Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
A Very Strange Day
Marshall M. had been protecting the president of the United States for eight years and was ready for just about anything. Even terrorists, if God forbid they made it to the White House fence.
But when he woke up early on the morning of October 22, 2014, with his canine partner staring at him next to his four-poster bed, he didn't know what to make of it. Hurricane had never ventured upstairs without being invited. And yet here he was, on the third floor of their downtown Baltimore home, looking like a normal dog who wanted to go for a walk.
"'Cane, what's your deal, buddy?" Marshall croaked, squinting at his clock and his dog.
For the two and a half years they'd been partners in the United States Secret Service's elite Emergency Response Team (ERT), the only place Hurricane had wanted to be while his handler slept was near the front door. From there, the black Belgian Malinois could keep watch on the entire first floor, including the back door and the main windows. All roads led to Hurricane. His fur, the color of midnight, blended him into the darkness. Perfect for surprising an intruder.
Hurricane wouldn't move from his bed unless Marshall called him upstairs, and even then, he always seemed to be in a rush to get back to his spot. He reminded Marshall of a kid who wanted to finish watching his favorite TV show, although he imagined Hurricane's show was more like a live version of The Wire.
Marshall lifted his head off the pillow to get a better look at his dog. It was still dark out, but the street lamps bathed the room in an amber glow. As soon as Marshall moved, Hurricane trotted over to the top of the stairs eight feet away, then back to the side of the bed. Stairs. Bed. Stairs. Bed.
"'Cane, what are you doing? What's gotten into you?"
Marshall closed his eyes, hoping his dog would settle down. They'd be pulling a long shift later at the White House. No need to get out of bed at this hour. He heard Hurricane's paws pad the hardwood floor in a new direction. He looked and saw him standing on the other side of the bed, close to the window, over Marshall's gear bags and tactical boots. Hurricane gazed at Marshall with an intensity the handler found unsettling.
Marshall realized what his dog was trying to tell him.
Grab your gear and let's go.
Hurricane lived to work. The dog could tell by what Marshall was wearing if it was going to be a workday or not. If his handler came downstairs in civilian clothes, Hurricane usually stayed in his bed. But when Marshall greeted him wearing his black uniform, Hurricane jumped up, tail wagging, and shadowed him until they left for work.
Hurricane lowered his head toward his handler's gear bags and exhaled forcefully through his nose, making an odd grunting sound that always got Marshall's attention.
Marshall laughed. "OK, you little weirdo, we're not going to work yet. You need to go empty or something?" In their early days together he would say, "Go potty," but he quickly realized that didn't sound very badass. The dogs who protect the president don't "go potty."
They were out the door in less than a minute, even with leashing and muzzling Hurricane. Marshall slept in shorts and a tank, no matter what the weather. He kept a pair of size 12 slip-on Nike 7.0s at the front door and the back door. In an emergency, he could be on his way in seconds. As part of ERT, it was second nature to be ready for anything-even, it seemed, a dog with pressing bathroom needs.
Marshall headed left toward the park. Hurricane had other ideas. He jerked to the right, toward their white work van. He pulled so hard that he would have dragged anyone who wasn't as strong as his muscle-bound 235-pound handler. Marshall reeled him back with a word and a quick tug.
Hurricane usually marked every tree and rock he came across. But now he didn't bother lifting a leg until Marshall told him, "Go empty," in a firmer voice than usual. On the walk back home, Hurricane pulled the whole way, ending up back at the van. Marshall had never seen him so anxious to go to work.
The dog wouldn't relax at home as Marshall tried to go about his morning routine. Even their tradition of catching up on sports news together in the living room didn't settle Hurricane. Instead of reposing on the floor next to the couch, he paced the hall back and forth to the front door.
"You're so wound up, dog! Let's get you some real exercise," Marshall said, and ran upstairs to get dressed for work.
