In training we always said, “We don’t rise to our expectations; we fall to our level of training.”


We learned that a respect for the chain of command builds confidence. It creates a cohesive unit, like a marriage.


Hence the military wisdom: There’s nothing friendly about friendly fire. If rigging wasn’t rigged correctly, it failed and people died. If we didn’t eat correctly, people died. Didn’t drink correctly — people died. Didn’t wear our uniform correctly — people died. That was the military mentality: Don’t make your bed correctly, and pain ensures. Why? Because! If you thought any duty could be shirked, you didn’t see the big or even the little picture, and people were going to die.

It wasn’t our job to understand the big picture. We weren’t drafted; we chose to do this.


I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the US against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will obey the orders of the President of the US and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to the regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.


I learned that I had incredible muscle memory, spatial orientation, and hand-eye coordination. While most people’s IQs nosedive during fight-or-flight scenarios, I kept my cool. My fingers never got pudgy under pressure; I kept both my gross and fine motor skills, never got tunnel vision, or lost situational awareness.


But a written commendation backed my play. It meant the world that my superiors trusted my instincts and discretion. Cops fight 2 battles: the actual one and the one against a desk jockey’s second-guessing — no one likes the latter. Second-guessing someone else’s split-second decisions in hindsight is coward’s work.


During this time of “peace,” Russian bombers and US bombers routinely patrolled each other’s coasts fully loaded with nuclear ordnance. Each side border-checked the other by dispatching fighters to keep the bomber in international airspace.


A written 500-question psychological and IQ test followed. It seemed like 500 accusations. I swear each question asked if I hated my mother. I finished and vomited in the corner trash can. I was sure not only that I failed, but that I somehow hated my mother.


Was I a subversive? Did I embody the Service’s oath to be “worthy of trust and confidence?” Had I ever stolen anything? No question, even of a sexual nature, was off-limit to them. It was incredibly invasive as they asked about crimes, thoughts, sex, childhood. Nothing was sacred.


But as the legendary UCLA basketball coach John Wooden said, “The true test of a man’s character is what he does when no one’s watching.” In hindsight, I don’t think they were looking for the man who passed the test; instead the real test was to see how each of the applicants failed.


Training commenced — and so did the mind games. “Train as you fight” was our religion. The instructors turned up the pressure and set individuals and entire classes up for failure. Failure in training identifies weaknesses so as to prevent them in the field, because as the common saying goes in the tactical community, “We don’t rise to the level of our expectations, we fall to the level of our training.”


Each drill was designed to make lessons stick. They say, “Amateurs train until they get it right; professionals train until they get it wrong.” That may not sound right, but here’s what it means. When you train until you “get it wrong” it means you’ve trained until you’ve discovered new, out-of-the ordinary situations that you might have to deal with later on — and which might get you or someone else killed. If you’ve already encountered them in training, you’ll be prepared for them. If you encounter them for the first time in the field, well… good luck… because you’ll need luck at that point.


I realized that I had to accept the risks of my job; there were scenarios in which I might not live. I had to be at peace with death so as to survive the mental burden of the job. Winning didn’t necessarily mean getting out alive or unscathed. If I couldn’t accept that, the job wasn’t for me.


The SSUD ranks among the nation’s most powerful law enforcement agencies. An SSUD officer has more arresting power than any other agency’s agent or law enforcement officers, including the Secret Service agents. Trained in situational investigation, we’re licensed to carry our firearms and arrest anyone anywhere the US flag flies. This includes US territory, even abroad. Agents can’t give so much as a parking ticket. And as for SSUD, we, by law, don’t need a warrant to make an arrest or invade someone’s privacy. From our many “death-by-PowerPoint” classes, we knew the constitutional authority in making arrests. That’s especially helpful when suspects try to lawyer their way out of cuffs by spouting legal jargon to intimidate officers.


Yet any UD officer or SA will bluntly tell you, “You know what it’s like to be in the Service? Go stand in a corner for 4 hours with a 5-minute pee break and then go stand for 4 more hours.” That’s the “action” — 99% of the time.


By policy, during the first 2.5 years, a UD officer could be terminated without a written reason. It was leadership’s insurance in case someone wasn’t liked, didn’t fit in, was talking out of school, or clearly wouldn’t be able to hack it in the long term.


