The President of the United States, George W. Bush, happened to be visiting the Academy that day. He was working out, either running or bike riding, and used the same locker room that I would come to know intimately. I began to feel more excitement and pride, and I truly began to overcome my initial fear. I envisioned myself as being a kid who is starting school at Hogwarts as depicted in the Harry Potter movies. I felt a little like Harry Potter. Well, perhaps a little more like Ron Weasly.
Being so far from home was going to be a huge adjustment. I prayed that my cell phone would be in range and would be a life-line back to my world of “muggles.” After powering on the phone, I was elated to physically locate a spot that showed one bar of coverage on my cell phone display. This was not a strong signal but at least was a signal. I called my girlfriend and future wife, and I was able to talk to her. This gave me incredible comfort. We discussed how we would see each other in two short weeks, and we agreed that I should make the most of my experience and try to enjoy living my dream. Just knowing that I would be able to easily call out made a world of difference in my attitude. I would have to do without my computer and television for the first time in my life, but at least I was not completely cut off from the outside world.
After I unpacked my belongings, my roommate, Justin, showed up. Initially he was quiet. He was younger than I was. He would become a lifelong friend. My suitemates showed up, and both were from Texas. I began to feel like I had allies, and I could tell that we were all experiencing the same emotions. This also gave me comfort. I knew that I could survive with the group. One of our counselors, a remarkable agent named Tom, who was approaching retirement, gave us the slogan “start together, finish together.” This motto served our class well, because without the benefit of group dynamics, I would have never finished the first week. This was a valuable lesson, which broadly helps all agents achieve the FBI mission. Teamwork is paramount, whether it involves sharing intelligence, planning an investigation, or executing an arrest.
All of the NATs, numbering a total of thirty people, including three women, were assembled that first Sunday evening in one of the classrooms. Present were the class counselors, Tom, and Mary, a phenomenal agent who struck fear in our hearts, yet would fight for what was best for us, and was without a doubt one of the FBI’s finest. Mary would demonstrate a tough love for the group, which I came to appreciate and respect. She would go on to head up the FBI lab’s Chemical, Biological, Radiological, and Nuclear Sciences Unit, which serves a critical function in protecting the safety of the citizens of the United States.
Each student stood up and gave a brief summary of who he or she was, what he or she had previously done in his or her career, and why he or she joined the FBI. The makeup of the class revealed a number of former law enforcement and military members. This is reflected throughout the culture of the FBI. The fact that neither military nor law enforcement experience was in my background would prove to be detrimental during in my time at Quantico and in the field, at least to some degree. There were also former attorneys, language experts, and engineers. One of the women, Lyla, who was in her late 20s, was an engineer and had no previous military or law enforcement experience. Although I did not feel like I would be the strongest member of the class, I knew that my road would not be as challenging for me as some of the others like Lyla. This also gave me a guilty sense of comfort, the same way that a member of the herd knows that there is a weaker animal in the pack, and knows that the weakest will fall victim first. Who would turn out to be the strongest of the group was impossible to predict; by the time we reached graduation, many of the non-law enforcement or military background NATs turned out to be some of the best agents, including Lyla.
When it was my turn to address the class, I stated that I had always dreamed of being in the FBI, and that with the death of my father, I realized that life is short and I must follow my dreams. While my statement was a cliché, it was true and genuine, as were the other NATs’ reasons for joining. Upon conclusion of the evening, I knew that I was in the presence of the finest group of individuals I had ever seen assembled in one location. I knew that the FBI agent is truly an American treasure, and while I was scared and unsure if I could do the job, I was proud to be in the same room as people of this caliber.
CHAPTER 5
A Rude Awakening
The introductory day at Quantico was a mixture of fear, pride, and discovery. The introductory week at Quantico could be described in the same way. Except for the pride and discovery part. And sprinkle in some pain. And a feeling of suspended time. In summary, the first week proved to be fearful, painful, and never-ending.
On the second day, the alarm went off early. Sleeping in a new bed with a stranger in my room, with four men trying to shower, shave, and go to the bathroom at the same time is an interesting feat that I had last navigated ten years earlier in college. We all dressed up in our business clothes and prepared to take the photo that would go on our permanent credentials as FBI agents. After a meager breakfast at the cafeteria, we ventured to the photo studio in Hogan’s Alley, the mock city used for training.
The tour of Hogan’s Alley reminded me of touring Universal Studios. The sets were built by Hollywood set designers, and merely seeing Hogan’s Alley was one of the highlights of my stay at Quantico. Getting shot numerous times by extremely painful paint guns in Hogan’s Alley ranked toward the bottom of my experiences, but overall I have fond memories of Hogan’s Alley exercises. The Hogan’s Alley sandwich shop actually served food. There were residences, a hotel, a bank, and an industrial area. Our photos were taken in a building resembling a movie theater, which seemed appropriate.
We then ventured to the FBI Academy store to buy our khaki pants, also known as 5-11’s. These are utility cargo pants, a staple of FBI gear. Throughout the Academy experience, these pants are worn on the firing range, during exercises, and in the classroom. Originally designed for rock-climbers, these are some tough pants. We also purchased the blue polo shirts embroidered with the words “FBI Academy.” I felt relieved to put these clothes on for the first time, because we then visibly were able to blend in with other students who had already spent anywhere from two weeks to five months in Quantico.
