by Crisis of Character- A White House Secret Service Officer Discloses His Firsthand Experience
It wasn’t our job to understand the big picture. We weren’t drafted; we chose this. When my TI showed us videos of planes falling off aircraft carriers and giant buck-ups that took lives, I absorbed the truth. In this life, small actions had severe consequences. A lightbulb flickered on inside me; the TI sounded word-for-word like my father.
I always reminded myself of my oath:
I, Gary J. Byrne, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to the regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.
The Air Force’s act-first mentality turned me on. You couldn’t go wrong as long as you acted. Do nothing, and you were f—ed. No matter the question, the answer was act, take initiative! If under fire, the answer was to take cover or fire back, but never hesitate or stand still. We were always encouraged to do first, ask questions later.
But before and afterward, asking questions and thinking were the name of the game. This was a fighting man’s game. A good fighting man is a thinking man, but when he faces conflict, training kicks in and thinking comes second. Everyone who has experienced violence personally knows the military truism, “No plan survives contact with the enemy.” Conviction and character do.
Education was very different in the military, and I responded to it like a sponge. Many of my grade and high school teachers were gems who really tried to help me, but I never grasped what schoolroom education could lead to. Military teaching wasn’t just about lecturing and grading; it was about ensuring lessons were learned. Success was defined not by letter grades but by results: Mess up and someone dies.
I learned that I had incredible muscle memory, spatial orientation, and hand-eye coordination. While most people’s IQs nosedive during fight-or-flight scenarios, I kept my cool. My fingers never got fudgy under pressure; I kept both my gross and fine motor skills, never got tunnel vision, or lost situational awareness. I couldn’t do calculus, but thankfully I wasn’t calling in air strikes. My new mission was to enforce the law and protect myself doing it via a variety of weapons, the most important my brain.
Following Basic and Technical School, I eagerly awaited my first deployment to Murtad Air Base, just outside Ankara, Turkey. Our mission included securing our equipment from the host country. Murtad was a nuclear-capable base. During the Cold War, America had placed nukes in Turkey as a first-strike capability against Russia. Following the Cuban Missile Crisis, John F. Kennedy withdrew them as part of a joint deescalation. Arriving at Murtad, I learned that AFSP there had caught rogue Turkish officers trying to push an American F-104 Starfighter with a loaded nuke onto the flight line so they could steal a nuke and bomb Greece. Many Turks bitter about the Greco-Turkish War of 1919–22 wanted a flash point to ignite a new war. I believe this was secretly why JFK took the nukes out of Turkey in 1962. Turks simply hate Greeks. We joked to each other, “Hey, if you’re not careful, I’ll tell the Turks you’re Greek!”
In central Turkey I expected a scene from Lawrence of Arabia with large open desert, but it was moonlike. I often thought of Neil Armstrong’s “One small step for man…” Terrain featured sharp mountain ranges dotted with shrunken trees. The heat was unbearable. Turkey felt particularly eerie on several bus rides with the mountains literally on fire in the distance. The Turks were just clearing brush after their harvest, but it looked like a vision of hell.
Turks lived up to my expectations as hardened warriors, but I hated their methods. Often I was ordered, “Officer, stand down!” as Turkish superior officers brutally pummeled and beat subordinates. My anxiousness for action paled beside their desire for full-blown war.
International tensions escalated when in September 1983 a Russian fighter mistook a commercial plane for a U.S. AWACS probing Russian airspace. When the Soviet Su-15 interceptor intentionally downed Korean Air Lines flight 007, killing the 269 souls on board, we scrambled into high alert.
We once received “don’t drink the water” orders. Supposedly someone put arsenic in our water. I was glad someone in the military checked these things. Every bit of protocol is built on trial and error. We showered with well water for a while but that seemed dicey. We got all our fluids from bottled Diet Coke—the only safe drink.
In my thirteen months in Turkey, I grasped we were allies only because we shared a common enemy. Allies are not friends, nor are they ever to be trusted farther than can be verified. From the Turks I learned to take nothing for granted in terms of security; the enemy could just as well be within our gates as on the horizon.
