by Tim Wood
PPD has to maintain a good solid inner perimeter around the President at all times and that includes all his activities in public. If the President is a skier, we had to have agents who could ski with him. If the President was a runner, we had to have agents that could run with him and if the President was an expert horseman, like President Reagan, we had to have expert horsemen to ride with him.
When Reagan was President, PPD used to send agents to the US Park Police riding school, and that always seemed like a big deal—to ride with the President. During Reagan’s tenure in the White House, quite a few PPD agents attended this riding school. When George H. W. Bush became President, the “riding qualified” agents slowly left the detail and since President Bush didn’t ride, there was no need to train additional agents.
“Can anybody here ride a horse?” the shift leader now asked us. I’m still the new guy on the shift, I’m an operational kind of guy…I’m not going to sit in the follow-up when I could be protecting the man, am I? So, of course I raise my hand. Hell, yeah! I can ride a horse. I look around and my hand is the only one in the air. Oops. Okay, so I have ridden horses before…the trail-ride type of horseback riding, that kind of horseback riding. I am not an expert horseman, by any means…I don’t even know how to saddle a frickin’ horse, for Pete’s sake. But guess what? The shift leader didn’t inquire as to my level of horsemanship; nope, he just asked if anyone could ride. “Okay,” he said. “You’re riding with the President.” And a cowboy was born.
That ride in Vail was a simple trail ride along a mountain path. The kind of tourist activity you’d take your kids on while you were on vacation in Vail, Colorado. And back at our shift meeting when I unhesitatingly raised my hand, that’s what I kind of figured this “horseback riding” with Chelsea and President Clinton was all about. Nevertheless, I was a bit relieved to see this was a “trail” ride with wranglers leading the way, the horses walking as we sat atop saddles. However, being the Type A person I am (like all agents), I really got into the ride and decided to act like I knew how to ride a horse.
When I was a teenager, I remember my dad giving me some really great advice, “Son, if you ever find yourself in a situation where you’re not supposed to be,” he told me, “Just act like you know what you are doing and no one will question you.” So, I took what little knowledge of riding a horse I had, visualized how a “real” horseman would command and direct his horse, and did it.
After a few days in Vail we hit Martha’s Vineyard for the rest of the President’s vacation. And wouldn’t you know it…Chelsea and the President decide to go horseback riding again. And of course I was assigned to ride with them on another easy “trail” ride. All of a sudden I’m the designated horseback rider for the President!
Later that fall, the President was in Billings, Montana, for an event and a little R&R. You guessed it…he’s going to a large ranch to ride horses. So, of course, I’m assigned to ride with him. After all, I am the designated rider. I was working the shift and when we arrived at the ranch the trail hand asked me if I rode western or English. Western? English? Holy shit. “Uh, western,” I said. He handed me a saddle. What now? I’ve got to saddle this horse? I have no clue. My shift leader, bless his soul, came to my rescue, as I stood with my mouth agape and a saddle in my arms. The rancher was giving the President a walking tour of the barn, stables, and house.
“Can you saddle the horse, please? I need all my men to stay with the President,” said the shift leader. Whew! Saved again.
The PPD SAIC, myself, and one other agent (a new member of the shift, whom I’m sure really knew how to ride) were riding with President Clinton. It was the wide-open range, not a trail ride, and I was a bit nervous. Will my ruse be exposed? Will I be embarrassed in front of the President? The boss came to my aid once again. The riding party was in a wide valley between two ridgelines. He sent me to the south ridge and the other agent to the north ridge. “Give us plenty of room, boys,” he told us. “Ride the flanks up on the ridge tops.” Which was close to a half a mile away. Perfect, just me and old “Bull’s-eye” protecting the south flank. I took off to the south and rode up to the ridge—from there I could just barely see the outline of the riding party way down in the valley. To the south I could see for fifty miles. It was beautiful. I rode parallel to President Clinton along the ridgeline out of sight of the party.
Everything was going great, Bull’s-eye and I, clopping along the open prairie. Then we turned for home to retrace our steps. The closer we got to the barn, the faster old Bull’s-eye walked, then trotted, then ran, then a full out gallop.
“Whoa, Bull’s-eye!” I screamed, “Whoa!” The horse did not respond to my commands and in fact, it seemed like he increased his speed. I didn’t have a clue how to slow down this horse, other than to pull back on the reigns and holler my lungs out. My legs were flapping out of the stirrups and we were going so fast over the bumpy ground, I had no hope of getting them back in place. I held on for dear life. I ended up grabbing the saddle horn with both hands and praying. And I didn’t fall. As we descended the ridgeline toward the highway and the barn on the other side of the highway, Bull’s-eye actually started slowing down and I got my feet in the stirrups and a good grip on the reins. We slowed to a walk; just about the time President Clinton, the SAIC, and the rest of the riding party rounded the bend at the bottom of the ridgeline to cross over the highway to the stables. I had pulled it off again. That was my last ride with President Clinton, which was probably a good thing.