The remainder of the first full classroom day was filled with administrative items. The adrenaline rush from arriving at the FBI Academy the day before was replaced by tiredness and even some boredom. This was a welcomed relief, because I knew I could easily survive five months of boredom. But the boredom ceased on that first full day; the following day, Tuesday, December 13, would be forever etched in my mind as one of the most difficult and physically painful days in my life.
This was the day that our class took our first physical fitness test, or PFT, one in which each student had to pass the fitness standards set by the FBI, including pushups, sit-ups, a 300 meter sprint, and a 1.5 mile run. The running events were easy. I thought I was fit enough for the pushup and sit-ups with plenty of capacity to spare. But I was wrong about the pushups.
We went outside in the thirty degree, sleeting weather. Pushups were done on a freezing paved road, with a rough surface. Some students were yelled at for wearing non-FBI approved outdoor gear. We quickly learned that it is the FBI way or the highway. That included a ban on wearing personal outdoor weather gear rather than standard FBI-issued clothes. Did this make sense? No. Was this reasonable? No. Were the instructors being completely unreasonable assholes? Yes. I thought to myself, “Welcome to the FBI!”
The pushups required perfect form. Several defensive tactics instructors were tagged with evaluating agents and counting each person’s pushups. These instructors were straight out of movies depicting the most sadistic drill sergeants I had ever seen. In what seemed to be a simple intimidation tactic, they refused to count perfectly executed pushups. It became apparent that my ability to do around thirty five pus
hups (versus a required thirty) might not be enough. I wound up with twenty seven pushups that counted, with six or seven that they did not allow due to incorrect form. Every pushup felt identical and perfect to me. Regardless, I had failed the test. That meant trouble. I knew I was suddenly one of the weaklings being separated from the herd. Mandatory “make-up” 6:00 a.m. workout sessions would be required for the next six weeks. Losing a couple of hours of sleep nightly would only add to the intense exhaustion I would feel each day.
I sailed through the running events and got enough total points to pass the minimum allowed for all events, so in my mind I had “barely” failed. But as would be explained to me by Deputy Director Lee Aspen, agents who had failed were effectively the scum of the earth. Failures. Rejects. Why had we even bothered to show up and disgrace the institution of the FBI? Interestingly, Aspen left shortly afterwards for a lucrative career in hotel security in Las Vegas; I had the feeling his presence would not be missed by the FBI.
After the physical fitness test (PFT), which was witnessed by FBI Academy faculty and counselors, the day was far from over. I had completely exerted myself during the test; therefore, I kept my fingers crossed that the remaining afternoon hours would be spent with a classroom lecture. Instead, we went into the gym, which I came to equate with a torture chamber. I became acquainted with knuckle pushups that afternoon. These were done in the same manner as normal pushups, except instead of using the palms of our hands, we had to use bare knuckles on a hardwood floor. The FBI instructors offered plenty of yelling and screaming, which provided the perfect audio track to a setting of complete misery. Phrases were yelled, such as, “The people of America don’t care that you are in pain,” and “The exit is right over there.” I had completed seven marathons and had pushed my body to accomplish difficult feats such as winning 5K and 10K races. I could take physical pain. But I had never experienced anything like this verbal harassment and intimidation.
Since I had completely exerted myself during the PFT, I did not have much left in the tank for additional pushups. But that was all we did. Knuckle pushups. Over and over. We would hold ourselves up for minutes at a time, arms extended, with only our knuckles and toes contacting the ground. I went beyond what I believed was physically possible. I heard “UP, SELLERS!” screamed many times, since I could be identified by my name, stenciled on the back of my grey workout shirt. I was trembling with pain and exhaustion. I felt like a trapped, cornered animal. My knuckles began to bleed as we continued to do pushups for hours. The thin layer of skin that separated my knuckle bones from the hardwood floor was now gone; only some blood and torn soft tissue remained. The pain was beyond description. I felt sick but kept on going for several hours until class was over. The hours seemed to last for days.
Now that I had finished with my first afternoon of physical abuse at the FBI Academy, I figured that anything else would be a walk in the park. Much to my disappointment, my first firearms class proved to be nearly as challenging and intimidating. I had grown up with guns. I had even been grazed by an accidental discharge of a twelve gauge shotgun when I was younger, so I already had a high level of respect for guns and the potential hazards that are associated with them. I was comfortable with guns, which I thought would give me an edge over my classmates. The former law enforcement and military NATs had a degree of built-in respect from the firearms instructors, and with good reason. The firearms instructors, much like the DT instructors, also seemed to be straight out of a bad 1980s war flick. They yelled. And yelled. And yelled some more. They made me scared to touch a gun. They initially destroyed the confidence I previously had in handling guns. I had hoped that I would find enjoyment in firearms, which took up a significant amount of the curriculum’s time, but I realized that firearms, in particular with the ice cold conditions that would have us laying in the snow for four hours during class at the outdoor firing ranges, would be only marginally more enjoyable than the horrific DT classes.
