But there’s one type of UD officer you can distinguish from a long way off, no matter what they’re wearing.
They don’t walk alone. Their partners are short and furry. And although it’s hard to tell at a glance, these canine partners tend to be great listeners—a helpful talent, considering the weight of the mission their handlers bear.
CHAPTER 3
ON-OFF SWITCH
During a checkup, a doctor asked ERT dog handler Jim S. what he does for a living. He told her in a few words.
She paused for a moment.
“Oh, that makes sense,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“When you came in here, you checked around corners and looked everywhere.”
“I did?”
The Marine veteran was surprised, but not really. He knew that living in a state of increased vigilance around the clock is common in his profession.
And when you’re part of a team that’s responsible for the safety of the president of the United States, you have to do a lot of fumbling in the dark to find your “off” switch. Many end up just leaving it on.
With a mission this vital, there’s simply no room for error.
“If you let down your guard on the job, it can change the history of the world,” says Bill.
It’s a burden Secret Service dog handlers take extremely seriously regardless of their specialty. Tactical dog handlers on the White House grounds, handlers whose dogs sniff for explosives around the world, and those who walk their floppy-eared dogs up and down Pennsylvania Avenue all share one unspoken mantra:
Not on my watch. Or my dog’s.
“What is really on our shoulders is almost unbearable to think about,” says ERT dog handler Luke K.
—
Jim, now an instructor and ERT canine training sergeant at RTC, reminds his students about a lesson they learned in basic ERT school.
“Bad guys can try one hundred times and they only have to be successful once. We can’t let that happen. We have to be successful all one hundred times. We have to win every single time.”
No pressure there. Fortunately most of the guys on ERT are hardwired for challenges. Many were on sports teams in college. Some were military. They all know teamwork. They know winning. They may have lost some football or baseball games along the way, but losing is no longer an option.
Some things don’t change, though. They train intensively. Confronted by every type of enemy and scenario in training, they sweat in full bite suits in 110-degree heat, get shot at with “sim” rounds (essentially paintball rounds designed to be used in their standard weapons systems), get knocked down like bowling pins by dogs, and apprehend some of the most heinous bad guys imaginable, maintaining absolute control of their dogs at all times.
Brian is always thinking up new ways to train, and to test his team.
“We put the dogs and handlers under a lot of stress to know they’ll perform when it’s critical,” he says while walking toward the training yard. “I have to get in the mind-set of the bad guys and all the crazy stuff they can do—as bizarre as you can think.”
A gray plastic garbage can sits upside down in the middle of the yard. “What’s that doing here?” would be the reaction from most people. But not ERT dog handlers. They assume someone with bad intentions is hiding under it.
Within seconds, several muzzled, barking ERT dogs charge up to the garbage can. Their handlers let them sniff it and lunge at it one at a time. One dog knocks it hard and the plastic can topples, revealing a “bad guy” who had managed to squeeze himself under it. The dogs go crazy trying to get him, even with their muzzles on. He eggs them on as the handlers take turns letting their dogs approach.
In the fray, there’s a mishap with the bad guy’s dental work, and one of his crowns pops off. Barely skipping a beat, he spits it out, shoves it in his pocket, and continues the fun and games.
Brian can’t publicly divulge most scenarios and tactics used by dogs and handlers. But the goal is that dog teams and the rest of ERT work together as a unit that can thwart anything that might head their way.
“We have to assume Paris is coming here,” he says, referring to the deadly series of coordinated terrorist attacks in the French capital in November 2015. “We can’t simulate the real thing but we do our darndest.
“The team has to be able to perform perfectly when and where it really counts. I can think of no bigger stage than the White House.”
No ERT handlers really want to have to act on that stage; they want to avoid drama if possible.
“If nothing goes on, it’s a good day,” says handler Shawn S. “The less exciting the better. Because what entails a bad day when I’m working is a really bad day.”
But when something happens, every tactical canine handler believes he needs to be there with his dog to help put an end to the threat. After all, every handler’s dog is the best dog. And with all the training they’ve done, the ERT handlers want a chance for their dogs to shine: To end a threat. To protect the First Family. And to be able to badger the other guys who weren’t lucky enough to be there.
“It would be like the winning touchdown at homecoming, only way better,” says handler Larry C., who played defensive back at Winston-Salem State University in North Carolina. “You train and you train and you train and you train and it’s game time. No one wants to be left saying, ‘Damn, I wish that was me and my dog!’”
Larry’s dog isn’t just the best dog. “Maximus is like my own child,” he readily admits. “If he gets to be a dog that apprehends someone, a lot more people would know how great my son is.”
—
The bonds between Secret Service dogs and handlers run deep. They’re together almost 24/7. The lives of the world’s top leaders depend on the dogs and handlers being able to read each other better than most long-married spouses.
“We know if they are mad, if they’re sad, if they’ve done something mischievous, or when they are sick,” says Stew.
“On the other hand, they know the same about us. What’s the saying? ‘Lord, help me to be the person that my dog thinks I am.’ It’s so true.
