Eyes Pried Open_Rookie FBI Agent

by Vincent Sellers

  Firearms instruction at the FBI is not limited exclusively to doing target practice on a shooting range. Some time is also devoted to educating students on the dangers and the reality of carrying a gun, with the possibility of being in a firefight. This exposure introduces agents to the reality of their job, helps weed out agents who are not up to the task, and teaches agents always to fight for their lives.

  Agents are shown a variety of videos that are not circulated outside of law enforcement. These videos depict police officers and subjects who get in real life gun battles. These eerie pieces of footage, typically captured by police car dashboard cameras or surveillance cameras, demonstrate how quickly someone's life can change. NATs view horrific scenes showing officers having their guns taken from them and being shot. Sobering images of police officers who have been killed in the line of duty are a grim reminder of the reality of the dangers inherent to law enforcement. And even more sobering are the images showing law enforcement officers who are severely physically maimed and live every day with a reminder of the sacrifice they have given for the safety of citizens of this country. Some of the images were beyond what is seen in a horror movie. These are the images that stick with the viewer for life and help form the instinctual situational awareness that is so important for law enforcement officers.

  NATs learn to use FBI weapons, with the primary focus on the 40-caliber Glock 22. In addition, agents are trained on using shotguns and MP5 machine guns. While I never was faced with a situation in which I needed to fire my weapon at an adversary, I did have numerous occasions in which I had my gun drawn, and my training kicked in so that my gun-handling actions were on auto-pilot. During my career I had to handle my Glock as well as shotguns and MP5s in arrest situations, so the firearms training was definitely relevant to skills that agents would need in the field.

  The firearms instructors are only one step above defensive tactics instructors with regards to their people skills (or lack thereof). Agents do not want to be on the bad side of the firearms instructor, especially the screaming and yelling type. Unfortunately I managed to have a former Marine gunnery sergeant as my instructor, and this person decided that I needed extra attention and yelling to make sure that I was doing what I should be doing. As previously mentioned, I was comfortable with firearms, and was used to firing an assortment of shotguns and rifles and handguns. However, the FBI has its own very specific way of doing things, which is an adjustment for the trainee, especially those who may have picked up bad gun handling habits prior to joining the FBI. Perhaps I was initially too relaxed around guns, and the instructor saw that I needed to have my attention more sharply focused on the task at hand. Believe me, my attention was laser-focused after being screamed at multiple times.

  The firearms instruction included significant time devoted to firearms maintenance and cleaning. After every firearms session, weapons were torn down and cleaned thoroughly according to the FBI's standard method. Instructors strolled around the room and pressured NATs to clean weapons quickly. After being cleaned, guns were inspected, and if they had not been cleaned properly, the student received a stern lecture in front of the class and had to re-clean his or her weapon.

  Before ever firing a weapon on the range, students are drilled in safety procedures. Students must recall safety rules instantly and know these rules by heart. The safety rules were always strictly enforced, especially in the gun cleaning room. I later learned of a specific incident that had contributed to increased emphasis placed on safety during the cleaning process (and not just safety on the firing range). Approximately two years before my time at the Academy, an instructor had an accidental gun discharge in the gun cleaning room, resulting in the shooting of a student. Fortunately, the student did not die, but he lost large quantities of blood and was saved only because of a trained paramedic being one of the NATs in the room at that moment.

  There were other stories of fingers that had been shot off by NATs who did not hold their weapons properly. Luckily, there were no stories of NATs who were killed, but the FBI Academy was not immune to deaths of agents in training. Shortly before I entered the Academy, Special Agent Robert Hardesty was killed in a Hostage Rescue Team (HRT, the elite “super SWAT” team of the FBI) training accident. He fell twenty feet from an airplane wing, and he fought for his life for eight days at a hospital before succumbing to severe injuries. He was an experienced agent, and his death was a grim reminder of the dangers that can be present during a training exercise. Each FBI class picks a fallen FBI agent to learn about and dedicate our training efforts to, and SA Hardesty was selected by our class. After I graduated from the FBI and was a field agent, on December 6, 2006, FBI agents were informed of another death from a training accident. Supervisory Special Agent Gregory J. Rahoi, a member of the HRT, was killed in a live fire exercise. Clearly the need for safety was evident for inexperienced NATs, since even some of the FBI's most seasoned and experienced agents had lost their lives while in training at the Academy.

  As the winter wore on, the cold weather made firearms classes even less enjoyable than usual. Temperatures were commonly below freezing, with thick layers of snow on the ground. Students were not allowed to wear gloves while firing, so for up to four hours at a time NATs were forced to lie in the snow while holding a literally freezing cold gun in their cold bare hands. Topped off with yelling and the pressure from the firearms instructors, this did not make for an enjoyable classroom recipe.