Next stop: Langley, Virginia, and the Elite Gate Section. Military bases are like cities complete with every aspect of urban crime, such as bank robberies, shady characters, sexual assaults, DUIs, prostitution, drugs, smuggling, contraband, trafficking, career criminals, disgruntled troublemakers, murder, suicide, and so much more. But military crime was “camouflaged.” Military style, hierarchy, and outright ego entered every aspect of life, especially crime and corruption. Beyond that, we had an occasional spy, aircraft collision, crash, mechanical failure; we guarded President Ronald Reagan’s Air Force One when it touched down, experienced international incidents, and identified potential flash points. I saw NASA aircraft fly into lightning storms to test how new aircraft handled extreme natural occurrences. Those pilots had balls of steel—or whatever else is nonconductive.
As police we took arrests very seriously. They were dangerous. An arrest can destroy a person’s constitutional rights. So I knew I’d better have a good reason every time. We worried about being overly cautious and ruining a life unnecessarily, but we also worried that playing it cool could ruin an innocent life. It was a thin line, and we did our best to read people.
Many career criminals have the ability to cry on demand. Some are convincing, some are pathetic, but no cop can predict the future. Most of the time we were dealing with an honestly good person merely reaching for his wallet, but other times… There was wide room for discretion. We were human, too. We did our best to keep our own character in check while reading someone else’s, balancing constitutional freedoms with the sanctity of life.
The first time I got physical on the job followed a base bank robbery—yes, on a military base! We shut down every exit. Some guy freaked out about traffic exited his car and threatened me. I went with my gut, put my gun back in my booth, and punched him right in the chest, knocking him to the ground. I was racked with doubt. Had I used enough force? Or too little? Oh, shit, I thought, I’m in for it now. But a written commendation backed my play. It meant the world that my superiors trusted my instincts and discretion. Cops fight two battles: the actual one and one against a desk jockey’s second-guessing—no one likes the latter. Second-guessing someone else’s split-second decisions in hindsight is coward’s work.
During this time of “peace,” Russian bombers and U.S. bombers routinely patrolled each other’s coasts fully loaded with nuclear ordnance. Each side border-checked the other by dispatching fighters to keep the bomber in international airspace. Military police monitored runways to ensure they were clear for the fighters to border-check the Russian bombers as they flew by.
On May 30, 1983, while I served at Langley, President Reagan convened an economic summit at nearby Williamsburg, Virginia, meeting with such world leaders as Britain’s Margaret Thatcher, West Germany’s Helmut Kohl, and France’s François Mitterrand. It was my first chance to see the Secret Service in action, and it was a great thrill. The Klaxon sirens blared, the threat alarms signaling everyone to get the fighters in the air.
But today something was different. The aircrews and pilots were spooked. We turned up our radios.
“Russian bombers five miles off the coast!”
At the same time Reagan’s economic summit remained too close for comfort at Williamsbu
rg.
Our fighters took off, full afterburners pushing them so hard and fast that my buddy Levi was catapulted off the ground and trapped in an irrigation ditch next to the taxiway. Jets took off like rockets. We anxiously awaited their safe return but also wanted word that the Russian bombers had been checked and that we were all safe. We held our breath and asked: Was this war?
We cheered our jets’ return. Our pilots uncorked their helmets and climbed down.
“Holy shit, the freaking gun port is open and it’s all charred. He fired his cannons!” someone said.
“No, I didn’t! You didn’t see shit!” the frazzled pilot shouted.
I knew better. I knew when a silver hull had its gun port closed and clear and when it returned open and covered in scorched soot.
“He’s fired a missile!” I said, noticing that this returning fighter had only three of the four he had departed with. Yes, a U.S. Air Force pilot had launched a missile directly at a Soviet bomber—an act that could have triggered World War III!
“No, it didn’t! I took off that way,” the airman retorted as he climbed down the ladder.
