“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.
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.