Termination Orders (22 page)

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Authors: Leo J. Maloney

BOOK: Termination Orders
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C
HAPTER
34
A
t age eighteen, Dan Morgan had a life and a plan. He was the star football player in high school, and while he didn’t have the height or weight to play in the NFL, he got scholarship offers from a few good, small schools, through his drive and innate athletic ability, coupled with generally good grades. But things changed when he arrived at college. Frustrated with the seeming futility of his classes and with being a bench-warmer to the hulking beasts who populated the field in the Varsity team, he quit a few months in to join the Army.
Upon arriving at Fort Jackson for basic, Morgan got into trouble with his drill instructor in about the length of time it took him to get off the bus. Morgan was a patriot, but at that moment, it dawned on him that the armed forces might not be for him. His fierce independence left him with a very low tolerance for the strict hierarchy and order of the military.
The drill instructor, eyes squinted into slits, was walking down the line of drafted men in front of their bus, his chin held high, when Morgan spat on the ground. The DI marched at him with the fury of a charging bull.
“Is this the corner bar, maggot?” he yelled into Morgan’s face.
Morgan looked forward blankly.
“I asked you a question, recruit!” he snapped.
“No, it isn’t,” said Morgan.
“No it isn’t,
what
?”
“No it isn’t,
sir
,” said Morgan.
“I will teach you conduct befitting a soldier,” said the DI. “Now, on your knees, and lick that up!”
Morgan looked at him incredulously. “No,” he said.
The DI swung, and before Morgan could react, his fist connected with Morgan’s gut. Morgan doubled over in pain and surprise.
“Lick it up!”
Morgan seethed. “No,” he said through his teeth.
He picked the wrong guy to make an example of.
Morgan curled the fingers of his right hand into a fist.
Screw the hierarchy
. If that bastard touched him again, he wouldn’t hold back.
“
Lick it up
.”
The DI hit him again, but this time, Morgan reacted with an uppercut to the DI’s jaw. The DI reeled back. Morgan tensed, bracing for the next blow, when he heard someone shout, “Stand down!”
Morgan later learned that the voice belonged to a lieutenant, who had then walked over and told the DI, “Enough, officer. You’ll have plenty of time to whip these ladies into shape.” Morgan looked at him with gratitude, but the lieutenant’s face remained stern, except for, Morgan noticed, an ever so slight, appreciative satisfaction playing around the corners of his mouth.
Hell of a start to my Army career
, thought Morgan. He spent most of the rest of the day running, submerged in constant hollering from the DI.
In basic training, Morgan had instruction in hand-to-hand combat and the use of weapons, and he excelled in both. Most of the time, however, was spent in repetitive, exhausting, pointless drills. He was afraid the DI was going to make his life hell for punching a man of his rank, but instead, the instructor evidently recognized that Morgan had a talent that set him above the other recruits. By the end of their third week, Morgan had advanced to platoon leader.
Though he had gotten on to the DI’s good side, that distinction made enemies within the platoon. By the fourth week of training, he had already gotten into several fights and into a sustained feud with a loudmouth, idiot bastard named Gibbs. Gibbs was the kind of guy who liked to gang up on the smaller recruits, to intimidate them and smack them around. Morgan had never been able to tolerate petty bullying, and so he had called Gibbs out. They arranged for an after-hours fight in a pit behind the barracks.
He and Gibbs met in the dim twilight, with the whole platoon watching expectantly. Among them was the DI, standing with arms crossed. Morgan stood, facing his opponent, and someone called the beginning of the fight.
Gibbs was big, but he was slow and stupid. Morgan easily ducked his clumsy punches, hitting him with quick jabs in return. After a brief tussle, Morgan made him hit the dust. The others held him back before he could do more significant damage. But during that fight, Gibbs did do some damage—he tackled Morgan, who hit his right knee hard against a rock, the first in a series of blows to his knee that, years later, would continue to give him grief.
