Cobra Strike

  Cobra Strike

  Sigmund Brouwer

  Orca Sports

  Copyright © 2007 Sigmund Brouwer

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission

  in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Brouwer, Sigmund, 1959-

  Cobra strike / written by Sigmund Brouwer.

  (Orca sports)

  First published: Red Deer, Alta. : Coolreading.com, 1998.

  ISBN 978-1-55143-725-5

  I. Title. II. Series.

  PS8553.R68467C6 2007 jC813’.54 C2006-907044-X

  Summary: After discovering tainted water in the creek near his grandmother’s cabin in the Kentucky hills, Roy Linden slowly uncovers a connection between his high school team’s new star quarterback, his own football future and the source of the pollution.

  First published in the United States, 2007

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2006940593

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design: Doug McCaffry

  Cover photography: Getty Images

  Author photo: Bill Bilsley

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 5626, STN. B

  VICTORIA, BC CANADA

  V8R 6S4

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 468

  CUSTER, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  Printed on 100% PCW recycled paper.

  010 09 08 07 • 4 3 2 1

  More Orca Sports novels by Sigmund Brouwer:

  All-Star Pride

  Blazer Drive

  Rebel Glory

  Tiger Threat

  Titan Clash

  chapter one

  When I left the science lab after school on Friday, I had two problems. The first was what I had discovered in the lab. The second was that spending extra time there had made me fifteen minutes late for football practice.

  Because of that, I didn’t reach the locker room until most of my teammates on the Johnstown Striking Cobras had already changed and gone into the gym. And because I was the last one out of the locker room, I was the only one to see Glenn Pitt, our assistant coach, grab the wrong can of Pepsi. He had mistakenly reached for the one filled with dark brown chewing tobacco spit.

  But I should probably back up a bit to tell the whole story.

  When I walked out of the locker room, the high school gym was filled with guys in sweats sprinting back and forth. Between me and those guys, our two football coaches stood in front of a table covered with papers of team plays. The men stood with their backs toward me. Each coach carried a clipboard. Each had a stopwatch. Each was timing the short sprints of the guys in sweats and making notes on his clipboard.

  Normally we practiced outside on the football field. But today rain pounded so hard the gym’s skylights rumbled like gravel in a clothes dryer. Not even our coaches—who thought cold and pain and torture were the keys to turning us into men—had the heart to make us churn through the cold mud in this rain.

  Or maybe they just wanted a closer look at all the players—this was the last afternoon of tryouts. Old Coach Donaldson wore glasses so thick they made his eyes look like little brown peas floating somewhere deep in an aquarium. If rain streaked those glasses, he became as blind as he was deaf.

  But our assistant coach, Glenn Pitt, had perfect eyesight and hearing. He was young, just out of college. He had won bodybuilding competitions, and with his short dark hair and bullet-shaped skull, he could have been a poster boy for the Marines.

  Coach Pitt was the complete opposite of Coach Donaldson, who some people joked had started coaching high school football teams before college teams were even invented. Coach Donaldson was certainly no marine. He looked like a giant pear, with a gray bowling-ball-shaped head plunked on top and stilt-like legs sticking out below.

  I watched them for a few seconds, wishing I could somehow sneak past Coach Pitt’s eagle eyes. Once he noticed I was late, he would yell at me. He liked to yell, especially at me, because I had a hard time defending myself.

  Worse, I would have to tell him why I was late on the last day of tryouts. I knew he’d yell even louder when he learned I’d put science ahead of football. But that part I could handle. The part I couldn’t handle was saying the words “Pitt” and “science,” which would give Coach Pitt even more opportunity to yell at me.

  So I waited, hoping some miracle would happen to let me get past him unnoticed.

  The squeaks of running shoes on the gym floor mixed with grunts and shouts. If only I were already out there with the other guys...

