by Crisis of Character- A White House Secret Service Officer Discloses His Firsthand Experience
He got frustrated and raised his voice: “Well, it’s my parents’ anniversary.”
I laughed angrily. “So you lied to my team leader. You’re probably still lying to me now to get a free ride home.”
“Well, look, my supervisor said it would be all right.”
“Oh yeah? What’s his name and number?” I asked, pulling out my phone.
“Well, look, he’s not available.”
I looked him over. He did have credentials and had been patted down, so I figured, This is gonna be great. We let him on board and sat him in the rear with all the other men. I took note of his credentials and got back to work helping real people. If that State guy wanted a taxpayer-funded trip, he was going to get a lesson in karma.
As soon as we got everyone loaded, we gave the cue to get into the air and get us to Haan, then back home to the states. Medical care became our biggest issue on takeoff. People were falling asleep. They’d take their seat and immediately pass out hard, and rousing them to make room for other passengers was an issue. One woman who had been running for days was so exhausted she couldn’t sleep. She had cuts all over her and was so withered that one passenger gave her pain medication while another provided her with some sleeping medication. Her heart rate dropped to a point where we had trouble finding a pulse and it was difficult to rouse her. We grabbed another female passenger to monitor her and made a note to keep checking on her once we got in the air.
But that wasn’t the half of it.
A fight erupted at the demarcation between the women-and-children section and the men’s. An entire family was shouting and shoving against another man. Soon other passengers were either involved or trying to get a hold of flight attendants—or us. We had to squash it immediately. We physically got involved and let everyone know that we would restrain everyone if we had to.
“Translate for me,” I said to an English-speaking passenger. She nodded. “I don’t give a shit what your issue is. You are not my problem. I am not stopping this plane for you. But if you continue, when we land in Germany I will open the door as we land and toss you the f—out without your passport. Now sit down and shut up!”
I didn’t think we needed a translator after that. We later figured out from another English-speaker that the two men involved were business partners who operated a chain of restaurants. Once fighting broke out near their home, one partner opened a safe the partners had embedded in the floor of one of the restaurants. He was supposed to retrieve their cash to bring it with both families to America. He either claimed that it was too chaotic to reach the safe or that when he arrived someone had stolen their cash—maybe he claimed both things. Either way, his partner’s family accused him of stealing their share of the money and stashing it somewhere. Whatever the truth of the matter, they had had enough and just snapped. I felt sorry for them.
Meanwhile, our State Department friend ended up seated next to someone who I think also smelled the lies on him. Fearful of this “very angry-looking man” next to him, he ended up begging for one of the air marshal or flight crew’s seats—which was fine. We were by then nearing Haan and still hadn’t gotten a chance to sit down.
The flight crew had a powwow and included our TL in it. He spread the word. He didn’t know why, but we weren’t flying into Philly. None of us questioned the decision because at this point we didn’t care. We weren’t going to let any news from Ryan and the higher-ups like him destroy our focus. We had work to do.
Our flight attendants were fantastic and didn’t stop moving, distributing as much water as they could. Soon even their water ran out and they handed out every can of soda they still had to our desperately dehydrated passengers. Their suffering tore my heart. Still, we always had an air marshal posted by the flight deck. We were in constant eye contact with passengers. I never lost sight of the priority of the cockpit or the vulnerability of the young female flight attendants going above and beyond the call of duty to pass out as much food and water as they could.
I’ve used shit show to describe a great many things in my twenty-nine years of service, but on the plane it got literal. Babies and infants and children had shit themselves during or before this flight, and no one had any way of changing them or cleaning their mess. Swollen diapers remained on each infant. Shit ran down legs and onto the floors. Everyone was piling into the bathrooms, which damn near started overflowing even before we took off. I suspected that many passengers didn’t know how to use the airplane toilets. I watched one kid leave the bathroom, and brown turds followed him out in a blue stream. We didn’t have time to think about that. I really tried to not think about all the bare feet aboard. But I did know that every aircraft’s nose points upward, which meant everything that overflowed flowed toward the back of the aircraft.
I kept returning to my personal bag, and it wasn’t long before every snack and meal replacement bar, wet wipe, Band-Aid, and first-aid supply had been handed out or administered. It was the same with every other air marshal and attendant. Genny had packed plenty extra of everything, but no amount was enough today.
We needed to get to the ground—quick.
We landed at Haan, and the captain made it clear: We were there to refuel. No one was getting off. We couldn’t waste the time. The question was, would the plane be able to refit for water, medical supplies, and food? The answer was no. It was the same with the air marshals. No matter how many supplies we restocked and administered, these people needed too much help for us to realistically provide. We had to look them straight in the eyes, even every mother and bleeding and feces-covered child, and sternly level with them. It was a hard choice but the right choice: We weren’t stopping for anything—we were going home.
As we refueled, we didn’t even open the doors other than to communicate with the ground crews. Aside from that single open door, we never enjoyed a single lungful of fresh air. We knew if we gave an inch, we could start a panic. As in a sports game, everyone had to be patient and run out the clock.
