“His résumé is, like, a thousand times better than mine!” he said to a supervisor as he leafed through page after page of his dog’s accomplishments.
Hurricane saw the supervisor look down at where he was resting on the floor. Not one to let an opportunity for affection pass by, the dog was instantly at his side, nudging his hand insistently. When the supervisor relented and gave him a quick head rub, Hurricane flipped onto his back, four legs sticking up.
“He’s good at training people to give him love,” Marshall laughed as the supervisor gave Hurricane the requested belly rub.
“Your dog has a very big ‘off’ switch. He’s an anomaly,” the supervisor said, shaking the black fur from his hand as Hurricane tried to persuade him to continue.
“I know! He’s the best dog ever!” Marshall beamed.
Hurricane’s friendly nature made the long commute from Baltimore bearable. On their way to and from the White House, Marshall often chatted with Hurricane.
“Man, that maniac cut me off! Can you believe that guy, Hurricane?”
Hurricane, the ultimate good listener, could not believe that guy.
Marshall usually smiled when he spoke to Hurricane outside the training arena. His tone was happy and friendly. He sounded like a father talking to a smart toddler. A smart toddler who could whup some serious terrorist butt.
—
At ERT headquarters near the White House, the shift got a briefing and assignments. The First Family would be in residence. Not that this information changed how they protected the White House, but it was important to know.
Marshall and Hurricane would be working on the north grounds of the White House, facing Pennsylvania Avenue. So would Mike J. and his dog, Jardan (pronounced jar-dan). The four had gone through canine school together and trained with each other more than any of the other guys and dogs. Jardan was more of a typical ERT dog. He had smarts and brawn, and was friendly enough as far as a SWAT dog goes. But no one ever accused him of being overly affectionate.
The handlers drove their vans onto the U-shaped driveway and parked close to the White House, Marshall on the east side, Mike on the west. For the next several hours they’d be keeping highly trained eyes (boosted by technology) on the fence line and surrounding area. Vigilance was key. Anything out of place, and someone would be notified, or they’d take action themselves. They didn’t sit in their vans and peruse the grounds wearing more than forty pounds of full kit plus their weapons for nothing.
Marshall hoped Hurricane’s half hour of chasing the Kong at the VPR would take the edge off the odd way Hurricane had been acting. Normally, the dog spent much of his shift chomping on his black Kong as Marshall kept vigil. Sometimes Hurricane napped in his open kennel in the back of the van, but at the slightest movement of his handler, the dog would jump up, ready for action.
But Hurricane still wouldn’t settle. He bolted in and out of his kennel. He stood with his front paws on the console between the two front seats, ears forward and eyes looking in the same direction as his handler’s. He hopped to the flat area in front of the kennel and just stood.
Marshall was focused enough not to let Hurricane’s actions interfere with his attentiveness to the fence line. But this wasn’t the same Hurricane he’d been with 24/7 for these last years. In a fleeting thought, Marshall wondered if the dog somehow sensed danger, like some dogs were purported to sense earthquakes ahead of time.
“Trust your dog,” the instructors always told handlers.
But these were SWAT dogs, not psychic dogs, he reasoned. Hurricane was smart, but no soothsayer.
“Did you sneak out for some Starbucks before I woke up, ’Cane?” he asked as he gently elbowed him down from the console. The image of Hurricane jumping up and putting his front paws on the counter to order a cup of coffee made him smile. It lightened the moment. He realized his dog was probably just having one of those off days he’d heard others complain about. Chances were that everything would be back to normal tomorrow.
Still, when night fell, he found himself leaning forward an extra half inch, even more vigilant than usual.
CHAPTER 2
HIGHLY SKILLED OPERATORS
They need you in the freight elevator! Down that hall and to the left. EOD’s already there.”
Kim K. and her explosives detection dog, Astra, hustle past tables resplendent with croissants, elegant pastries, cheeses, and thinly sliced melons and pineapples in the lower lobby of the Grand Hyatt, Washington, D.C. The lithe Malinois doesn’t so much as glance at the upscale continental breakfast as she streams through the room largely unnoticed.
The cavernous elevator is waiting, doors wide open. Kim surveys the situation. Not exactly an emergency, but a job that has to be done. The cargo—stacks of folding chairs and bottles of juice—needs to be swept for explosives before it can be cleared and brought onto the floor. The president will be here later, and nothing can come into the area without being checked by a dog team.
“Seek!” she tells her dog.
The smell of fresh-brewed coffee permeates the air. But to Astra it’s just olfactory white noise, no impediment to the rock-and-roll scent of explosives. With a little direction from Kim, Astra inspects the contents of the freight elevator. She’s fast, but thorough. In twenty seconds, she’s done. An explosive ordnance disposal (EOD) tech stays on to check that nothing got past Astra.
Kim and Astra have been here since 4 A.M., working with other dogs and handlers from the Secret Service Explosive Detection Team. The dogs have already inspected every bit of the ballroom where the president will be speaking at 4 P.M., as well as the food prep area, the restrooms, the lobby, and the halls where the president will be walking to get to the dais.