  Clipboard in his left hand, Coach Donaldson used his right hand to bring a Pepsi can to his mouth. He squirted a stream of tobacco juice into the can. He almost always had a golf-ball-sized wad of chewing tobacco bulging in his cheek. Outdoors, he just fired tobacco juice onto the grass, and if a player was unlucky enough to slide into it during a tackle, it stuck and smeared across his jersey like grasshopper guts. Here, indoors, Coach Donaldson had no choice but to spit into a Pepsi can, which was only slightly less gross; it was hard to aim into the can, and much of the juice dribbled down his chin.

  A football came wobbling across the floor toward Coach Donaldson’s feet. Jim Schenley, our quarterback, had been warming up at the back of the gym and—no surprise—he had fired the ball way over the head of his receiver.

  Coach Donaldson set his Pepsi can on the table behind him and grabbed the football. It probably broke his heart that the best quarterback he could find for this team had an arm with the accuracy of a broken watch.

  Coach Pitt, who had focused his attention on the sprinters directly in front of him, did not notice Coach Donaldson pick up the ball. Or put down his Pepsi can on the table behind him. Trouble was, Coach Pitt had left his own can of Pepsi sitting on the table.

  As Coach Donaldson wandered away with the football to talk to Schenley, Coach Pitt absently reached behind him for his Pepsi. His eyes and attention stayed on the sprinters, however, and his fingers closed around Coach Donaldson’s can instead of his own.

  He began to lift the can to his mouth, but stopped halfway. A couple of players were laughing at a joke on the other side of the gym.

  “Hey, Martins, Taylor,” Coach Pitt yelled, “this is practice. Not a tea party. Drop and give me twenty-five push-ups!”

  Coach Pitt grinned in mean delight and loudly counted off the push-ups as Martins and Taylor began. Everyone stopped and stared, glad that Coach Pitt was picking on someone else.

  Me? I stared at the Pepsi can in Coach Pitt’s hand.

  There was my miracle.

  His Pepsi must have been close enough to empty that it was the same weight as Coach Donaldson’s can of tobacco spit. All I had to do was keep my mouth shut, and Coach Pitt would take a swig of that horrible brown juice. He’d be so busy gagging that I’d have the perfect chance to get out there among the players without being noticed.

  If that wasn’t enough reason to keep my mouth shut, there was also the fact that Coach Pitt laughed at me every time I spoke and called me a “b-b-baby.”

  I was really tempted to stay where I was and watch.

  But I could picture Gra
m in her rocking chair on the porch, smiling sadly at me for repaying bad with bad.

  So I stepped forward.

  I tried to call out. In my mind, I heard my words perfectly: No! Coach Pitt, don’t drink from that Pepsi can.

  But as always, my throat tightened when I tried to speak. It was worse around Coach Pitt because he made me extra nervous.

  So what came out was a low whistling squeal that Coach could not hear above his own loud counting.

  I had no choice but to tap him on the shoulder.

  He spun around.

  “What!” he yelled, angry that someone had interrupted him.

  His eyes got big when he saw who’d had the nerve to stop him.

  “L-l-linden,” he said, his lips curling in joy at the chance to hassle me.

  He turned away from me for a second and shouted to the rest of the team.

  “Listen up guys, L-l-linden is about to explain to everyone why he’s l-l-late.”

  The last squeaks of rubber soles on the gym floor stopped. As did all other noise. Most of the guys hate it when Coach teases me, almost as much as I do. But few would dare to speak now and bring his wrath on themselves. It was just me and the huge echoing space of the gym—with the entire team listening.

  My throat got tighter. I hate attention. The great thing about football is that when you play, you can hide your face inside a helmet. And you don’t have to talk.

  With all eyes on me, I again heard my words clearly in my head. Coach Pitt, you grabbed the wrong Pepsi can.

  “C-c-c-c-c...” I almost stomped my foot in the effort to get it out. “C-c-c-c-c...”

  I stopped. With everyone staring, I couldn’t force the word out.

