On C-5s, handlers can go downstairs to check on their dogs any time they’re allowed out of their seats. Even though it’s a cargo plane, and the dogs are on the cargo deck in their kennels, it’s reassuring for dog and handler. If there’s a problem, it can be addressed immediately.
C-17s are more popular with many handlers because the dogs are on the same deck as the handlers, with their kennels right in front of them. Handlers sit on bench seats facing the center of the plane where their dogs are. Some handlers bring small blow-up mattresses and stretch out on the floor of the plane.
A big drawback of the C-17 is that if even one dog goes to the bathroom, it reeks up the whole passenger area. There’s no escape from the olfactory assault. Handlers try to schedule feedings so their dogs won’t need to go, but when nature calls, sometimes it can’t be ignored. Handlers clean up messes, but the aroma tends to linger.
The longer trips are more challenging. Fortunately they aren’t usually straight shots. It recently took EDT dog handler Tim D. and his dog, Desi, thirty-six hours to fly to Myanmar from Washington, D.C. The trip was divided into three legs: D.C. to Hawaii, Hawaii to Guam, Guam to Myanmar. They had about two to four hours between flights, so Desi got decent breaks.
Tim gives Desi a light sedative before long trips so she won’t bark the whole time. Incessant barking is something that no one holed up in a C-17 with a dog needs—least of all the dog. But despite the meds, Desi is always raring to go for walks between flights.
In the past, dogs usually took commercial flights. If there was room in the cabin, they could sometimes join their handlers. Training assistant and former handler Leth O. was able to fly with his dog, Reik, right beside him several times. Reik sometimes even got to sit in a seat, and since the dog liked looking out the window, Leth would give up the window seat for his dog if he had one.
Reik would sit looking out the window until he couldn’t see anything anymore, and then he’d lie down and sleep until it was time to land. “He was a great traveler,” Leth says.
Usually dogs on commercial flights ended up in the cargo hold. Handlers were concerned about temperature, pressure, and everything that could go wrong when their dogs weren’t with them or under their care. Worrisome as it was, no one recalls anything going seriously awry.
But flying commercial wasn’t always without incident.
On a return trip from Atlanta, former handler Cliff Cusick was waiting for the plane to pull away from the gate when a man ran on and hurriedly told him that his dog had gotten loose from his kennel and was running around on the active runway.
“There’s no way that could be my dog, sir,” Cusick told him. “He was very firmly secured.”
“I’m sorry but we will shoot your dog if we have to in order to prevent a catastrophe,” the man told him.
Nice way to start a trip.
“I was scared to death,” recalls Cusick, who rushed out of the plane with the man. They got to where Buddy was, and Buddy ran straight to him.
“He was so disoriented and happy to see me. The feeling was very mutual,” he says.
He later found out that a baggage handler had slightly opened the kennel to pet Buddy, and he got loose.
Former handler Wes Williams’s dog, Arco, pulled two getaways when he was in the cargo compartment of a commercial plane. Baggage handlers had nothing to do with his escapes. He broke loose on his own. When workers opened the cargo area, there was Arco, out of his kennel, wagging and wanting to go for a walk. Williams had to use a chain around the kennel and an extra latch to keep his dog secured after those incidents.
And then there’s every dog lover’s nightmare: arriving at the destination airport, and no dog showing up. In 1988 Don Racine boarded a direct flight from Chicago to Dulles. When he landed, Racine waited for his dog, but he never came.
No one knew what had become of Rex. After too long, the cargo department at Dulles got a call from the airline’s San Diego cargo department. A dog in a kennel marked for Dulles was sitting there with no one claiming him. Apparently the two planes had been side by side in Chicago, and a baggage worker put the dog in the one bound for San Diego. Once they figured out the mistake, back Rex went into a plane, this time bound for Dulles.
It had been twelve hours since Racine had last seen Rex. He expected him and his crate to be a hot mess. But when his dog finally arrived, the crate was spotless. Racine opened the door to let Rex out and was about to embrace him and leash him when Rex ran out of the kennel and charged out the door of the airport. As soon as he got outside, he relieved himself.
