Within Arm's Length: A Secret Service Agent's Definitive Inside Account of Protecting the President (17 page)

In addition to relaying the information regarding the human torches, the RSO stated firmly that we should never under any circumstances step outside our vehicle in Port-au-Prince. In the event of a vehicle breakdown, we were to contact the embassy and request assistance. During this time, it was felt that any American caught on the streets could be treated to the same fate as some of the local police. I was determined not to be taken alive and, if cornered, would take as many attackers with me as possible before ending the episode on my own terms.

Each morning the advance team got into our armored Suburban at the El Rancho hotel and drove to the embassy. We had to drive straight through downtown Port-au-Prince. Locals surrounded our vehicle anytime we slowed down. The VP lead advance would drive, while I sat in the right front seat with my rifle, hoping the older, mechanically questionable Suburban would make it to the safety of the embassy yet again. Each morning we saw at least one dead body lying somewhere close to the embassy or floating in the ocean. Due to the heat, it did not take long for these unfortunate souls to notify us of their presence through the sense of smell before we could see them.

On this trip in 1989, there were other dangers in addition to the restless populace. One was the Anopheles mosquito. During this trip, we were warned about the malaria-carrying mosquitoes, which seemed to be everywhere and in great numbers. At night in my hotel room, which was nothing more than a small room with a cement floor, a bed, and a giant red bathtub, I slept very lightly, with a sheet wrapped up to my neck to deter the bugs, and my Sig pistol gripped in my right hand. Sleep did not come easily with the mosquitoes and the sound of gunfire, which could be heard all night, ranging in distance from very far to very close.

The most concerning part of the advance was a night move from the American embassy to the airport in order to meet the air force cargo plane that was bringing the vice president’s armored cars, as well as additional agents and my CAT team. For the moment this was, for all intents and purposes, a land without law, and CAT was the only protection that could be counted on if we were ambushed.

We arrived at the airport without incident at about 2:00 a.m., when most everyone in the area was sleeping. This was done by design in order to avoid a broad-daylight spectacle of the VP’s limo and follow-up being driven from the airport to the embassy. The cars were to be garaged until his arrival two days hence.

My team came off the plane with their rifles, and we formed a CAT team in my vehicle to protect the motorcade on the way back to the embassy and then proceeded to the hotel, where all six of us were treated like royalty by other agents sent to assist in the visit. No one was shy about voicing their gratitude for our presence, and that night our bar tab was taken care of by others.

On game day, as we awaited the vice president at the airport, we were pretty apprehensive. Since our arrival the week before, we had seen virtually no police or anyone from the military. Today, however, there were large numbers of Haitian militia armed with M1 Garand rifles surrounding the airport and pacing the tarmac.

The M1 had been the main battle rifle of the US military from 1942 until around 1962, when it was replaced with the M14. Close to six million M1 rifles were produced, and although the weapon only fired eight rounds of 30.06 ammunition before having to be reloaded, many nations around the world, including Haiti, were happy to receive it as a gift from America. While these rifles were old and beat, they were lethal.

As I wandered over for a look at the soldiers and their weapons, I noticed that some of the ammunition clipped to their rifle slings was black-tipped, indicating armor-piercing ability. This was a major concern to a Secret Service agent for obvious reasons. In civilized countries that were longtime allies, such as Great Britain, this would have presented no issues for us. Haiti did not fall into this category, however, and seeing so many Haitians armed with rifles with an effective range of well over five hundred yards and ammunition that could punch through armor was of concern.

History had taught us that there was always cause to view armed foreign military at political events with suspicion. Egypt’s President Anwar Sadat was assassinated by his own military in 1981 during an outdoor political event. America had never lost a vice president to assassination, and I was determined that today would be no different. We were taking no chances.

When confronted with questions regarding the addition of the armed Haitians, the Haitian government counterpart explained to the airport site agent that these last-minute troops were a “reaction force” should the airport or the motorcade be attacked. This move was not a part of the agreement with the Haitian government but typical of how the Service sometimes finds itself manipulated in third-world countries like Haiti.

After all plans are agreed upon between the Secret Service advance agent and the local government, on the day of the visit they are usually not worth the paper they are written on. I always wondered if this was indifference or ill intent: a desire to abuse the most powerful country in the world simply because it was possible to do so. There was little one could do when the protectee was on final approach and the formerly friendly, “no problem” counterpart all at once became an arrogant, dictatorial monster.

Days prior to a visit by POTUS or VPOTUS (the vice president of the United States), if things became too heated between the host government and the Secret Service, the nuclear option was to simply tell the host government that the president or vice president would cancel the visit due to security concerns. To avoid the embarrassment of such a cancellation, the host would usually concede—until the day of the visit, when it was too late for the protectee to back out, like now.

As Air Force Two finally arrived and parked with all eyes on it, the CAT Suburban slowly and with little notice moved into a position where the so-called reaction force of the Haitians present could be observed and, if necessary, neutralized.

Sometimes a decent show of force is as good as the use of force itself, and the unwanted militia behaved themselves in a quiet, docile manner, seemingly afraid to handle their rifles or even look at us.

As the motorcade began to move, CAT abruptly repositioned and waited until the second truck full of Haitians drove past. We then cut in front of the second vehicle behind them, placing us in a perfect position to respond to any unforeseen event. Although we were severely outnumbered, six highly trained CAT agents with M16s each holding thirty rounds, with an additional thirty-round magazine clipped alongside and access to hundreds more, were certainly a match against these poorly disciplined and undoubtedly ill-trained militiamen. Also, even if the militia meant no ill will, in the event of an attack on the motorcade we did not want them to try to help. Having them deploy and open fire probably in all directions would have been as dangerous as an actual ambush.