Back in the air and still not one air marshal had gotten off his feet. Thirty minutes from the States our pilot popped out of the flight cabin. Our destination had changed again! Then again! Our pilots weren’t even told why. We finally reached a point of no return and mercifully touched down…
At Philly International!
The doors opened, and I’ve never been so thrilled to be back in the USA. Every air marshal, along with any returning federal agent or military man, is accustomed to being screened by Customs when returning from a foreign country on assignment. World War II GIs ruined it for all of us with their often-deadly, often just contraband “souvenirs.” But our airport liaison Warren Griggs waited alongside the lead Customs official. He went the extra mile for us and pointed each of us out—we weren’t difficult to spot. Customs agents stamped us and funneled us through without checking any of our gear or luggage.
I phoned Genny. My whole body ached as if I had run a marathon. I stumbled to my truck like a zombie—and passed out. I awoke sometime later and somehow made it home.
I awoke once more and chugged a full two liters of water. I felt great. My body didn’t feel great, though—it throbbed. But my soul swelled with the feeling of accomplishing exactly what my father instilled in me so long ago. Of all the things I’ve done professionally in my twenty-nine years of law enforcement service, serving in that airlift was perhaps the greatest mission of my life. No, that airlift wasn’t exactly what I had signed up for in joining the Air Force, but I couldn’t shake the memories of my father scolding me and asking what choice I would make. Would I be someone who protected others?
I had helped rescue nearly three hundred fellow Americans, and I couldn’t be more thankful for the opportunity.
Ryan phoned us the next day, informing us that the three days off that had been promised to us for taking the volunteer mission couldn’t be allowed. And… we needed to come in for an office day.
I went into work the next day, stayed for an hour, then left. There wa
s nothing to do, so why stay? I made my appearance, chatted with some other in-flight air marshals trapped in an office day, and learned that a few air marshals had served though two of these Cyprus missions. God bless them.
I went home.
But I made a conscious effort not to focus on the minutiae. No overtime—fine. No days off—fine. Maybe I’d skip CrossFit for the next few days. I reminded myself of my motto; it’s how I find what’s most important in my life: Don’t sweat the small stuff and 90 percent of it is small stuff! No, it is bullshit.
When I cleared out the distractions and reflected on the mission, I swelled with pride. I had a sudden realization.
I served to protect others who couldn’t protect themselves.
I did it, Dad.
AFTERWORD
It was 4:26 p.m.
It was good to be stateside, back from Amsterdam. The weather wasn’t much different here, the same cold, gray rain. Soon Genny and the kids would be home, but for now the house was calm. I lingered in the kitchen and jettisoned my nine pounds of official gear: a collapsible baton, cuffs, gloves, two phones, credentials, keys, badge, blade, holster, a large-frame SIG P229 pistol (my lifeline), and two extra ammo magazines.
The clanking of my air marshal hardware on the kitchen table, the patter of rain on autumn leaves, the fizz of my first beer—these were among the most welcome of domestic sounds. I checked my work phone—no notifications yet, thank God. I checked my personal phone—no news was good news. With a glorious first sip, I felt that this was heaven on earth.
It sure beat Cyprus.
I loved being home, and I love this country. I’ll be here for thick and thin.
But I know the average American’s focus is often blurry, their attention span short, their memory so short-term that’s its scandalous.
On 9/11 we vowed “Never forget.” But we always somehow do.
And because I was there—in the spotlight, in the crosshairs—I realize better than most Americans that we have pretty much forgotten what an amateur-night, three-ring circus the Clinton White House was.
But I haven’t forgotten.
I remember Monica, sure. But I remember Hillary, too: the shortcuts she took, the methods she employed, the yelling, the screaming, her disdain for “the little people,” Bill’s black eye—the country’s black eye.
You want to know something? I wanted to forget it all myself. I needed to forget it all. I’d had enough of the whole damned mess—the sleepless nights, the Protective Privilege bullshit, the lawyers, C-SPAN… the cuddling up at night with a loaded pistol just in case.
Satchel Paige said: “Don’t look back, something might be gaining on you.” I didn’t want to look back. I wanted to move forward, to shut the door on the Clintons and their whole sordid operation.
To never look back.
But there’s another saying: “It ain’t over till it’s over,” and now it’s 2016, and Hillary’s running for president again. I faced a choice in 1998: Would I keep silent? Or tell the truth about what I knew, what I saw?
I spoke up. I testified truthfully.
Not everybody did. Some people’s memories got really faulty. Maybe you can’t blame them. They got scared. They had mortgages and careers. They had kids.
People who swore an oath to the Constitution and the law, people who pledged to lay down their lives for principle, people who strapped iron on their hips… got scared.
And they conveniently forgot things.
That was almost two decades ago, and yes, a lot of people have now forgotten what a Clinton White House was like. Millennials were too young to watch it firsthand. Their parents had to make them leave the room.
Their parents had to make them leave the room. Think about that.
Our collective amnesia about the Clinton White House is dangerous because it could happen again—maybe with a different Clinton dealing the cards, but with the same stacked deck.
So I had to answer the same question I faced in 1998: What am I going to do about it?