“These animals will gladly run into a hail of gunfire—giving their life—to do their job. All they ask in return is for you to throw the ball with them, pet them, and talk to them in an embarrassing high voice like they’re the best toddler in the world.”
Working and living alongside a canine partner can make the load feel a little lighter as well, helping alleviate some of the stress of the mission. Most people who have dogs as pets attest to their stress-busting benefits. Numerous studies point to these positive correlations.
In war, the effect a dog can have on troop morale is profound. Men and women in units with military working dogs report feeling happier and more relaxed when they get to spend a few minutes with a dog, or even if a dog is simply part of their unit. Military dog handlers find great comfort in their dog’s companionship.
Secret Service EDT handler Sergeant Sal S. believes dogs also play a key role in helping “humanize” handlers.
“The entire Service is pretty much alphas,” he says. “The dog gives you the ability to be more sociable and really show that gentle side of you when it’s appropriate.”
—
In 2005, Sal brought home a handsome 110-pound German shepherd named Daro. They’d just finished EDT school together, and he was excited to add the gentle giant to his house. He made sure no one would be home at first so the dog could acclimate without his family around.
Daro entered the house behind Sal. They got to the stairs and Daro stood beside his handler.
“Climb!” Sal told his dog.
Daro walked up to the top of the stairs, turned around, lay down on the cream-colored carpet, looked toward Sal, and sighed. From then on, that was Daro’s spot. It was the perfect vantage point
for watching the front door. Daro enjoyed his post so much that Sal and his wife vacuumed around him so they wouldn’t disturb him.
His wife gave Daro the nickname James Bond. Daro was every bit a gentleman. When walking through doorways on searches, Daro always paused to let Sal through first.
After you, Sal could almost hear him saying.
But when searching for explosives, the dog has the right of way.
“No, after you,” Sal would tell him.
Sal marveled at Daro’s finesse when eating or drinking. “He may as well be wearing a tuxedo,” he used to tell his children.
One day the children decided to marry Daro to their pet dog, a black German shepherd named Luna. The groom cut a dashing figure in the tux they imagined him wearing.
Daro was even James Bond on the job. No matter where he and Sal went, how long they worked, or how challenging the conditions, Daro searched for explosives in a calm, methodical manner. Nothing ruffled him. He was the epitome of suave.
In March 2009, the Service assigned Sal and Daro to protective duty in Prague. Daro got a physical and the vet gave him the green light. Two days later, Sal woke up at 4:30 A.M. for their trip. He’d already packed their bags, so he headed over to rally Daro out of bed.
“Come on, boy, big day ahead!”
Daro didn’t move. Sometimes he was a deep sleeper. Sal tried again.
“Hey, Daro! Rise and shine!”
Still nothing. Sal walked closer to see what was going on. It wasn’t like James Bond to sleep through his wake-up call.
He leaned in and looked at his partner for a few seconds. Daro wasn’t breathing. Sal touched Daro’s chest gently with the palm of his hand and was hit by the sickening realization that his dog was dead.
But Daro couldn’t be dead, he insisted to himself. He had been playing like a puppy the night before, and nothing was wrong. Sal scooped up his dog and ran to his work van with him. Daro was heavy and unwieldy and Sal understood for the first time what the term dead weight meant.
He raced to a local emergency veterinarian. He felt lost, out of his body. Nothing was familiar. Nothing except Daro. So he talked to him. They always talked in the van.
“Hang in there, James Bond, I’m getting you help. You’re going to be OK.”
Maybe he’s just sick, really sick, he told himself. It was a coma or something. He clung to that one thought to keep from going over the edge of a dark abyss.
He’s Daro. He’s going to make it. The vet will bring him back.
He ran in with Daro in his arms, and within seconds the dog was on a steel table.
“Please step aside,” a tech told him as the veterinarian and four others surrounded his partner, trying to revive him. It didn’t take long before someone delivered the news he knew was coming.
“I’m so sorry, there’s nothing we can do.”
His heart tightened and the edge of the abyss gave way.
—
The next day Sal was transferred from canine to the Foreign Missions Branch, which provides exterior security to hundreds of diplomatic facilities.
“I know it’s hard, but you’re needed there,” a UD supervisor told him. “You’re not needed in canine without a dog.”
As the days without Daro passed, Sal couldn’t shake the raw emptiness, a kind of bottomless sadness he had never come close to experiencing. And he was angry, at himself and everyone. How could he have not known that Daro had a lower intestinal cancer that was silently snuffing out his life? How could the vet have missed it? Why couldn’t he have at least had a chance to say good-bye?
He had to take some time off. He could barely eat or sleep.
“Daro was my whole world,” Sal told a neighbor. “We were together pretty much every minute of the day. Where there’s Sal there’s Daro. Where there’s Daro there’s Sal. There were two. And then they became one.”
The stairs at home were the worst. At first he thought he saw flashes of Daro in his usual spot at the top of the stairs, but when he looked, it was just a gaping, lifeless space.
Handlers and instructors tried to talk with him, but he wouldn’t return their calls. The Secret Service’s Employee Assistance Program (EAP) phoned, but he didn’t want to talk to them or anyone.