“Yeah, sure,” I mumbled nervously. “Why take four air-to-airs when you can take three?”
Here’s the scoop. Somewhere in the communication chain, our fighters from Langley hadn’t been notified that these unescorted bombers were dangerously close. The Soviets kept listing closer to our shores—until they were just five miles off our coast. Our jets caught up with them, passing them head-on. Still the Soviets stayed on course. U.S. jets fired their cannons past the bombers’ noses. They only listed away back on course. Our fighters locked on with heat-seekers, giving the Russians a radar warning. Finally, a warning missile flew right past a bomber’s nose. The next missile would be right up their tailpipe. Mercifully, the Soviets blinked. Whatever might have happened otherwise was anyone’s guess.
Our jets refueled, ready for more action. We nervously awaited Reagan’s public response. None came. Total silence. The media never heard of it. Soon afterward Reagan ordered the invasion of Grenada, citing intelligence of a noncommercial, very long runway to be used for Russian bomber patrol. Nineteen Americans lost their lives but the invasion was a success—and made us safer.
Crowds ogle the Air Force Thunderbirds’ impressive aerial stunts. They’re the Air Force’s version of the Navy’s Blue Angels. Our job, however, was to eyeball the crowds. In one crowd, I noticed a photographer. Everyone else stared skyward at the spectacle. He focused straight at a series of boring hangars. He snapped his shutter with rapid yet steady precision. His bulky professional-grade camera and telephoto lens might have belonged to a serious hobbyist, or a professional journalist or photographer, but I guessed otherwise. This man was not like the others.
Six of us slowly strolled through the crowd, encircling him like lions stalking a newborn gazelle. Drawing near, we checked his reaction. When he tried feigning interest in the jets like everyone else, it didn’t work. That was the last clue we needed. He packed his gear and began walking away. We kept on his scent. His head low, he skipped down the stands, hoping to escape. He landed in the hands of another officer.
We cuffed him. Multiple foreign passports tumbled from a small hidden pocket. Each bore a different name and details but had the same damn picture—like in a Jason Bourne movie. We Mirandized him and peppered him with questions. He kept his trap shut. FBI agents whisked him away, but whatever that guy had in mind was averted. Yes, spies really do exist.
Some of those aircraft hangars had some nasty crap in them—I’m just guessing, because we had to carry big duffel bags with radiological and chemical protective suits in them everywhere we went. After a radiological, chemical, nuclear, or biological attack, we had to don this gear in thirty seconds, respond, and fight.
I got stuck with a new partner. She was obviously hired to fill a quota. That wasn’t speculation—I was told so point-blank. Political meddling had struck again and was going to get someone killed. I just hoped it wasn’t me. Again the Klaxons blared and the radio sounded: “Make ready for two-star admiral to fly in. This is not a drill. Make ready for missile launch.”
My new female partner and I, as part of Elite Gate Section, were watching over a hangar. We got the call, the one we trained for but never wanted to get. The runways had to be cleared and cordoned off. No one except necessary personnel was to go in or out. A 707 Boeing EC-135, a very large jet engine cargo plane, started blow-starting (they couldn’t wait for the engines to normally warm up) to get the hell out of the way of the chief of staff’s incoming aircraft. My clueless partner sprinted past me to avoid the 707 but forgot her NBCR (Nuclear, Biological, Chemical, and Radiological) gear bag. I turned. It lay on the runway in the way of the aircraft. I couldn’t yell over the engines, but if that small bag was sucked up into the 707’s engine, it would trigger complete engine failure and a fire and a giant hazard. It would endanger the chief of staff’s incoming aircraft and a missile launch.
I ran back, threw my bag down next to hers, and flung my body atop both bags. The engines passed over me as I hugged those bags. I thought I was safe. But then a back blast threw me off the ground. When I landed, I knew I was messed up. Her tool bag (different from the NBCR bag that I smothered), which she also forgot, had blown into the plane’s blast deflector, sending debris everywhere—and inflicting me with a concussion. I looked like a complete fool to the other personnel, but there would be time for explanations after. Later I pled with the attending physician to omit my head injury from my record; otherwise my Air Force career would have ended right then.