We all respected him because, in a way, we felt as though the president was one of the guys, albeit of a salty older generation. When he issued orders for a national fight, he understood the consequences of sending people into harm’s way. Everyone in the Secret Service respected him for that. He had no Hollywood notions of combat or politically correct ideas of wartime grandeur.


I always feared being so exhausted that I might do something incredibly stupid, like accidentally leaving my pistol in a restroom stall — unforgivable — but stuff like that happened. If you have a healthy fear of screwing up, you’re find. Lose the fear, careers or lives are over.


When I asked about the Clintons’ latest rumors, he gave me a thousand-yard stare.

“Let me tell you something, Gary. Everything — everything they say about them is true. The Clintons are ruthless. And the media don’t even know the half of it.”


Mrs. Clinton’s office near the Oval Office made her the First Lady on the West Wing. The media buzzed over her semi-cabinet position, that she could never be fired, how she’d always be first to the president’s ear.


Secret Service leadership reminded us not to trust staffers when it came to presidential security. Many, including myself, maintained detailed notes of every staff encounter in our post logbooks: Cover Your Ass notes to guard against possible mishaps or claims of libel, sexual harassment, unprofessionalism, or partisanship.


The last lines of his sparse suicide note read: “I was not meant for the job or the spotlight of public life in Washington. Here ruining people is considered sport.”


It was as if he was asking for confirmation of his own sanity in a crazy world. We knew the feeling all too well.


Bill Clinton was friendly and charming with just about everyone besides Hilary. He always seemed to want to give his company extra time. He was very generous that way. Like him or not, share his political ideas or not, find yourself in the same room with him, and you are hooked. You can’t help but like him.


Panetta was widely respected and by reputation quiet, formidable, serious, passionate — neither a blowhard nor an ideologue. Our first interaction sent shivers down my spine.


The next day the WH was more serious and focused, yet less frenzied, as if it was finally getting down to work. It was great. Someone had dared to issue marching orders. Panetta expected results.


Conversely, President Clinton’s cool-cucumber personality impressed me. Nothing seemed to get him down. He was pure Teflon, always displaying a good positive humor. It helps explain his incredible magnetism. He just had a magical way about him. Maybe it was his radio voice or his James Bond-like demeanor. My father could fix a rock. President Clinton could charm a rock.


This was the West Wing; the country was run from here. The most sensitive information in the world passed through it. Confidential, Secret, Classified, and Top Secret documents were commonplace. The UD helped create a secure environment. We had to ensure that sensitive documents stayed “eyes only.” Just because someone enjoyed a clearance level didn’t mean that person was deemed “need to know.”


I never saw the First Couple so much as hold hands without cameras present. Once in the spotlight, they were warm. But that was a lie. Portraying the Clintons as a warm, middle-class family was a calculated marketing ploy, mere political theater.


As any police officer and they’ll tell you that next to shootings or stabbings, domestic disturbances pose the most danger for police.


I was told that I could never reveal information that might jeopardize the safety and security of the president. That was nonnegotiable. They explained to me that information needing security clearances required separate and individual subpoenas.They advised me that I could never buckle under pressure. Never, not matter how hard the Starr people pressed or insisted, was I to surrender information regarding the president’s movements, our standard operating procedures, the secret layouts of the WH, or security protocols.


Complicating matters even further, our lawyers informed me that they didn’t have the same clearances I did, so I had to be careful about sharing info with them.


I’m just a cop. Cops sign up for the action, not the legal aftermath, and it blindsides us every time.


I understood when trainees told me they were nervous and had trouble concentrating; it’s a lot for a rookie’s brain to wrangle.

“Instead of remembering and thinking about all the different things all at once, just focus on the mission only. Let muscle memory and training kick in. Ask your self, ‘What am I trying to do? What is my mission?’ Then do that and think of nothing else. Focus on that and the rest will take care of itself. Don’t focus on not failing, focus on succeeding.”


He had asked if I had any regrets from my time in the WH. Not really. Most nights I could rest my head squarely on my pillow and sleep soundly — that’s the litmus test of character.


As the old military adage goes, “If you’re in a fair fight, you’re doing it wrong.”