended low enough to avoid collateral damage while engaging.
One by one, each Hornet made a run upon the enemy. The first two dealt a collective lethal blow — more than a hundred men and weapons obliterated.
Lima Three was the third aircraft, and by the time Babe and Seismo flew over, smoke, fire, and bodies were all that remained on the rugged landscape.
Suddenly, an explosion in the forward section of the fuselage underneath Cody's right foot sent flames and smoke belching from a gaping hole and filling the tandem cockpit. His leg and foot were on fire. Lima Three shook violently. Rapid vibrations made Cody’s teeth rattle, and he heard choking in his headset.
“Babe, what hit us?” Seismo screamed, choked, coughed, and spit. “Babe! Babe! You okay?”
The blaze quickly extinguished, but the blast had severely burned Cody’s right lower leg and foot. “Ugggh! My leg! On fire! What about you?” Cody fought to keep from blacking out.
Seismo coughed and spit again. “Nearly bit my friggin’ tongue off! Blood in my throat. What hit us?”
The flight status of the Hornet was deteriorating at dizzying speed — sluggish controls, pressure warnings, O-2 failure, too much high terrain, not enough altitude to eject. The crisis escalated when a peak at twelve o’clock threatened to obliterate them, sending the F/A-18D audible collision warning system into frantic mode. They were a split second from death when Cody was able to roll left, narrowly avoiding the mountain.
No Pit So Deep: The Cody Musket Story Page 2