He was sent to the infirmary after the fight. After a short stint, during which they tended to his knee, he was told to report to the captain’s office.
Oh, shit
, he thought. But when he went in, the captain wasn’t there. Instead, there were two suits in sunglasses and fedoras waiting for him.
“Hello, Morgan,” said one of them. “My name’s Wilcox, and this here’s Runyan.” Each shook his hand in turn.
“We’ve been following your brief career here at Fort Jackson,” said Runyan, “and I must say, we’re very impressed.”
“Very impressed indeed,” said Wilcox. “Your test scores are laudable, and you’ve shown real leadership among the other men. You really caught the eye of your superior officers.”
“We’d like to ask a few questions, if you don’t mind,” said Runyan.
“I guess I don’t,” Morgan said.
The questions were vague and circumspect, and when they dismissed him a half hour later, he thought nothing of it. Nobody else mentioned the encounter, and he had learned by now not to ask unnecessary questions. But the encounter gnawed at his mind. All through that week, it was never far from his consciousness. One week later, he was called in again, and the same two men were there.
“Are you considering a career in the armed forces?”
“How do you feel about U.S. involvement in the Middle East?”
“We see you’ve requested to be a Green Beret. What’s your motivation behind that?”
“Tell us, Morgan, do you like the Army?”
“No, not really,” Morgan had replied honestly to the last question. “Maybe it’ll be different once I get out of basic training, but right now, I can’t stand my superiors.”
They left again with no further explanation. After yet another week went by, Morgan was called again to the captain’s office.
“I think it’s about time you knew the score, Morgan,” said Wilcox. “We’re with a certain clandestine government agency, and we happen to be recruiting. We’re looking for exceptional young men, the best of the best. And we are very interested in you.”
“Very interested,” cut in Runyan. “There are just a few more tests we’d like you to undergo, if you accept.”
Morgan agreed. This time, they sat him down with a psychiatrist, who grilled him with questions about his personal life, his political beliefs, his patriotism, and how far he was willing to go for his country, all of which Morgan answered as truthfully as he could. After that, he sat down with Wilcox and Runyan once more.
“We’re with the CIA, Morgan,” said Runyan. “If you decide to come with us, we’ll give you the finest training a man can get, courtesy of Uncle Sam. You’ll travel the world, gather intel, run operations, and help to make history.”
“Just tell me where to sign,” said Morgan, grinning.
Runyan smiled back at him. “Excellent! I had a feeling you would say yes. We’ll get you out of here and into training right away.”
“About that,” said Morgan. “I want an honorable discharge.”
The two men agreed, and they kept their word. Morgan showed up at home a few days later, unannounced, on Thanksgiving, still in his Army uniform. He couldn’t tell his family why he was home. He had already taken an oath of secrecy and signed half a dozen papers. His father had been nervous, thinking he had gone AWOL. It didn’t help that he had told his parents how much he hated putting up with all the basic-training bullshit. So he told them he had torn up his knee during basic training and had received an honorable medical discharge.
Ten days later he took a train from Boston to DC, where he was met by his two recruiters, Wilcox and Runyan, who drove him to a top-secret training facility called The Farm that would be Morgan’s home for the next year.
“I’m putting this blindfold on you for the obvious reason,” Wilcox had said. “The location of The Farm is a national secret. Its entire purpose is to break you down, both mentally and physically, in ways you could never have imagined.”
Unconvinced, Morgan flashed back to his high school football days—full jerseys, pads, and helmet in ninety-eight degrees, heat index of 106, double-session practices, until most of his teammates puked or passed out. But not Dan Morgan. His inner drive to be the best had kept him going.
How much tougher can this be?
he thought.
“The lead instructor is a man named Powers,” Wilcox continued. “He’s been an instructor at The Farm for fifteen years, as tough as they come. He washes out ninety percent of his trainees.”
