Termination Orders (23 page)

Read Termination Orders Online

Authors: Leo J. Maloney

He had purposely failed to mention in his military records several years of private training as a wrestler-grappler, and boxer. He had been trained by a former professional heavyweight boxing champion and considered himself to be a respectable amateur. It was a secret he had hoped would one day help him.
Today was that day, if, as was Morgan’s hunch, Powers had sorely underestimated his abilities based on the information in his file jacket. At least if he put up a better fight than Powers expected, there might be a chance to gain the older man’s respect.
As Powers entered the warehouse, Morgan was waiting in the center of the ring. Powers wasn’t expecting much of a fight from the recruit, so he didn’t bother to warm up. He only took off his boots and aviator sunglasses, placed them neatly in a corner of the ring, and stepped inside.
Powers looked at Morgan and said, “There are no rules, except avoid the eyes, throat, and balls, and,” Powers said mockingly, “when you’re ready to quit, Pretty Boy, just tap the mat. That is, if you’re conscious.”
Powers seemed surprised at the lack of fear or hesitation in Morgan’s eyes. The boy looked like he was headed off to the beach.
Powers began to circle Morgan. Making his move, he slid to his left, looking for an opening to attack, then head-faked. Powers moved to leg-sweep him when Morgan threw a left hook that connected solidly with Powers’s jaw, stunning the larger man.
Morgan followed up with a right to Powers’s temple and another shot to his midsection. Powers doubled over and fell on one knee. It was obvious that Morgan was faster and stronger than he appeared, and that he had fought before.
Getting to his feet, Powers just smiled at him. Morgan landed a haymaker squarely on Powers’s nose, breaking it and splattering blood over them both.
Morgan’s increasing confidence caused him to let his guard down for just a split second. Powers lunged, tackling him to the mat, landing on top of him, and, using every ounce of his weight and skills, finally managing to put Morgan in a sleeper choke hold until he tapped the mat. Both men got to their feet, Morgan standing at attention, waiting for the next onslaught of verbal abuse.
But instead, Powers extended his hand to Morgan and said, “I might have misjudged you. I think you may have what it takes to get through this training.” Then he barked, “Shower up! Chow at 1800 hours!”
Morgan was almost at the warehouse door when Powers yelled out, “Hold up!”
Morgan stopped and turned around.
“I just had a thought. Your code name. It should be Cobra.”
“Why is that?” Morgan asked.
“It’s fast, powerful, and cunning.”
Back in the barracks, he lay in the cot thinking about what had just happened. He was wondering if he would be treated like all the other recruits, no better, no worse, now that he had bashed in Powers’s nose, when six sweat-and-dirt-covered trainees entered and dropped, fatigued, onto their cots. They introduced themselves by code name, one by one, as The Farm’s instructors had drilled into them, revealing neither their real names nor where they were from.
Sizing them up, Morgan saw that they all appeared to be around his age and in excellent physical condition. He guessed that most of them were military recruits from one branch of the service or another.
The last guy to enter the room was a tall, wiry blond man, his hair buzzed short, with a light but tanned complexion and large hands. He approached Morgan, stuck out his hand, and introduced himself as Cougar.
“Seeing as you’re new here, I’ll be glad to show you the ropes until you get acclimated,” he said as Morgan nodded his appreciation. “We run double-time everywhere we go, all the time. If we don’t, and an instructor sees us, we all pay the price.” They left together, double-timing it to the mess hall.
They had exactly twenty minutes to eat, and then it was back to the barracks, a change of clothes for a five-mile run, and calisthenics before bed. Just before lights-out, Cougar resumed the orientation. Morgan learned that he’d be awakened between 4:00 and 5:00
A.M.
, with two minutes’ personal time before formation. The length and intensity of training varied from day to day, and they had to be prepared for anything.
Over the course of that year at The Farm, Cougar and Cobra partnered up for exercises and drills. Morgan learned that Cougar’s real name was Peter Conley, he was a former Marine, and his strengths were the polar opposite of Morgan’s. Whereas Morgan was built tough, broad-shouldered, and thickly muscled with lightning-fast reactions, Conley was tall and lightweight, and his power came mainly from his keen intellect. He spoke seven languages and was an avid reader of history. Morgan often joked that with his high forehead, long chin, and gangly stance, he could more easily be mistaken for a college professor than a spy-to-be, although not many college professors knew six ways to kill a man with their bare hands.
Morgan had thought that basic training in the Army was taxing, yet nothing he did there had prepared him for training at The Farm. The drills were longer and harder, and they frequently bivouacked out in the cold, wet swamp. At The Farm, there was no such thing as being hungry or tired or sick; you did what you were told, and you didn’t complain. The physical program was a constant wrench, mentally and emotionally, and it was designed to be that way.
The goal of the instructors, Morgan knew well, was to break everyone down, so that only the toughest remained and the rest washed out.
Not me
, Morgan told himself.
I’m not quitting
. With every physical challenge, he grew more determined, and each day he felt the high of having pushed himself beyond what he would have thought possible. Coming back drenched, aching, exhausted, and starving from a day of swamp training, Morgan was
happy
.