* * *
Working golf courses with President Clinton was always interesting. I met some of the nicest people in the world on a golf course, especially the homeowners who lived along the course. But there is always an exception…
One morning, somewhere on an out-of-town trip, we were on a golf course. We could have been in Arkansas, on Martha’s Vineyard, or in Timbuktu, for all I remember. I was working the right front flank out in front of the President. Two homeowners were standing next to the fairway and I walked up to size them up. Talking to people is the easiest way to determine their state of mind and attitude toward the President. I was thinking chances are these two are not a threat to the President. Nice house. Dressed sharp. Enjoying their morning coffee watching President Clinton golf down the fairway behind their house. So I walk up to these folks and said, “Good morning. How are you today?”
Now, most people get a thrill talking to a Secret Service agent, some folks are more interested in asking questions to an agent than they are in seeing the President. The man doesn’t say shit. The lady, with an edge in her voice says, “This is our property.” Okay, I figured it was. Then she snarls, “You can’t tell me to move,” and she points at her toes. “This is my property line right here.” She’s got her frickin’ toes on the imaginary property line.
“Okay, I said, “Nice house.”
“You can’t tell me to move,” she says.
“Why should I ask you to move?” I ask.
Now she gets really snarky, “You can’t! My son is an attorney.”
“Oh, that’s great,” I said. By this time President Clinton has moved up the fairway and it’s time for me to move forward. “Well that’s awesome,” I say to the lady. “We need good prosecutors out there to put assholes in jail. You have a nice day.”
I figured her for a liberal right away. One thing I’ve noticed over the years with the difference between liberals and conservatives. When a liberal sees a cop they immediately get defensive. “Fuck the police!” When a conservative sees a cop they think, “Thank God, the police are here!” Just an observation.
President Clinton was a pretty good golfer and he definitely loved the game. It seemed like he played every weekend, sometimes more than once a weekend. I even remember him hitting the links on some weekday afternoons. I guess when the golf bug bites, you have to scratch. On one golf outing President Clinton was playing with former President Ford an
d a world-famous tour golfer.
When President Clinton would finish a round of golf, the staff would bring the White House Press Pool out to the eighteenth green to watch him finish up…throwing them a bone, so to speak, since the staff wouldn’t allow the press on the course while he was playing. After he finished the round, President Clinton always made a big show of adding up his score. He’d sit in the golf cart and cypher that scorecard like it was the monthly unemployment numbers. Some guy from the press pool would always shout out to President Clinton, “What’d you shoot today, Mr. President?”
I had no idea what he shot that day, or any other day for that matter. I wasn’t there to keep score; I was there to let him live to hit them another day. I was standing right next to former President Ford when a pool reporter shouted out to President Clinton, “What’d you shoot today?”
“Eighty-three,” said President Clinton. “I shot an eighty-three today.”
The press pool reporters continued shouting questions to the President, and former President Ford leans over and whispers to me, “Add ten to that.”
* * *
Over the years, I get asked a lot of questions about the job. I’ve found it very interesting that when I meet someone for the first time, perhaps at a neighborhood party or any social event, everybody—and I mean everybody—Democrats, Republicans, wacked-out lefties, wound-too-tight right-wingers, and all those folks in between, including foreigners—all ask me the same question. And I know exactly what you are thinking right now, and maybe the only reason you are reading this book…what is Hillary really like?
It is amazing to me that even the staunchest Democrat wants to know, even folks you can tell just by looking at them that they love Hillary will want to know, what is she really like? I can understand a Republican asking me that question. But her ardent supporters? Really? My answer? “Well I was never assigned to the First Lady’s detail, so I wasn’t around her that much.” And then, I change the subject.
The second question is always, “Who was your favorite President?” Obviously, they want to hear me say their favorite among those I worked with, just to confirm their individual political beliefs. So I always answer with, “Abraham Lincoln.”
I will say this—the members of the Bush family, every one of them, were some of the nicest people I’ve ever met. And President Clinton was always nice to me; he is a very charming man and a very intelligent man. I was always amazed at how he could remember people, or at least make them believe he remembered them. We’d be working a rope line with President Clinton and inevitably someone would say to him something like, “I met you in Podunk, Arkansas, in 1989,” and in those few seconds of interaction, that person would be convinced he remembered them. Maybe he did. But I do know one thing—he remembered me.
Years after President Clinton left office, I was the ASAIC of the Seattle Field Office. Seattle had a huge geographical jurisdiction—Alaska, western Canada, northern Idaho, Montana, Oregon, and Washington State. Anytime a Secret Service–protected person visited that geographic area, agents from Seattle were involved with the protection of those people. When Mrs. Clinton was a senator, she and Senators John McCain, Lindsey Graham, and Susan Collins made a trip to inspect the Prudhoe Bay oil fields in Alaska. This was during a drilling controversy, and Congress was debating opening up more acreage for drilling.
