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?”