Eventually his canine friends had enough. They came to the house and insisted he let them in. They tried their best to get him to talk about what he was going through. Before they left, he promised to see someone at EAP.
He did it for himself, his family, his job, and for Daro. The dog wouldn’t have wanted to see him like this. After several visits with a counselor, the grief began to lift.
“Of course it took you so long to talk about it,” the counselor told him. “Daro broke ice everywhere you went. He was the channel you used for communication. How would you communicate your emotions without Daro?”
A fellow handler suggested Sal and his family hold a red-balloon ceremony. He told him how it had helped him with his grief about his own dog.
A few weeks after Daro passed, Sal, his wife, and his children stood in a circle in front of their house. Each held the string of a red helium balloon. They took turns sharing a favorite memory of Daro in a few words, saying what they would miss about him.
“What I’m going to miss the most,” Sal said when it was his turn, “is when Daro would say, ‘After you,’ and I would tell him, ‘No, after you.’ There will never be another gentleman like him.”
When they were done, they all released their balloons at the same time and watched them ascend. Sal took a deep breath for the first time since Daro died. He felt as though sunshine had finally broken through the thick gray clouds.
—
That October, Sal was back in canine school with his new dog, Turbo. Working without a dog had felt all wrong. He realized he belonged in canine and applied for an opening in a new class.
The Secret Service has an unofficial “one and done” policy for handlers. The idea is that others who want to try dog handling should have a chance. (Many would like this to be revisited, since highly experienced handlers can mean the best protection.) But there are exceptions to this policy, and Sal was glad to be one.
At first he was concerned his new dog would remind him too much of Daro. No chance. Turbo is nothing at all like his predecessor.
Turbo eats and drinks with reckless abandon. He moves in a herky-jerky fashion, and in training, when he alerts to the odor of an explosive, it’s like a Scooby-Doo double take.
And he never says after you.
Sal’s wife gave Turbo the nickname Snoop Dogg. Sal jokes that if the dog could wear gold chains around his neck, he would.
But what Turbo may lack in good graces, he more than makes up for as a working dog. He quickly gained a reputation as a phenomenal detection dog. Sal still misses Daro immensely, but he’s grateful to be working beside another excellent dog, even one who’s a little rough around the edges.
“When you’re protecting the president,” he says, “nothing feels as good as working with your best friend at your side.”
—
Larry doesn’t mind night duty outside the White House. He feels a sense of pride that he and his dog, Maximus, are protecting members of the First Family as they sleep. He hopes the president sleeps a little more soundly knowing the dogs are right there, ready to explode out of their vans at the slightest hint of trouble.
As his Malinois relaxes in the back of the van, Larry sits in the driver’s seat, clad in full kit, and maintains a keen focus on his sector. Nothing’s going to get past him.
Friends and family sometimes ask him how he can stay awake, much less hyperaware—especially during the night shift.
“It’s easy,” he says. “You see this family walking around in the news, and you have people who cry because they have a chance to meet them. But you also have people all acro
ss the world who want to do away with them. You’re the ones protecting them. You don’t get lax, because you can’t get lax.”
By itself, passion for the work can’t keep away the fatigue of late shifts and long hours. When Larry feels himself getting tired or less focused, he pulls out some items from his bag of tricks. One of his favorites is a set of thirty-five-pound dumbbells. For the former college athlete, they’re light, but doing curls with them at 3 A.M. is the equivalent of a cup of coffee.
Sometimes he lifts the weights in the driver’s seat of his van, and sometimes he lifts them as he stands just outside the vehicle, with Maximus looking at him with a “What the heck are you doing?” expression.
Larry is an extremely fit forty-four-year-old—one of the older guys on the team. He loves working out and wants to be in top physical condition for the job. When he has time during a workout at the ERT gym, he likes to fit in one thousand push-ups—twenty sets of fifty. “I try to make them know I still got it,” he says.
On the south grounds of the White House on the same shift, Marshall keeps vigil in his van. When he starts feeling slightly tired, he takes a few gulps from his Monster Energy drink. He buys them by the case, regular flavor, in the black and green. One of his favorite ways to keep his mind in the game while watching his sector is to go through possible scenarios and figure out how he’d react.
Since Marshall is facing the direction of some of D.C.’s famed monuments on this night, he creates this one:
“What if an explosion goes off down by the Washington Monument and then I see gunfire? Where am I going to position myself, what am I going to do? Where am I going to put the dog? Where am I going to be at for the best place to cover? And then as that’s happening, a guy goes over the north fence. Do I pull back, go forward, come to one side, what am I going to do differently with Hurricane?” The next day, he might talk to some of the guys about it before training and see what they’d do.
Unlike their human partners, Maximus and Hurricane don’t need to create scenarios or swig caffeine, or even worry about keeping on high alert. They can chew their Kongs in the backs of the vans and sleep when they want to. At the least rustle of the handlers they’re so tuned into, they’re ready to fly.
Secret Service Dogs Page 4