We maintained this position in the motorcade for the remainder of all movements. Although the Haitians had reveled in the power of pulling a fast one at the last moment by placing these two trucks in our motorcade, giving the Secret Service no choice in the matter, we simply countered this potentially dangerous move with a move of our own, which left the Haitians no choice but to play our game. There was a saying in the Secret Service that you either played ball with the Secret Service or the Secret Service would ram the bat up your ass, and this was certainly our game.

A Department of State official informed me later that the Haitians were not happy about our posturing. I advised the diplomat that we were not posturing but rather placing ourselves in the best position to take out the Haitians, if necessary, and that we couldn’t have cared less about their feelings. Our job was to ensure that the vice president left Haiti alive, not to make friends. The diplomats could work out the hurt feelings later at the next embassy party over martinis and hugs.

With the visit concluded and the VP now safely airborne en route back to Washington, DC, the advance team formed up at the airport to await our transportation back to civilization, an old, noisy C-141 like the one we had flown in on. We sat on the tarmac under the broiling, merciless sun, leaning against our gear bags until we heard the unmistakable whine of the four big jet engines that would take us out of this hellhole and back to America.

After landing, the pilot, an older major wearing the star and wreath on his wings signifying that he was a command pilot, voiced some concern about the current airworthiness of his plane but said that there were no backups available. After some consultation with his copilot and flight engineer, he decided to give it a go if we were willing. We were all were willing to take a chance on this plane and crew rather than be left in Haiti for another night.

We boarded the plane, which had been sitting in the sun for more than an hour by then, and the interior was well over 110 degrees. We took our seats in the stifling heat, and the major came back to our area and announced that there was no water on board and asked if we would be willing to share whatever we had by pouring it into the cooler at the front of the passenger compartment. Not enough water in this heat was serious, and several agents were already showing signs of becoming heat casualties. No one hesitated, and a line formed so that agents could pour whatever water remained into the communal supply. As a result of sharing, there was enough water for all on the trip back to DC. That was one of the things about Secret Service agents. An agent might try to steal your date, but he would give you his last dollar, last beer, or the last of his water merely for the asking.

After stepping off the world’s slowest jet and seeing home again, I was, as always, thankful to God for allowing me to have been born in the United States rather than in a country like the one we had just left behind. That feeling of gratitude always surfaced after I returned from countries such as Haiti. Years later I would have the same feeling after returning from a place even worse than Haiti—Afghanistan.

WITH THE VICE PRESIDENT IN THE PHILIPPINES AND KOREA: NECKTIES AND CARPET-TACK BOMBS

Agents in general, and especially CAT people, had a pretty gregarious sense of humor, almost to the man. The CAT sense of humor was designed to keep the teams loose and could surface at any moment.

Just prior to a 1989 CAT trip to the Philippines, there had been a lot of unrest among the people, and the local police had used tear gas to quell the violence. More trouble was expected. On this trip, we were supporting the VP. Dan Quayle was due to arrive at the airport in the late evening. That night, as we stood around the CAT truck waiting for Air Force Two, a rotund, rosy-cheeked, little vice presidential staffer bashfully wandered over to our truck. He was more than a little concerned about breathing tear gas should the police throw any. It seems he had asthma.

All CAT agents had been gassed more than once, either in CAT school or in the military. It was unpleasant but no big deal, but of course, we had gas masks and staff did not. I tried to explain to the staff person that in an open area or in a motorcade, he would not even notice the gas should it be deployed. He was not satisfied. I patiently explained that the wind dissipates the gas very quickly. Worst case, if he did get a whiff, it would be gone and over before he knew it. He was still not satisfied. I was trying to assuage this man’s fears as best I could, but he would not believe me. Exasperated, I finally said, “If they throw gas, urinate on your tie and wrap it around your face; that will protect you better than anything else.” He was now satisfied.

While this method of gas protection was utilized in World War I, I was puzzled as I watched the young man wander over to the jungle tree line, where he removed his tie and began relieving himself on it. I was astounded that he would actually do it, but, after all, he had asthma. He was quite thorough in his mission and must have had to go for quite some time. He then walked past the CAT truck with a new swagger in his step, born of the confidence of the field-expedient gas mask around his neck like a bandanna. He thanked me for my help and rejoined his group, where we saw them discussing something obviously of great importance.

In a few minutes, the same jungle area was lined with male staffers relieving themselves on their ties. Each then filed past the CAT team sporting their modified neckwear. The VP landed and boarded the motorcade, and we proceeded to his next stop with no tear gas being thrown. If there had been gas, however, the vice president’s staff was prepared.

Even serious incidents could produce humor. On a VP trip to Korea around the time of the Philippines trip, the locals had been throwing carpet-tack bombs at police, and some injuries had occurred. Essentially these were not much more than big cherry bombs wrapped in tape and carpet tacks. We had been warned about them and had been told that, on the trip up to Camp Bonifas with the motorcade, where we would meet up the next day with the VP, who was arriving by helo, we should keep the windows rolled up.

It was late at night, and we were sitting in our truck in the motorcade waiting to move north to Bonifas. The weather was warm and humid, so our driver had his window down for the time being to allow some air in. The cars started to move, and our driver pressed on the accelerator, at which time he started screaming, “God damn, God damn!” Phil Hyde, our team leader, turned to him and said, “Calm down,” and then asked what the problem was. It seems that our driver’s sunglasses had fallen from behind the sun visor into his lap. In the dark, he thought it was a carpet-tack bomb. When he and all of us realized what it really was, we laughed until we could not breathe. “Damn, man,” he said, “I thought I was about to get my balls blown off.”

We made it up to Camp Bonifas, and, other than a few male staffers relieving themselves on their ties and our driver relieved that he had not lost his manhood from a dreaded carpet-tack bomb, the entire VP trip to Korea went without incident.