“He just didn’t want to do it in his kennel or in the airport. He was a good dog. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for him,” the former handler says.
Handlers still sometimes have to take commercial flights, but it’s something most wouldn’t choose, even though they have more creature comforts.
“Flying commercial with your dog sucks,” says Stew. “You’re thinking, ‘Oh God, please let them be OK,’ as you sit there. The whole time you’re worried.
“When you look out and they’re loading your dog, it’s not like, ‘Well, there goes my rifle.’ It’s more like, ‘Well, there goes my son.’”
The change to using mostly military flights came in the late 1990s, in part because of tightening security in the years after the devastating Oklahoma City bombing, according to former dog handler and unit commander Barry Lewis. The dogs were needed more than ever, and getting them back to the nation’s capital after a detail was a priority. There was more control with dedicated military flights than with commercial flights and they were in synch with the president’s travel. It was safer for the dogs as well.
“I wish we’d have been able to use the car planes when I was a handler,” says former handler Henry Sergent. “It would have saved us a lot of headaches and a lot of worry.”
Not that military flights have always gone perfectly for the dogs . . .
—
Stew’s dog Nero did not like any kind of plane ride. The loud noises, being cooped up in a travel kennel for hours on end, and the unsettling sensation of takeoff and landing can rattle the calmest of dogs. Nero was a revered working dog—“athletically, he could do things you can’t even imagine,” Brian M. says—but he wasn’t low-key. His amped-up temperament was a boon on the job but worked against him on planes.
To keep his Malinois from panting and barking too much during a flight from Waco, Texas, back to Washington, D.C., Stew had given him a vet-recommended dose of Benadryl a couple of hours before the flight. It usually just took the edge off, which was all Stew wanted. Nero’s kennel was strapped right next to a presidential limousine—a perfect location, since the dog wouldn’t be tempted to get into a barking contest with it, as he would have if a dog were his neighbor.
Stew shut the door of the travel kennel and secured it for the flight. Nero watched calmly. It was a promising start for what Stew hoped would be a short, uneventful ride home.
What could possibly go wrong?
Stew climbed the steep stairs to the passenger deck and strapped into his seat, a row away from the stairs. The C-5 taxied to the runway. The hulking plane gained momentum, and the front wheels lifted off the ground. Stew tipped slightly forward in his rear-facing seat and braced for the sharp ascent.
He heard what sounded like a yell. Somehow it pierced through the screaming engine noise. Then another. It seemed to be coming from the cargo deck. Stew let gravity push his torso forward so he was able to see a sliver of the lower deck.
He thought he saw an airman running below. Strange that someone would be running during takeoff. He leaned forward more and saw the airman bolting between the limousines. It didn’t look like he was running to something. More like he was running from something.
Stew had a bad feeling about this.
An instant later he saw a familiar flash of fur.
“Loose dog!” someone yelled from below.
Stew flew into action. He undid his seat belt, and as the plane sped skyward in full takeoff mode, fought his way down the stairs against the plane’s upward momentum.
“Heel!” he yelled as loudly as he could as he raced down. “Heel!”
The dog wasn’t having any of that.
The C-5’s engines were at full throttle, and the floor underneath Stew and his dog and the airman shook and heaved and threw off their balance. The presidential vehicles bounced in place. The airman, clad in a green jumpsuit, managed to continue evading Nero, but the dog was closing in.
Anyone who could make out the scene from the upper deck would have witnessed quite a spectacle: a man yelling and chasing a dog who was racing around presidential vehicles and chasing a man in a green jumpsuit who was now scrambling to climb up the plane’s curved metal interior wall.
Stew caught up with Nero just as he was within biting range of the airman. The dog turned around to bite Stew but recognized him and stopped. Stew grabbed his dog and checked in with the airman, who was shaken but hadn’t been hurt. He brought Nero back to the kennel to figure out how this could have happened.