They head over to a handler and his German shepherd, Max, waiting near the magnetometer. Everyone attending the Women’s Leadership Forum has to pass through it. The main mission of the dog teams now is to inspect the equipment brought in by members of the media.
It’s only 7 A.M., and the trickle of early guests and media is becoming a steady flow. A photographer sets down a bag filled with gear. Since Astra is already sniffing some high-tech recording equipment, this one’s for Max, waiting a few feet away.
When Max’s handler points to the bag, Max lets out the kind of excited cry some dogs might use when begging for a pork chop. Max is hungry to do his job. He pulls hard on the leash. The photographer unzips the bag and its interior compartments.
“Seek!” the handler tells Max.
Three rapid sniffs and the job is done. As an EOD tech continues the inspection, Max stands in front of his handler, tilting his head and staring at a small pouch attached to his belt. It contains Max’s paycheck: his rubber Kong.
Max likes to be paid frequently in Kong-chewing sessions, but it’s getting busy, and his handler can’t make deposits to his account as much as Max would like. He pets his dog’s head instead. Several feet away, a videographer is laying out his equipment on the carpet. Max sees it and lets out a whistle-like cry of joy, pulling toward it to do his job. He knows the check is in the mail.
—
Wherever the president goes, there will be dogs. They’ll be there no matter what the country or state. They’ll be there regardless of the political climate, the danger level, the weather, or the hour.
Most of the time, presidents don’t see their canine protectors. The dogs who sniff out explosives arrive at a destination well before the president arrives and typically remain in the background while the president is present. The dogs who protect the president physically—the ERT dogs—tend post covertly.
Though not usually seen, dogs are an integral part of the Secret Service’s many circles of protection for the commander in chief and vice president. The canine teams can also protect members of the First Family, the vice president’s family, and often visiting heads of state from other countries. Before p
residential elections, dogs may be part of the entourage of candidates who are granted Secret Service protection.
Handlers, like others in the Secret Service, don’t let political preference get in the way of their jobs. They protect just as diligently no matter how much they agree or disagree with the administration or presidential hopefuls. And since dogs are completely nonpartisan, it’s never an issue for them either. Republican, Democrat, it doesn’t matter as long as they get their Kongs and some praise for a job well done.
Secret Service canines work at some functions attended by former presidents (formers and their spouses are under lifelong agency protection) and at certain events designated as National Special Security Events by the Department of Homeland Security.
Every vehicle that enters the White House complex gets searched by a dog. The average Secret Service explosives detection canine will search 7,020 vehicles per year.
After a car is ushered through the initial checkpoints, on E Street NW at either the Fifteenth or Seventeenth Street NW kiosks, the driver turns off the engine and pops the trunk. Depending on the weather and how busy it is, dogs will be waiting for vehicles in their handlers’ vans or on the pavement. A large strip of pavement was recently painted white so paws wouldn’t suffer during hotter months.
One of the dogs walks over and sniffs inside the trunk. His handler then guides the dog around the vehicle. If the dog doesn’t alert, the car moves on. If it’s a bigger vehicle, like a truck, human inspectors will then give it a thorough check under the hood, in the cab, in the truck bed or cargo area, under the vehicle—anywhere someone could be hiding something bad.
The president could look out the windows of the White House and see the canines who work there 24/7. But looking out windows for long periods isn’t on the agenda of most presidents. To get an up-close view of what Secret Service dogs do to protect them and their families, presidents head about twenty miles northeast to the Secret Service’s main training ground, the 493-acre James J. Rowley Training Center (RTC), in Laurel, Maryland.
—
The businesses that line a few streets in a corner of RTC seem to need someone to help them improve their curb appeal. Among the bland names of the gray edifices: “Italian Restaurant,” “Gun Shop,” “Hotel,” “Office Building,” and “Bar and Grill.” The place looks like a dreary leftover downtown from the 1970s—a lifeless casualty of a mall moving into a nearby suburb.
But wait. Someone is shouting on L Street! A gun fires. More yelling. Oh no, man down!
“This is a very bad place for the Secret Service,” says Special Agent Bill G., canine program manager, as he takes a visitor on a driving tour of Rowley Training Center. “We always get attacked.”
BOOM! In the middle of the street a block away, a fiery flash. Secret Service personnel sprint in, weapons drawn. Not wanting to get in the way, Bill drives off from the tactical village before the end of the drama is revealed.
Down the street from the village stands a mock White House. Very basic, far too small, no grandeur whatsoever. White House architect James Hoban would cringe to see this interpretation. It’s just four plain white walls with about a dozen small windows in the front and a U-shaped driveway. If it were a model in a new home development, no one would choose it. But it works well enough for the Secret Service to practice some basic protection scenarios.
Nearby, two aircraft—stand-ins for Air Force One and Marine One—sit on the “tarmac” outside a one-building airport. Air Force One is actually just the front half of a plane, known around here as “Air Force One-half” and Marine One is an old military helicopter with a flat tire. Nobody’s flying these birds anywhere, but they’re good for practicing protection work.
Next on the tour is a blacktop driving pad, where protective operations drivers practice the kind of maneuvers that could help save the president in a dire event. There’s nothing going on here during the tour, but painted lines show where they perform their high-octane feats.