I went to Barrow, Alaska with the Seattle FO advance team to make preliminary security arrangements. It was in early July and it snowed the day we arrived. A few days later, the senators arrived via private jet at Barrow International Airport. From there, they choppered over the oil fields and then came back to Barrow; I got on the plane with them and flew back to Anchorage. When we arrived in Anchorage, we motorcaded the senators to the Kenai Peninsula for some meetings. A few days later, we made it back to Anchorage for wheels up. On this particular day, Senator Clinton was meeting former president Clinton at the Anchorage airport. They were flying via private jet to Hawaii for a vacation.
As we motorcaded into the private jet side of the airport, former President Clinton was waiting planeside for Mrs. Clinton. He was standing on the ramp right next to the boarding ladder, just him and one of his Secret Service agents. Senator Clinton’s detail leader directed the motorcade agent to go directly to the office of the fixed base operator (FBO) for a stop before boarding. Senator Clinton had to make an important telephone call. All the agents went in with Senator Clinton. I was riding in the police tail car and I got out of the car and stood next to it.
Suddenly, I hear my name being called from a distance. What? I’m looking around to see who is calling my name. I glanced over toward the private jet and former president Clinton is waving and calling out to me. Are you kidding me? He started walking in my direction and I met him halfway. He wanted to know how I was doing, “Are you still in Seattle?” he asked me. Unbelievable.
We had a nice short conversation before Senator Clinton walked out of the FBO and onto the plane. I could not believe President Clinton remembered me, much less my name. It had been at least seven or eight years since I’d been assigned to his detail and I was just one of many, many shift agents assigned to PPD during his tenure as President. As a shift agent I had very little verbal interaction with a president, supervisors verbally interact with a president all the time, but we “humps” just did our job and kept quiet. So I didn’t converse much with President Clinton; but I did make him scream once…
I was on the working shift on a trip to Florida. We were working the day shift and at three in the morning my hotel room telephone rang. It was my Shift Leader. That’s never a good call. President Clinton had hurt his knee the night before and he was in the hospital. The day shift needed to get to the hospital ASAP to push the midnight shift, as we were leaving for Andrews AFB shortly.
The President needed surgery on his knee and we were going to motorcade directly from Andrews to Bethesda Naval Hospital.
President Clinton was lying in a hospital bed; the First Lady, some senior staff, and a doctor were by his side. His leg was immobilized in a hip-to-ankle brace. Now we had to figure out how to get him into the Beast (the presidential limo) and out to Air Force One. So we did what all good Secret Service agents do—we practiced the movement. We put one of the shift agents in a wheel chair next to the right rear door of the Beast and tried to get him in the backseat. It became clear there was no way we could get him or the President into the Beast, so with time running out the shift leader said, “Let’s try the follow-up” (the Secret Service suburban that the shift agents ride during a motorcade).
The SAIC and a local doc wheeled the President out of the hospital and to the departure point. We put a huge pile of pillows on the rear seat of the follow-up, because the President was going to have to lean against the left rear door with his immobilized leg resting on the bench seat. The shift leader had me get in the follow-up as they backed the wheelchair up to the right rear door. I sat on the right rear seat, facing out and grasp President Clinton under his arms, with my arms under his armpits and my hands clasped together on his chest to lift him off the wheelchair and slide him into position in the backseat. As I lifted up, President Clinton let out a scream in pain and grabbed his knee. I guess I pulled a little too hard; but, I sure as shit didn’t want to drop the President on the sidewalk! I eased him down on the wheelchair and we started over, this time with two agents on each side of him and me from the back. The second time worked like a charm, as we eased him into position with the pillows.
President Clinton rode to Air Force One in the backseat of the follow-up and the shift agents rode in the Beast. That was probably the only time in the history of the Secret Service that the President rode in the follow-up and the shift rode in the limo.
The Beast…now that was a car! We called it the Beast because it was so frickin’ big and heavy compared to previous presidential limos. The ultimate protection limo. It was awesome.
* * *
When I was on PPD, shift agents would spend their first year or so working the shift protecting the President. After that first year we would be rotated to one of four other specialty assignments on PPD. We’d spend a year or so on that specialty assignment and then rotate back to the working shift for the remainder of our tour of duty. When my time came, I was notified I was going to the First Lady’s detail. Sure as shootin’ when the next weeks shift schedule came out, I was gone from my shift to the First Lady’s detail. And starting the week out right I was scheduled to start my new assignment Sunday on day shift. I was on paper. It was carved in stone. It was set in concrete…
“Don’t believe until its on paper.” That’s what us T-men always said. With the government things change, so if it ain’t on paper, it doesn’t mean shit.
I was on a day off, a good old Dee-Oh the Saturday before that change to the First Lady’s detail. The Redhead and I were sitting around, sippin’ a beer and firin’ up the old BBQ. The telephone rings. It’s my shift leader—until midnight, away—and then I’d have a new shift leader from the First Lady’s detail. When your shift leader calls you at home it can’t be good news.
It was a good news, bad news deal. He told me Sunday would also be my day off and Monday report to the Transportation Section (TS). It seems there was a last-minute change. My shift leader told me the staff got involved with this switch and when one of the First Lady’s staffers found out my shift mate, Danny, was going to TS next week they called the SAIC. “We really were hoping Danny would be assigned to Mrs. Clinton,” they said.