The chrome grille door of the plastic travel kennel was open and swaying with the airplane’s movement. On closer inspection, he saw that his dog had thrashed against the door so hard that the metal latches that fit into the plastic inserts for the door at the top and bottom were bent. With the mechanism compromised, the dog had sprung out like a prank snake in a nut can.
After letting the dog unwind a little, Stew got Nero back in the kennel. He wound three cargo straps horizontally around the kennel and zip-tied the door shut. The jury-rigging kept Nero in check through the rest of the flight.
After that, Stew switched to a metal Ray Allen travel kennel—just as roomy as the other kennel, but basically a dog vault. Nero never escaped again.
Years later, after Nero retired, sometimes he would dream with his paws paddling the air in an unsteady fashion. Stew wondered if he was back in the C-5, reliving the high-flying adventure of his crazy glory days.
—
At around 4:30 P.M., John tells the handlers they may be loading soon. Jorge walks over to his van to make sure his gear is ready to go. He unzips a large black backpack. It opens down the middle, revealing several compartments on both sides. They’re marked with yellow embroidered labels, indicating which ones hold treats, leashes, first aid equipment, bags, and training aids. He likes to be organized.
One item he hasn’t yet packed is his can of Lysol Neutra Air Sanitizing Spray. He hopes that if any dogs must do their business, the Rejuvenating Morning Linen scent will help make it a little more tolerable.
A few minutes later, it’s finally time to start driving the vans toward the flight line.
“Everyone needs to check tires first. Please go ahead and help each other out,” John says. As the vans approach the tarmac, the drivers work together to inspect tire treads for pebbles or other foreign objects that could cause damage.
The vans—emergency flashers blinking and headlights on—snake toward the flight line, going slower than the fifteen-miles-per-hour speed limit. But it’s still not time to board. Instead of driving toward the C-5 to the left, the vans turn to the right, into a parking area that runs along a low, long building.
One by one, the white vans back up to the wall behind them. When they’re done with the graceful four-wheel choreography, they look like eight piano keys, perfectly lined up.
A host of presidential support and protection vehicles, all black, slowly make their way to the area in front of the vans and turn around to face the C-5. It’s a long process, involving what some handlers think are more vehicles than normal.
Handlers wait in their vans, walk their dogs, talk to their dogs, and watch the parade of Secret Service vehicles and personnel. Several Counter Assault Team (CAT) members gather near the vans in a circle and have a discussion. Wallets come out, and everyone passes money to a team leader. They’ll be on the airplane food plan tonight.
A little after 6 P.M. the first of the presidential vehicles rolls toward the C-5. It’s dark now except for the headlights and the glow from inside the C-5’s wide-open front end. But the vehicles don’t drive right onto the plane. They line up and wait, yet again.
The canine vans cut carefully in among the limos and SUVs and park close to the plane. The handlers will be loading their dogs and gear before any of the vehicles can drive onto the C-5. They pull their empty travel kennels aboard with the leashes they’ve attached—a trick that saves a lot of hassle. Most bring their roll-on suitcases and other gear at the same time.
The handlers walk up the ramp into the mouth of the shark, and down the belly of the beast to the back of the cargo deck. A pallet is waiting, and they arrange the kennels in two rows of four, right next to each other. They run off to park their vans and grab their dogs.
Kim waits as the handlers of Ritshi, Bris, and Tarzan put their dogs in their kennels in the row of kennels facing the back of the plane. Hers is the last dog to board. Astra stops to sniff Bris in his kennel, just to the left of her own. She recognizes him. They’ve worked together quite a bit. He’s on her cool list. She moves on.
She then checks out the neighbor in the kennel to the right of hers. It’s Tarzan, Nate’s dog. She doesn’t work with him much, and he’s not yet on her short list of acceptable dogs. She barks and growls at him. Tarzan returns the greeting.