  Over time our class came to see that some of our instructors did have a sense of humor and tried to make the class as much fun as possible. Some of our instructors were minor celebrities, including Olympic caliber pistol experts and former pro football players. Over time this made the painful firearms sessions more interesting and fun, and as the weather warmed and the instructors had more trust in the students, firearms became a tolerable class that I no longer dreaded.

  Before a NAT can graduate, he or she must take a firearms test on which he or she achieves an 80% success rate on two of three practice target shoots. This test comes at the end of a NATs time at the Academy, and the pressure to pass the test is tremendous. If a NAT fails, he or she has to fall back to the next class and receive remedial firearms instruction. Repeated failings result in dismissal from the FBI Academy.

  As my class reached the ending of our training and tested our firearms skills, one student did not successfully complete the firearms test. His graduation was delayed for four weeks. That may not sound like a long time, but that is an eternity at the FBI Academy. I managed to shoot well, scoring in the 90% range on my pistol qualification course, which included a total of 50 shots from varying distances in positions from 75 feet or as close as 5 feet from the target. This is not an easy feat, and despite my confident attitude and estimation that I was a good shot prior to entering the FBI Academy, their method of shooting truly did teach me to shoot much better than before I arrived. And more importantly, I learned to be even more confident and situationally aware of my environment. I learned to truly respect the responsibilities and potential consequences that come with carrying a firearm. The resources (in time and money) spent on firearms training for new agents is significant, but it is an absolute necessity.

  CHAPTER 8

  Defensive Tactics

  When envisioning life at the FBI, I saw a montage of sharply dressed agents firing handguns at targets, smart people raising their hands excitedly in a classroom, and agents running and working together on an obstacle course in the woods, with an inspirational soundtrack thrown in for dramatic effect. I had not contemplated the hours that would be spent learning to physically fight and to arrest and handle criminals, but these skills were the focus of the FBI defensive tactics courses. Defensive tactics, known simply as DT, haunted everyone in the class throughout our stay at the Academy; even the toughest former cops and Marines dreaded each DT session.

 
The DT instruction sessions typically consisted of numerous knuckle pushups (which I still have scars from), boxing matches, and wrestling matches. Our instructor, an extremely physically talented but emotionless man named Roy Flaleligan, relished demonstrating both defensive and offensive tactics. He loved using members of the class as examples of how to execute painful defensive moves, and I was one of his favorite “involuntary volunteers.” Neck twists, arm twists, takedowns, and non-compliant handcuffing demonstrations were frequent, only adding to my soreness and exhaustion.

  While the DT instructors seemed like mean-spirited individuals, they were admittedly damned good instructors. They believed in their mission of training FBI agents to be ready for anything, and they knew that the training could save our lives. Tough love does not get any tougher than that at the FBI Academy. While I personally feel that the DT instruction was overdone and unnecessarily difficult, I was never faced with a situation in which I needed to rely on my DT skills. Perhaps I am like a child who is mad at his or her parents for having to brush his teeth and not eat sweets. The child never develops cavities, and later in life, he realizes that his parents did him a favor. I can only imagine that if I had been suddenly placed in a life or death situation in which my survival depended on a few seconds of defensive tactics, I would be thankful for every second of painful training that I endured.

  Seven weeks after the horrible experience of the first physical fitness test, which was part of the overall DT program, I had reached a second opportunity to take the test. I had been working out at 6:00 a.m., three times a week, in addition to attending DT classes. I was thankful that my roommate, who handily passed the first PFT, to support and encourage me to keep going, joined me for the morning workouts. I was always exhausted, but I was whipping myself into great shape. However, similar to my first PFT test, on the second test I floundered while doing pushups. My form while doing pushups broke down and was shaky, and the head of the FBI’s DT instructors noticed. I was approaching the required thirty pushups, but suddenly the instructors starting disqualifying my pushups. I seemed to be stuck at twenty nine, but I had no gas left in the tank. I had already pushed myself to the brink, but I mustered up one final attempt at reaching pushup number thirty. I lowered myself down, and with every ounce of mental and physical strength I could summon, I pressed up while trying to hold acceptable pushup form. My muscles were completely depleted. My nerves were telling my brain that doing this last pushup simply would not be possible, but nevertheless my brain sent back orders to make it happen, no matter how painful or how long it took. The observing DT instructor allowed my last pushup to count, even though the form must have looked shaky at best and took me almost ten seconds to do. He saw that I had put forth a 100% effort, which I believe tipped the balance in my favor and allowed me to pass. This particular instructor demonstrated the first glimmer of humanity I had seen while participating in DT classes.

  He pulled me aside and said, “You don’t want to be mediocre, do you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’ll let that last one count, but I want to see you keep working on this.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  My happiness in passing the fitness test was second only to graduating from the Academy. By accomplishing that one final pushup, my world went from miserable to tolerable. The pressure from instructors for the class to pass the class was off. I never have forgotten that one instructor who showed me kindness, and any time I feel faced with a challenge to improve myself, I replay his words and ask myself if I want to be mediocre (sometimes the answer is “yes,” but I still find his words motivating). To this day, thinking about that moment almost brings tears to my eyes, because it was the turning point at which I knew that I could survive the FBI Academy. I had learned how far I could push myself. I had hit an emotional and physical bottom but had made my first real steps in an upward direction.