As the car came to a stop, Morgan was allowed to remove the blindfold. As his eyes adjusted to the sunlight, he saw that the facility was encircled by an electrified fence, razor wire, and armed guards and trained dogs to keep out any intruders that the surrounding dense woods and swamps hadn’t already defeated.
Surveillance cameras lined the span of fence right up to a small brick guardhouse just inside the gate. The electronic gate opened, and the grim guard waved the vehicle though, saying, “They’re expecting you.”
They drove about a half mile and stopped in front of a small white office building. Morgan and Wilcox got out of the car to retrieve Morgan’s duffel bag from the trunk.
“Good luck!” Wilcox said, echoed by Runyan from the open car window. “I have one piece of advice for you, Morgan,” Wilcox said, walking back to the sedan. “If you don’t want your life to be a living hell, whatever you do, don’t piss Powers off.”
With that, they drove away, leaving Morgan standing with his duffel bag on the curb. As he looked toward the office building, out came a large, barrel-chested man, walking straight toward him.
This must be Powers,
Morgan thought. The man looked to be about forty-five years old, six feet three inches, 230 pounds. He sported a military crew cut and rough-looking skin, his deep tan offset by the white of a scar that cut into his right eyebrow. He was wearing a white tank top, black shorts, combat boots, and mirrored aviator sunglasses that hid his eyes. His choice of clothing was meant to intimidate new recruits, showing every ripped muscle in his legs and upper body.
Yep. This must be Powers,
Morgan’s instincts told him.
This is the man who thinks he can break me. Let the games begin.
Still silent and at attention, Morgan stood as Powers circled him, sizing him up, and then faced him, his mouth six inches from Morgan’s nose, and barked, “Well! Aren’t you the pretty boy! I bet you won’t last one full day. Do you want to beat it out of here now, or should I kick your ass first?”
Morgan didn’t flinch. “No!” he said.
Powers snapped back, “No, what?”
“No, I don’t want to leave,” said Morgan.
Powers shouted, “But you will! I promise you that, Pretty Boy. I will make your life so miserable, you’ll beg to run home to your mommy and daddy. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” said Morgan.
“Yes, what?” screamed Powers. “Do I look like one of your pussy football buddies?”
“No,” said Morgan.
“No, sir!” shouted Powers, with his eyes bulging and the veins in his neck and forehead popping out.
Powers face came within three inches of Morgan’s as he screamed, “You call me ‘sir’ when you speak to me, you little pussy, or I will put my size thirteen boot so far up your ass, you’ll be shitting leather for a year! Is that clear, Pretty Boy?”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“Double-time it to that barracks.” Powers pointed out a building about one hundred yards away. “Pick a cot, store your gear, change into shorts, T-shirt, and boots from the footlocker, and be out front in three minutes, or you will get your first taste of pain. Is that clear, Pretty Boy?”
“Yes, sir.” Morgan took off for his new home. By the time he had stored his gear, changed into shorts, T-shirt, and boots and bolted from the barracks to the designated spot, exactly three minutes, one second had passed.
Powers again was in his face, berating him, yelling so hard, his spit frothed on his lips, spraying Morgan with his intensity. But the trainee stood his ground, showing no expression. Powers then chest-bumped him, screaming at him, chest to chest, “Do you want to go home, Pretty Boy? Do you want to cry? Do you want to hit me?”
“No, sir!” shouted Morgan.
No longer yelling, Powers asked with a stare of hatred, “Do you have a death wish, maggot?”
“No,” Morgan said.
“No,
what
? You know, Pretty Boy, let’s put an end to this nonsense right now. What you need is an ass-whoopin’,” Powers said, pointing to a silver warehouse a few feet away. “Now, double-time it!”
Once inside the warehouse, Morgan saw a circular canvas ring enclosed by heavy ropes. He bounded into the ring and loosened up, stretching, forming his game plan. He guessed that Powers was a grappler, also trained in the martial arts. Could he beat Powers? He wasn’t sure, but he had an ace up his sleeve.

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