The vice presidentÕs residence (VPR) looks far more like a traditional home than the White House. The Queen Anne-style mansionÕs location, on the sprawling, tree-flanked grounds of the U.S. Naval Observatory, keeps it fairly hidden from would-be onlookers. By comparison, the White House is a fishbowl.
There's a secluded field on the grounds, and if no one is around, it's an ideal spot for ERT dog handlers to run their dogs. Even though the dogs are under exquisite control, handlers aren't supposed to let them out in public areas without a muzzle and leash unless they're working. But these are high-energy dogs, and they need to cut loose.
Marshall pulled up and eyed the area. On this misty October morning, it was deserted. Time for a half-hour game of fetch-on steroids. Marshall, a southpaw, had pitched for the Kutztown University baseball team for four years. Two of those years they'd gone to the College World Series.
He launched a black rubber Kong ball for his dog. Hurricane streaked out in its direction. The Kong jettisoned past him and landed seventy yards out. Hurricane caught it on the bounce and dashed back to him, wagging and bracing himself for the next throw.
Ever since he could remember, Marshall had wanted to be a pro ballplayer or to work for the Secret Service. Both had the team vibe and would provide plenty of athletic, adrenaline-charged moments. His arm didn't get him into the majors, but it proved convenient as a dog handler.
Soon after he entered the Secret Service at age twenty-three, he learned about ERT, the Service's version of a SWAT team. The challenging program takes guts, strength, speed, courage, smarts, and a level head. Many apply, but few make it through the rigors of the class.
Marshall spent two years patrolling around the White House, and made the Emergency Response Team on the first try. After three years on ERT, he was offered the chance to be part of the canine team. Marshall had never owned a dog but had worked alongside ERT tactical canines at the White House and was so impressed by their capabilities that he found himself wishing he could work with a dog.
He realized that if he became part of the ERT Tactical Canine Unit, his responsibilities would only increase. ERT canine handlers don't transition away from their tactical capabilities. Handlers are in the stack just like the other ERT techs, but they have a dog on top of everything else.
When he walked into the kennels on the first day of the ten-week class in 2012, the dogs-all Malinois-barked with a ferocity that jarred him. They growled. They whirled. Foam flew. Teeth flashed.
Except this one dog, all black. The dog Marshall had been assigned for his first day of training stood at the kennel door and stared at him.
"You want me to just walk in there?" he asked the instructor as he stood outside the kennel holding a harness, leash, and muzzle.
"He's all yours."
"Why is he all 'stealth' like that?" Marshall said with a chuckle, trying to sound like he was at least half joking. "Is that for a good reason or a bad reason?"
Marshall cautiously opened the door and took one step in. As the dog jumped toward him, Marshall braced for the worst.
In a flash it was over. The dog was standing on his hind legs, front paws on Marshall's chest. He wagged and looked into his new handler's eyes. The canine version of a hug.
Oh thank God! Marshall thought. He stroked the dog's head and neck as they took each other in amid the surrounding canine cacophony.
Marshall immediately knew this was the dog for him, and not just because Hurricane would be the only black dog in ERT-although he'd enjoy having a dog who stood out from the rest. There was something about him.
He vowed that by the end of the week, when the instructors matched handlers with dogs, Hurricane would be his. If that meant putting his thumb on the scale to increase the likelihood of getting him, so be it.
Throughout the week, handlers played a version of musical dogs, taking different dogs out of kennels each day and switching dogs when instructed. Whenever Marshall had the chance to partner with Hurricane, he took it. He also took it when he didn't have the chance, switching dogs back and forth with the deft hand of a magician performing a cup-and-ball trick until Hurricane was at his side again.
By the end of the week, instructors assigned him Hurricane. When no one was looking, Marshall tapped his chest. Hurricane jumped up and rested his front paws on top of his new handler's Kevlar vest. They had a few quiet words with each other before going back to training.
Almost everything they did together as partners in training came easily. Ridiculously so, Marshall thought.