I reminded myself, feelings don’t count.
Lives do.
3.
CLUB FED
I left the Air Force in February 1986 to live in Pennsylvania, where I worked as a composite assembler at Boeing from 1987 to 1991. My paycheck felt like a million bucks compared to military pay. A part-time backdoor bouncer gig at a local dive bar, the Bebop Café, provided my action fix. Life was pleasant but not inspiring.
I had money in my pocket. My hair grew out. One day when I was having a pre-work cerveza at the Bebop Café, fate intervened. She was stunning from across the bar and damn near overwhelming up close. I quickly attained her number and her name, Genny, short for Genevieve. I soon knew I was going to marry her. She was just so damn cool, down-to-earth, a lady, a princess, my best friend, a hard worker, affectionate, strong, book smart, and street smart, and I’ve spent the rest of my marriage having my instinct proven right.
Oh, yes… and a few months later, she saw an ad in the Philadelphia Inquirer for the SSUD.
Before heading off to work, she asked, “Hey, Gary, you ever heard about the Secret Service Uniformed Division?”
I hadn’t. I thought the Secret Service was all agents. Genny and I talked it over. Boeing was laying off. Secret Service life—and pay—seemed promising. Her sense of service for her patients as a nurse was as strong as mine to my job. Demanding careers didn’t faze us.
I sent in the application and found myself in a Philadelphia Center City hotel for an SSUD seminar. A hundred candidates all wore suits. I wore my Boeing security uniform. Not a good first impression, perhaps, but when a long-haired blond teenager skateboarded in late, I realized I wasn’t that far out of place. A written five-hundred-question psychological and IQ test followed. It seemed like five hundred accusations. I swear each question asked if I hated my mother. I finished and vomited in the corner trash can. I was sure not only that I failed, but that I somehow hated my mother! I felt terrible.
And adding to my worries was a series of misadventures, in which the Secret Service kept losing my paperwork—and even confusing me with another applicant. Maybe not only wasn’t I right for the Secret Service, maybe the Secret Service wasn’t right for me.
Imagine my surprise when two weeks later they told me to come in. I said, “No thanks.” I’d stay at Boeing. But I quickly changed my mind. The next morning I walked in to 600 Arch Street at Phi
ladelphia’s federal courthouse for the first urine test and polygraph interview. Was I a subversive? Did I embody the Service’s oath to be “worthy of trust and confidence”? Had I ever stolen anything? I had: some nylon rope as a kid once for the thrill. No question, even of a sexual nature, was off-limits to them. It was incredibly invasive as they asked about crimes, thoughts, sex, childhood. Nothing was sacred.
I left feeling I was a criminal, a sexual deviant, and worse. I was embarrassed and again racked by a feeling of sure failure. I questioned whether I was really a good person at all. I’m fiercely competitive, and I was so angry. Today I still feel I failed that test. But as the legendary UCLA basketball coach John Wooden said, “The true test of a man’s character is what he does when no one’s watching.” In hindsight, I don’t think they were looking for the man who passed the test; instead the real test was to see how each of the applicants failed. That’s my theory.
I made it in. Training commenced—and so did the mind games. “Train as you fight” was our religion. The instructors turned up the pressure and set individuals and entire classes up for failure. Failure in training identifies weaknesses so as to prevent them in the field, because as the common saying goes in the tactical community, “We don’t rise to the level of our expectations, we fall to the level of our training.” We live by that code.
My favorite drills were attack on the principal, countersniper, and attack on the White House. Some drills bordered on the bizarre and were designed to get recruits to think adaptively. The instructors knew from experience that real life isn’t textbook; it’s stranger than fiction. Instructors also knew our bad-guy counterparts were taught the same manner of thinking, and we needed to be ready. They used their knowledge for different means but it all came down to this: means, motive, opportunity, and intent. The instructors concocted drills from situations they had confronted in the field.
