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!”