  CHAPTER 9

  Bull-in-the-Ring

  Time at the Academy seemed to be marked by a different rite of passage every week. These rituals are the traditions of the FBI, which all agents, both present and past, experience. These intense bonding experiences include fitness tests, orders night, firearms qualifications, exams, and ultimately, graduation. While conversing after the Phase 2 exam that I took to become an agent myself, one of the agents who had administered the exam was commenting on the brutality of a practice still in place at the Academy. According to her, people walked away bloody and with broken limbs. She called it bull-in-the-ring. I never forgot her comments, and as I began to hear mention of these words from my Defensive Tactics (DT) instructor, my stomach dropped as though I were dangling from a cliff.

  Boxing is taught at the FBI Academy as part of the Defensive Tactics course. Participants do not learn the rules of boxing or strategies to win a match, but they do learn how to punch and how to fight. The culmination of this training is the bull-in-the-ring ceremony, in which based on his or her weight, the fighter will box five or six other agents. Each agent (the “bull”) goes in a circle (or “ring”), boxing each opponent agent for thirty seconds. In other words, every agent gets pummeled for a total of at least three minutes, with a fresh sparring partner every thirty seconds. And of course the agent has to be part of “the ring” in which other agents are “the bull.” The time for this torture also equals approximately three minutes. In total, that is six minutes of going head to head with some of the biggest, toughest, and strongest opponents I could have ever imagined.

  This event typically marks the midway point through the journey at the FBI Academy. Everyone in my class, including the larger and tougher NATs, was anxious to get past this event. But each week would pass, and our DT instructor would not seem to have any information. There were scheduling conflicts that lead to our bull-in-the-ring ceremony being delayed for several weeks. As luck would have it, the ceremony was delayed until the day before I was to be married.

  Jennifer and I could scarcely stand to be apart. Without a doubt we knew that we wanted to be together forever, and although our engagement was short, we were eager to get married and start our new lives together. We found a date, March 25, 2006, that was only three weeks before I graduated, yet was towards the end of my FBI Academy training. I figured by that point I would be on “cruise control” and my Academy experience would be winding down. On Friday, March 24, after I got out of my Friday afternoon class, I planned to head to the Reagan National Airport, board a plane to Austin, and marry Jennifer the next morning. But I found myself, with less than twenty four hours before my wedding, strapping on boxing gloves and hoping that I would at least be conscious for my big day.

  I am a big person. My large frame, with a height of 6'2”, fills out with an average body type. I had once been an excellent runner, weighing around 170 pounds, but my weight was around 195 while at the Academy. I was not muscular, especially in my upper body, as evidenced by my limited pushup ability. Unfortunately, when the boxing groups were assigned, muscular build was not one of the factors considered. Prior career was not a factor. Height was not a factor. Only weight mattered. And I was towards the heavier end of the spectrum in my class. Sure enough, I was assigned to the heaviest division for boxing. My long “chicken legs” were not going to do me any good in the ring. Flight was not an option; I would have to fight.

  Other groups had the smaller NATs, including the females in the class. I hated sparring with the females in practice, because I had learned to “never hit a girl.” However, the instructors ensured that these women experienced every bit of pain and suffering that the males did, including taking punches at full force. For the bull-in-the-ring ceremony, I would have been grateful to punch a girl a few times if that meant that the force returned on me was not as much as the larger males could deliver. But the groups were split up to ensure some degree of fairness would be achieved for the sparring partners.


  The other boxers in my group were all former military or law enforcement members. There was an extremely muscular former Sacramento police officer, and an even more muscular agent who was formerly with the New York Police Department. Another former cop from Buffalo, New York, was also in the group. A former Marine and a former Army soldier rounded out the group, along with me, a former corporate business process improvement and IT manager. My fellow boxers were not the least bit intimidated by me; I wished I could have shared the same sentiment about them.

  With the theme from Rocky blaring (this time not in my mind, but literally, the music was blasting from the speakers in the rafters), most of the faculty at the Academy entered the gymnasium. All of my instructors were there to wish us the best of luck beating the hell out of each other. All eyes were on my group, which had the heavyweights.

  The DT instructors made it clear that everyone was to go all out, with 100% effort, 100% of the time. Any perception of a lack of effort would result in starting over from scratch. Nobody wanted to box more than he or she had to, so you could bet every punch would be thrown with maximum force. These were agents who had been mostly pent up at the Academy for fourteen weeks. Sometimes in close quarters, tensions flare. This was the release point for all of the numerous frustrations that life at Quantico had developed. I couldn’t help but feel like I was in prison, and felt I was about to “become someone’s bitch.”