Once one dog starts, a chain reaction often follows and leads to an unpleasant racket that’s difficult to quell. Kim tells her dog to knock it off, hoping to stop it before it spreads beyond Tarzan. Astra stops barking and walks into her kennel. Having no one to argue with, Tarzan lets bygones be bygones.
The kennels are strapped down and the vehicles finally start rolling up the ramp one at a time. Aircrew loadmasters tell the drivers where to park their vehicles so the weight is distributed evenly. Other crew members secure the vehicles so they stay put. It takes about ninety minutes to load everything.
The C-5 takes off at 8:30 P.M.
It touches down in Paris the next morning.
Astra, who had been quiet for the whole flight, is the first to bark once the crew starts undoing the vehicles. This inspires the other dogs to sound off.
You could choose to hear it as a bunch of dogs barking. Or you could hear it as the handlers did: Welcome to Paris!
—
It is a whirlwind trip, with dogs sweeping the president’s hotel, the Le Bourget Exhibition Center, the Château de la Muette, and other key sites. During downtime, handlers check in with loved ones to let them know all is well. Some walk their dogs near the Eiffel Tower. And one shops for a nice purse and macarons.
When Jorge’s children awaken on the morning of December 2, they find their father just back from Paris. They jump into his arms and bury themselves in his hug.
Yuri, who had just fallen asleep, wakes up and sees the happy reunion. He watches and wags, still lying with his head on his bed.
“Yuri!” Jorge’s daughter exclaims. She and her brother run over to him. Yuri wags a couple more times, closes his eyes, and falls back to sleep in their embrace.
CHAPTER 10
INTRUDER ALERT!
There was a time when people could stroll around the White House grounds and even walk into the White House on their own without getting arrested or making headlines.
The “People’s House” was highly accessible to the public for much of its history.
Thomas Jefferson wanted to ensure that the people of the new nation felt his house was also their own. He welcomed the public into the White House most days, although not early in the morning. He staged exhibitions—including a showcase of artifacts from the Lewis and Clark expedition—to draw more people into the Executive Mansion.
He even
displayed two “perfectly gentle” and “quite good humored” grizzly bear cubs in an enclosure on the White House lawn for two months.
Andrew Jackson’s and William Henry Harrison’s presidential inaugurals resembled Executive Mansion frat parties, with scores of rowdy, drunk partygoers coming and going.
And then there was Jackson’s 1,400-pound block of cheese, a gift he decided to share with the public nearly two years after receiving it. On February 22, 1837, he opened the White House to anyone who wanted some cheese, which was placed in the foyer. It wasn’t so much a chance to get to know his constituents—he was weeks from the end of his presidency. It was, quite ingeniously, one of the biggest regifting opportunities in history.
The cheese did not stand alone that day. Thousands of visitors flocked to the Executive Mansion, not put off by the ripe cheese’s odor, which one observer described as “an evil smelling horror” whose potent stench reached far beyond the White House. Prominent journalist Benjamin Perley Poore wrote about the event in his Reminiscences:
For hours did a crowd of men, women, and boys hack at the cheese, many taking large hunks of it away with them. When they commenced, the cheese weighed one thousand four hundred pounds, and only a small piece was saved for the President’s use. The air was redolent with cheese, the carpet was slippery with cheese, and nothing else was talked about at Washington that day. Even the scandal about the wife of the President’s Secretary of War was forgotten in the tumultuous jubilation of that great occasion.
It was not the end of the cheese, though. It lives on, at least symbolically. In the fictional White House TV drama, The West Wing, Big Block of Cheese Day referred to an annual tradition of granting White House access and attention to obscure interest groups one day a year.
The Obama administration continued the theme of opening the White House to the public through three annual, daylong Big Block of Cheese Day social media events. The public was invited to chat with White House staff, the First Lady, senior cabinet members, and others via Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and Tumblr. Bad cheese puns abounded. (“It’s That Time of Gruyère: Big Block of Cheese Day Is Back” was the title of the 2016 event’s White House blog entry.)
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