RTC is home to another tactical village, multiple firearms ranges, a raid house for nabbing counterfeit suspects or other ne’er-do-wells, a faux courtroom, and buildings that house gyms and classrooms. Woods, meadows, and fields provide important training grounds for scenarios that might unfold in more natural settings.
From Perimeter Road, if you turn onto Canine Way, you’ll come to what most VIPs who visit here consider the highlight of a tour of RTC: the canine training area. This is ground zero for Secret Service dogs and handlers. They all start their training here and come back frequently for the intensive year-round training required by the agency. Most of their training is in the field, but this is home base.
It’s not much to look at. There’s an old concrete kennel that will be razed for a state-of-the-art kennel when funding is approved. It’s next to the canine offices and a fenced training yard with an obedience course consisting of matching beige ramps and tubes and other equipment used in canine agility.
It’s here that VIPs get to witness demos of Secret Service canines in action. The training staff frequently hears from members of Congress, athletes, actors, and other notables who tell them that of all the demos put on for them during the RTC tour, the canines are their favorite.
President Barack Obama was the most recent chief executive to watch the dogs through the training yard fence. Michelle Obama had visited previously to learn about how dogs help protect their family. Other presidents, vice presidents, and their spouses have visited RTC over the years and seen demos by bomb dogs as well as the more badass ERT dogs.
A canine program instructor or experienced handler often starts off explaining the blanket of protection the First Family gets from the dogs and handlers.
And then it’s showtime:
A handler wearing a full protective bite suit is the bad guy. He runs as best as he can in the stiff, heavy getup in the training yard. His movements, while encumbered by the unwieldy gear, are purposefully haphazard: a jog to the left, a jog to the right, a sprint forward and then some zigging and zagging.
On the other side of the field, a dog barks and wags as he heels so close to his handler that he’s lightly touching his leg. No leash binds them. The handler—rugged and muscular, as all ERT handlers are—shouts police warnings to the bad guy.
“Police! Police canine! Get down on the ground or I’m going to deploy my dog!”
Those words tend to quickly bring real-life suspects to the ground. But not this guy. Another warning. And another. The dog barks steadily. There’s no question he means business. But this man isn’t giving up.
The handler gives his dog a command in German, and in a flash the dog tears down the field. When he’s within six feet of leaping for the bite, the bad guy comes to his senses and throws his hands up in the air.
Is it too late? Will the bad guy forever regret his belated decision to give up?
The dog’s handler shouts another German command, and the dog—now inches from the suspect—whirls around and gallops back to his handler. Once at his handler’s side, the dog does a quick one-eighty and is back in heel position again, ready for whatever is next.
The dog was probably aching to bite the bad guy, but even more, he wanted to please his handler. The result is a textbook “call off.”
Later the dog gets to sink his teeth into the bad guy’s bite suit. The suspect yells and tries to push the dog off and makes it look like he’s fighting the dog. But the dog hangs on. Dogs with prey and fight drive find this extremely satisfying.
The handler yells: “Stop fighting with my dog! Suspect, freeze!”
Eventually it seems to dawn on the bad guy that he can’t win, and he freezes. With one word from the handler, the dog lets go immediately. Someone explains to the president that this is known as a “verbal out.”
These are challenging skills to master. Many canine teams attempt them, but few perform them as exquisitely as the dogs
and handlers of the Secret Service ERT. They’re among the nation’s best.
Every few years, three ERT handlers and dogs attend the K-9 Olympics at Vohne Liche Kennels (VLK) in Denver, Indiana. They usually clean up. ERT handlers who want to go have to compete with one another for months to claim one of the three coveted spots and represent the Secret Service.
The in-house winners for the August 2015 K-9 Olympics all had call offs of zero feet, among other impressive victories. This meant the handlers called back their dogs just as the dogs were leaping, ready to bite. The dogs turned their heads away and changed direction, maybe bumping the guy in the bite suit, but nothing more.
Of 110 military and other law-enforcement canine teams that participated in the patrol portion of the Olympics, the Secret Service teams took first, second, and fourth place individually, and first place overall. They won eleven out of twenty-eight trophies—a handsome showing by most standards.
But there were no high fives. They were not happy. They beat themselves up over what they could have done differently, and their instructors beat themselves up, too.
“We can always do better,” bemoans lead instructor Brian M. “We put huge pressure on ourselves. We should be ecstatic, but it wasn’t good enough.”
Brian, a fellow instructor, and the three dog teams missed the big K-9 Olympics barbecue to train on a new task, hoping the dogs would learn it quickly, which they did. When they arrived at the barbecue, the roast pig was barely more than a skeleton. All that was left to eat was corn on the cob.
The previous time Secret Service dog teams attended the Olympics, in 2010, they took first, second, and third place individually, and first overall. They won sixteen out of twenty-five trophies. They were a little easier on themselves but still talked for days about what they could have done differently, and in the weeks that followed, worked to improve what they saw as their deficiencies.
They’re quick to note that in the end, it’s not about winning games. It’s about the mission, about the significance of whom and what they’re protecting. It’s something Brian thinks about around the clock.
Secret Service Dogs Page 2