  “Coach,” he said, grinning with delight. “Spit it out, Mr. B-baby Talk. Coach.”

  “C-c-c-c-c-oach P-p-p-p...”

  “Coach Pitt...” he said, nodding. I knew some of the guys on the team were squirming for me. Just like most people did whenever I had to talk to them.

  “K-k-keep g-g-oing,” he said. “You c-c-can do it.”

  His eyes gleamed. I was his favorite target.

  “Y-y-you gr-gr-gr-gr-gr-gr...” I said. Most of the time when I get stuck on a word, I search for a different one that’s easier to say. But with his big mean grin on me, I felt frozen like a frog in a flashlight beam.

  He laughed again. And waved me quiet.

  “We d-d-d-on’t have all n-n-night,” Coach Pitt said loudly so everyone could hear. “Hit the floor and g-g-give me a hundred p-p-p-push-ups.”

  I pointed at the can of Pepsi in his hand.

  “The wr-r-r-r...”

  “Down, Linden!” he yelled with sudden rage. “Now!”

  With a nasty grin of triumph, he tilted his head back and sucked in a big gulp from the Pepsi can. And instead of cool, refreshing Pepsi, he swallowed warm horrible slime.

  I saw it first in his eyes. They instantly popped wide-open in disbelief.

  He dropped the can and clutched his throat.

  “L-like I was tr-rying to say,” I explained. Words came out easier now that I didn’t feel the pressure. “You gr-r-rabbed the c-can with t-t-obacco juice.”

  His eyes crossed.

  He slapped both hands across his mouth.

  He dashed past me to the locker room.

  Even before the doors banged shut, we all heard it.

  Loud, anguished retching as he threw up.

  He didn’t make it back to practice. And I never did my hundred push-ups.

  chapter two

  That night, as I usually do on Fridays, I set my alarm to get up early, so I could visit my grandmother Saturday morning.

  Unfortunately, I had bad news to deliver.

  Any other time, visiting her was something I looked forward to, partly because she lives back in the hills. I love any excuse to drive my Chevy truck along those lonely winding roads shaded by trees. The main reason I enjoy visiting her, though, is there’s no one who means more to me. My parents died in a car crash when I was three, and I grew up in town with my aunt and uncle. Their youngest son is ten years older than me, so it’s never seemed as if I have a close family.

  Except for Gram. I’ve spent most of my summers with her, and she’s taught me a lot about the land and nature, taking me into the woods and showing me flowers and roots and how they can be used for medicine. Pointing out the different birds and their habits. Showing me how to sneak up on deer. That’s where I feel the most comfortable— among the trees and grass. Where a person doesn’t have to talk.

  When my alarm went off at 7:00 AM, I dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt without showering. In the kitchen, I grabbed an apple to eat during the drive. I wanted to save my appetite for Gram’s country breakfast. No one else was awake, and I left quietly after writing a note for my aunt and uncle.

  My truck started at the first turn of the key. I let it purr for a few minutes. It’s an old truck, but I work on it plenty and keep it in good running condition.

  The sky was a cloudless blue. Water from last night’s rain spotted the windshield. I let the wipers run and adjusted the defroster so my breathing wouldn’t fog the inside of the windows. I put the truck into gear and pulled away from Uncle Jeb’s house, a white two-story building in a row of similar white two-story buildings, on a street lined with old tall trees.

  Although I was a high school senior and I had lived in the house since I was three, I never thought of it as home. It was always “Uncle Jeb’s house.” Maybe it was because Uncle Jeb and Aunt Marlene treated me so politely, as if they were afraid I would break in two if they hugged me or raised their voices or did any of the rough-and-tumble things parents did when they treated their kids like kids. Or maybe it was just too awkward for them to talk to me. I had so much trouble getting my words out, they always seemed to look away and be embarrassed for me. Either way—with their kids grown up and gone, and just us three in the house—living with them has been quiet. Most of my childhood memories of the house are about its squeaks and creaks as we moved through it ever so politely.