Their regimen wasn’t limited to physical training. It also included technical training that far surpassed anything that was taught in basic. He was taught covert movement and how to spot and lose a tail. He learned to use state-of-the-art communications equipment. He was taught driving, from evasion and high-speed chases to rolling a car safely, to doing a 180 straight off a transport trailer. The recruits spent months working with professional role players, learning how to lie, how to beat a polygraph, and how to read tiny signals in body language. Morgan also received intense psychological training to withstand pain, both physical and emotional.
And, of course, he was taught how to kill, from hand-to-hand combat to poisons to explosives, and how to survive each in turn. But where he really excelled was in weapons training. He was an exceptional marksman, and he could take out a target at 500 yards—semiautomatic guns, the Glock, Walther PPK, Beretta, or the M-16 assault rifle, fitted with a night-vision scope. He was fastest to disassemble and reassemble any weapon and handled them all with ease, as if each were an extension of his hand.
Clearly, though, Morgan wasn’t very successful in his determination to stay in the middle of the pack, so as not to draw attention to himself. His natural ability during runs and other PT activity and his competitiveness were evidence of his leadership qualities. He was noticed not only by the other recruits but also by the instructors, especially Powers, who had taken a special interest in him.
Morgan enjoyed the supportive camaraderie that had developed among the men, almost all of them encouraging one another during long, brutal days of physical training—all except one: Code Name Condor. Morgan sensed he was trouble, with something negative to say about everyone, a loud, carping blowhard who never shut his mouth. So far, Morgan had avoided a confrontation.
But as the training got increasingly tough, and recruits were drummed out almost daily, tensions ran high. The more Morgan tried to stay away from him, the more Condor goaded him, and Morgan sensed the inevitable, a fight that could cause his dismissal from training.
One night during chow, Condor helped himself to Morgan’s tray. “What’s your real name, punk?” Condor jeered as Morgan glared at him.
“We’re not allowed to disclose our names. But then, you already know that,” Morgan said, as Condor put a heavy hand on his shoulder, yanking him around to face him.
Morgan pried off Condor’s hand and said, “If you ever put your hand on me again, you’ll regret it.”
“Is that right, sissy?” Condor jeered.
Morgan’s temper was almost to its boiling point. Condor got even louder, grabbing Morgan by the collar and poking him in the forehead as he spoke. Morgan had had enough. He was rising from his seat when he heard the whistle blow.
The room became dead silent. Powers was hustling toward them, and by the look on his face, he wasn’t any too happy.
“So you two ladies want to fight?” he roared, standing directly in front of Morgan and Condor, withering them with a look that, if looks could kill, would have been fatal. “You apparently haven’t had enough exercise today. Everybody up! Get outside to the pit! Now!”
The pit was a hole in the ground, located in the obstacle course, approximately twelve feet around and six feet deep. The troops had amassed in formation around it when Powers arrived with two other instructors.
Powers’s question, “Who started the argument?” was answered by silence. “All right, then!” he yelled. “This is what’s going to happen. Cobra and Condor are going to get into the pit and do a little dance. Whoever’s left standing and able to get out of the pit on his own two legs will join the rest of you ladies for a ten-mile run. The one who loses goes home. Is that clear?”
In complete unison, the recruits answered, “Yes, sir!”
“The only rule is, there are no rules,” Powers said, ordering Cobra and Condor into the pit. As Morgan jumped in, he noticed that the lace on his left boot was untied, but as he leaned over to tie it, Condor moved in and threw a kick to Morgan’s head. He rolled away and regained his footing, assuming a boxer’s position.
“I’m going to kick your ass and send you home!” the much taller and heavier Condor taunted.
“You’ve got a big mouth. Got the skills to back it up?” Morgan grinned, analyzing Condor’s movements, guessing correctly that the larger, slower man would come at him straight on, hoping to back Cobra into losing his balance. When Condor charged, at the last second Morgan moved to Condor’s left. As he swung around, Morgan hit him with a powerful uppercut, snapping Condor’s head back, followed by a right cross to the center of his forehead.
As Condor went down, Morgan landed a roundhouse kick to the side of Condor’s head, knocking him unconscious. The silence was deafening.
Concerned he had seriously injured him, Morgan started toward Condor, only to hear Powers yell, “Cobra! Out of the pit! You and the rest of the ladies owe me ten miles.”
 
 
Morgan got a sick feeling in his stomach when he was summoned to Powers’s office first thing the next morning.
“Enter,” Powers said to Morgan’s knock at the screen door. “Have a seat,” he said.
Morgan had a feeling he was in deep shit and was about to say something, to try to avoid being thrown out of training, when Powers began to speak.
“Cobra, I’ve been watching you closely ever since I misjudged you on the day you arrived here. What I have come to realize is that you have all the qualities to be a great operative. You’re confident, have great instincts, are smart and tough, both mentally and physically. You have great focus and are an exceptional marksman. You keep your cool and have the respect of all the men you work with. You may be the best I’ve ever seen, except for me,” he laughed.
Then he explained why he had summoned Morgan, “We’re partnering up the men, and I want you to have the first pick,” he said.
Morgan felt a sigh of relief within, but without showing emotion and without hesitation, he said, “Cougar. That’s who I want as my partner.”
Powers gave a half grin and asked, “Why Cougar?”
“I’ve felt a connection with him since the day we first met. He’s smart and loyal. He can fly both a helicopter and a plane, speaks several languages, knows when to keep his mouth shut, and even knows how to cook. My gut tells me I can trust him with my life.”
“Okay. It’s done. Head on back to the classroom.”

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