I knew the answer even before I asked the question. I have to speak up about Hillary—and a mess of other things well.
She’s a problem, but she’s not the only one.
The media notices—I won’t use the words focuses on—pervasive, deep-rooted problems only once they’re bubbling over the frying pan. They skip from crisis to crisis, scandal to scandal, never adequately analyzing anything. We never get a chance to solve anything before we’re off to the next horse race. More often than not, we find an easy answer, breathe deeply, and move on to our own private fun and games. That’s all President Clinton did each morning (or night) when I was at the White House. Why shouldn’t we? Or least that’s what we ask ourselves.
So what’s the solution? Usually, we just offer up scapegoats to our media gods. Don’t change the system; change the nameplate on the door.
Headline: “Madman Jumps White House Fence, White House Secret Service Chief Jumps Ship”—or something like that.
Secret Service director Julia Pierson’s resignation was a shame. I liked working for her. She was kind. But America feels as if it “did” something about the protection flaw.
Just wait. The president, the White House, the First Family, the Secret Service aren’t better off without Julia Pierson, and neither are we Americans safer without her. She wasn’t the problem. The culture was the problem. I recognize the pattern because I was there, and I still see it. Beware the hucksters. The guys and gals with easy answers, anyone who’s claiming to have all the answers—who says he can solve all the problems: People like that raise a giant red flag. They are trying to sell you something. Beware the “As Seen on TV” candidates.
March 2016. There comes a time for all good men to… retire.
Yes, retire.
I’m getting ready for my last official air marshal flight. This time it’s to Brussels, and when I touch back down again, that’s it. I’m over-and-out. I lay down my sword and shield.
Right now I feel like Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon, griping, “I’m too old for this shit.” I’m not, but I’m getting there. But unlike some of my colleagues, some young, some not so young, some higher paid, I’ll be at CrossFit tomorrow at 5 a.m. I’ll be the oldest one there, but I could still get the cuffs on most any of them.
So my time really isn’t done. I’ll lay down my sword and now I’ve picked up my pen because I was there with the Clintons. I could not keep silent then, and I can’t keep silent now.
You and I have to do our jobs and take the heat when we mess up. If I so much as accidentally use my government credit card on a personal purchase, I immediately take the hit. Why do we expect any less from our leadership? From Clinton Inc.?
Just last year, Mrs. Clinton claimed that as secretary of state she didn’t carry a work phone. It was too cumbersome and inconvenient for her to carry two phones. She didn’t have room for them.
Then we learned she carried an iPhone and BlackBerry, neither government issued nor encrypted.
Then we learned she carried an iPad and an iPad mini.
But she claimed she didn’t do email.
Then we learned she had email—on a private server.
But then she claimed her email was for personal correspondence, yoga, and wedding planning.
Then we learned her email contained government business as well—lots of it.
Listen, nobody transmits classified material on the Internet! Nobody! You transmit classified material via a closed-circuit, in-house intranet or even physically via courier. You can’t even photocopy classified data except on a machine specially designed for hush-hush material, and even then you still require permission from whatever agency and issuer the document originated. So the only way for that material to be transmitted over an email is for her or someone in her office to dictate, Photoshop, or white-out the classified material in question, to remove any letterhead, or to duplicate the material by rewriting it in an email.
Government email accounts are
never allowed to accept emails from nongovernment email accounts. We’re supposed to delete them right away. Exceptions exist for communications with private contractors, but those exceptions are built into the system.
I repeat: To duplicate classified material without permission or to send it over an unsecured channel is completely illegal. That’s why every government agency employs burn bags, safes, and special folders for anything marked Confidential, Secret, and Top Secret. People have lost their careers and gone to jail for far less. Yet Hillary Clinton transmitted classified material by the figurative ton. No one else can operate like that in government. But she takes her normal shortcuts and continues to lie about it.
There is no greater example of double standards in leadership than First Lady, Senator, and Secretary of State Hillary Clinton. Is it too inconvenient or cumbersome for her to follow the same rules that agents in the field have to follow? Maybe it would make morale too high? Clinton’s behavior harkens to the old motto: “The beatings will continue until morale improves.”
Once when my encoder to log in to my work email malfunctioned, I couldn’t even file my invoice to get paid for the month through my personal email, because it wasn’t protected enough. I was told that a potential enemy could use my invoice against the country, and I believe that’s the truth. It’s truer for a secretary of state and the material he or she handles. Still, we’re asked to believe nothing inappropriate happened, no slip-ups, no wrongdoing.
It all reeks of “I did not have sexual relations with that woman.”
Controversy followed the Clintons even when they were leaving office and purchased a $1.7 million mansion in Chappaqua, New York (so Hillary could carpetbag to the U.S. Senate from New York). Per its normal procedure, the Secret Service maintained a detail at their residence to continue to protect the former First Family as Hillary prepared and ran for Senate. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Perfectly proper.
To protect the Clintons, Secret Service personnel were stationed at a former garage on the property, and I had the chance to spend some time there on protection details myself. Rumors have since swirled that the Clintons receive $1,100 per month rent from the Secret Service.