  I turned the corner, and Uncle Jeb’s house disappeared from my rearview mirror.

  It didn’t take long to get out of town. Not because we live close to the edge of town, but because there isn’t much town. Johnstown only has one high school and doesn’t even have a McDonald’s or a Burger King. It’s just a small forgotten place stuck back in the hills of southeast Kentucky.

  I drove down Main Street, past the old courthouse. On the seat beside me was a mini-recorder, the kind people use to dictate notes. I grabbed it and pressed the record button.

  “‘I am dead, Horatio,’” I said into the microphone. “ ‘Wretched queen, good-bye! You that look pale and tremble at this chance, that are but mutes or audience to this act, had I but time, I could tell you. But let it be. Horatio, I am dead.’ “

  I snapped the record button off, rewound the tape and played it back. My words were getting clearer.

  Repeating lines I had memorized from Shakespeare’s play Hamlet was one way I worked on conquering my stutter. No one had told me it would help, but I figured it couldn’t hurt. I liked the sound of the words Shakespeare used. And people have tried worse methods of curing their stuttering.

  There was this Greek named Demosthenes who became a famous speaker even though he stuttered. He practiced speaking with pebbles under his tongue, and he stood at the sea and shouted above the roar of the waves. To make his lungs more powerful, he strapped a weight to his chest and recited things as he ran up hills.

  Thinking about famous people who stuttered and got over it made me feel better. The guy who wrote Alice in Wonderland— Lewis Carroll—stuttered. So did a famous British prime minister, Winston Churchill. And Marilyn Monroe.

  I’ve always told myself that if they could get past their stutter, so could I.

  “ ‘Now cracks a noble heart,’ “ I said into the tape recorder. This was Horatio, talking to Hamlet after Hamlet had been stabbed with a poison-tipp
ed sword. Shakespeare wrote some good action stories. “‘Good night, sweet Prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!’”

  I practiced as I drove down Main Street. When I reached the railroad tracks, I turned and followed them along the river. I reached for the apple, crunching on it to knock the edge off my hunger.

  I passed the Johns Corporation warehouses. I passed the Johns Corporation trucking center. I passed the Johns Corporation headquarters. I passed almost a mile’s worth of Johns Corporation civic pride. All of the buildings were set behind beautifully landscaped lawns with ponds and flower beds. The Johns Corporation had begun as a coal mine at the turn of the century and had expanded ever since. Most people in town worked for the Johns Corporation in one way or another. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why this little town in the valley was called Johnstown.

  And that made the news I had for Gram even worse. I was worried my bad news was somehow connected to all those nice buildings with the perfectly landscaped lawns. Just like I was concerned about why the Johns Corporation had made it necessary for me to have empty jars rolling around on the floor of my truck.

  Twenty minutes later, as I parked near Gram’s cabin, I had finished rehearsing what I needed to explain to her.

  chapter three

  From where I parked the truck beneath an elm tree, I could see Gram. She sat in her rocker on the front porch, reading from her Bible.

  In some ways, Gram was what you’d expect a granny to look like. She favored dark dresses. Her white hair was piled in a bun. She had tiny glasses perched on her nose. Her cheeks looked like wrinkly dried apples.

  But in other ways, she wasn’t what you’d expect at all. Although in her eighties, she could still dance and giggle like a teenager. Her eyes were a deep clear blue that movie stars would envy. Her voice, thick with a backwoods drawl, was soft and quiet and, especially when she was angry, hinted of great power.

  I walked across grass wet with dew and up the slight hill to her cabin. It wasn’t much more than a bedroom and kitchen, with a small living room warmed by a stone fireplace. The outside walls of the cabin had weathered to a soft gray over the years; the roof was dull tin. But not one piece of lumber sagged. Old as the cabin was, it had been solidly built.