I was emotionally and physically torn down each of those days during the first week. In private, I was literally whimpering with misery, like a scared child who has been scolded and beaten. I am not proud of it, but that is how I felt. The classroom was the only area that I remotely enjoyed. Interviewing and interrogating, legal matters, and computer classes seemed like familiar territory. The classes were not easy, nor were they relaxing. But the demands of the classes were reasonable, and I felt they were directly related to skills that would be useful as an FBI agent. Unfortunately, the classroom would take up a far smaller portion of my total time at Quantico than I hoped.
The first week, which lasted from Sunday through Saturday, seemed to last for a year. The cafeteria food, the military style training, and the cold combined to create an almost indescribably miserable environment. I realized that I was only at the beginning. In comparison to a twenty-six-mile marathon, I had only finished mile one. Mile twenty-six seemed impossible to attain. After all of the celebratory feelings I had experienced prior to passing through the gates at the FBI Academy, this was indeed a rude awakening to life in the FBI.
CHAPTER 6
Finding a Routine
The first week was terrible, and the following few weeks were horrific. This was during the December holidays, so we were allowed to fly out of town for Christmas and New Year’s Day. The high point of each week was hopping in my truck and driving off the Marine Corps base. Not only did that signify the end of a dreadful week, but it also ended the feeling of being cut off from the rest of the world. Even merging with the busy I-95 Interstate traffic made me feel happy and connected, which under most other circumstances would have only made me impatient and irritated.
The physical and emotional torture continued during the second week. I was so sore that I could barely move. I felt like I had been in a two-week-long brawl. As I left Quantico for my first weekend to be spent away from the Academy, I felt proud that I had accomplished surviving the first two weeks.
I flew to Michigan to visit Jennifer and her family, and felt a whole level of confidence that I had never felt before. In order to get a rental car discount, I sang karaoke. I had never done that in my life, but now I did not care. I was a proud FBI agent in training. I actually sang two songs and enjoyed it, but judging the faces of the rental car employees, I wisely elected to stop singing to give their ears a rest. I got engaged that long Christmas weekend, and shared my personal and professional excitement with my new future in-laws. It was a perfectly wonderful white Christmas, and I was optimistic that I would really make it as an agent. I was amazed at how my spirits had lifted.
Unfortunately the journey back to Quantico quickly brought on the opposite set of emotions. The cold, dark drive back onto the Quantico base became something I considered to be a “drive of doom,” with each moment taking me closer to the place of misery called the FBI Academy.
As the weeks crept by, I took advantage of nearly every weekend to meet my fiancé in Washington, DC. I settled into the routine of surviving each day, and at the end of the day I would walk from the dorms to the empty classroom areas and would call Jennifer to chat. Afterwards I would study for my classroom courses, would return to my room, and then would fall asleep for six hours until I heard my suitemate’s alarm go off. Each day passed very slowly, but each day was one day closer to the weekend. My classmates got a kick out of how I would sprint to my truck after we had completed our final task for the week at the Academy. I lived for those weekends as if I had held my breath for an entire week and could finally inhale at 5:00 p.m. on Fridays.
The weekends in Washington DC were wonderful, especially when contrasted with each week of experiences at the Academy. I enjoyed museums, restaurants, and movies with Jennifer, truly recharging my depleted emotional and physical batteries. History, government, and politics came alive through my repeated exposure to the DC culture. We usually stayed at Crystal City, which
was convenient to the airport, the FBI Academy, and the subway. My drive past the Pentagon was always a sobering reminder of the dangers of the world we live in, and the importance of the FBI’s mission in preventing terrorist attacks on American soil.
Over the weeks bonds grew strong with fellow agents. Groups would meet at the end of the day to go for a run through the wooded Virginia countryside, on some of the same trails that were used for filming Silence of the Lambs. Meals were shared in the cafeteria. Time slowly passed, and after four weeks a new class of agents arrived. I was happy to help these new agents with their bags and to give them a tour of the facilities. The new agents looked terrified. I was glad for their sake that that they had no idea of how rough their early weeks at the Academy would be. I had started to adjust to the shock of being at the FBI Academy and embraced routine as a way to mindlessly pass the time until I would graduate.
CHAPTER 7
Firearms
One of the great privileges of becoming an FBI agent -- and an equally great burden -- is the fact that every agent will carry a gun for his or her job. Tremendous resources are dedicated to training FBI agents in how to use their weapons. Thousands and thousands of rounds of ammunition and hundreds of hours of time are invested so that a NAT will be a firearms expert upon graduation.
At the beginning of the FBI Academy experience, NATs are forced to run around “naked” since they do not have leather holsters and the plastic guns commonly referred to as “blue handles.” One of the first milestones at the Academy is agents' receiving their holsters and plastic guns, at which point NATs finally no longer stand out as being the freshmen of the FBI Academy. Throughout the instruction at the Academy, students receive additional pieces of gear and corresponding training, including bullet-proof vests, handcuffs, mirrors, and flashlights. NATs that are near graduation can be identified by their Batman-like utility belt appearance.
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