"Why is everyone saying this is so hard?" he asked his dog one morning when they'd aced a few new commands.
All it took was one run-through for most tasks and Hurricane nailed it. In the first few days of training with their new canine partners, handlers used sliced hot dogs to reward their dogs and speed up bonding. Marshall's stash of sliced hot dogs remained robust, while other handlers ran out. All it took was one piece of hot dog and Hurricane knew what he was supposed to do.
The dog even learned advanced techniques in one try. The first time Marshall told Hurricane to stop biting a decoy in a bite suit-a "verbal out"-Hurricane let go immediately.
"I think I've got a real knack for this!" he razzed his teammates during a break as they went hunting for more hot dogs.
"You didn't do anything!" one heckled back. "You told your dog to do it and he did all the work!"
About halfway through training he found out what was behind his knack. Hurricane was not the young dog many of the others were. He was at least three and a half years old. And the Netherlands-born dog was titled in Europe-a champ in a popular police dog sport.
Most of the dogs the Secret Service purchased from its U.S. vendor in Indiana were about two years old with minimal training. The Service's trainers didn't want to have to untrain them on certain tasks in order to train them in their own techniques. Besides, highly trained older dogs were getting harder to come by as demand for them increased.
Marshall got to see Hurricane's European training papers once. They were in Dutch, but he Googled a few of the terms.
"His rsum is, like, a thousand times better than mine!" he said to a supervisor as he leafed through page after page of his dog's accomplishments.
Hurricane saw the supervisor look down at where he was resting on the floor. Not one to let an opportunity for affection pass by, the dog was instantly at his side, nudging his hand insistently. When the supervisor relented and gave him a quick head rub, Hurricane flipped onto his back, four legs sticking up.
"He's good at training people to give him love," Marshall laughed as the supervisor gave Hurricane the requested belly rub.
"Your dog has a very big 'off' switch. He's an anomaly," the supervisor said, shaking the black fur from his hand as Hurricane tried to persuade him to continue.
"I know! He's the best dog ever!" Marshall beamed.
Hurricane's friendly nature made the long commute from Baltimore bearable. On their way to and from the White House, Marshall often chatted with Hurricane.
"Man, that maniac cut me off! Can you believe that guy, Hurricane?"
Hurricane, the ultimate good listener, could not believe that guy.
Marshall usually smiled when he spoke to Hurricane outside the training arena. His tone was happy and friendly. He sounded like a father talking to a smart toddler. A smart toddler who could whup some serious terrorist butt.
At ERT headquarters near the White House, the shift got a briefing and assignments. The First Family would be in residence. Not that this information changed how they protected the White House, but it was important to know.
Marshall and Hurricane would be working on the north grounds of the White House, facing Pennsylvania Avenue. So would Mike J. and his dog, Jardan (pronounced jar-dan). The four had gone through canine school together and trained with each other more than any of the other guys and dogs. Jardan was more of a typical ERT dog. He had smarts and brawn, and was friendly enough as far as a SWAT dog goes. But no one ever accused him of being overly affectionate.
The handlers drove their vans onto the U-shaped driveway and parked close to the White House, Marshall on the east side, Mike on the west. For the next several hours they'd be keeping highly trained eyes (boosted by technology) on the fence line and surrounding area. Vigilance was key. Anything out of place, and someone would be notified, or they'd take action themselves. They didn't sit in their vans and peruse the grounds wearing more than forty pounds of full kit plus their weapons for nothing.
Marshall hoped Hurricane's half hour of chasing the Kong at the VPR would take the edge off the odd way Hurricane had been acting. Normally, the dog spent much of his shift chomping on his black Kong as Marshall kept vigil. Sometimes Hurricane napped in his open kennel in the back of the van, but at the slightest movement of his handler, the dog would jump up, ready for action.
But Hurricane still wouldn't settle. He bolted in and out of his kennel. He stood with his front paws on the console between the two front seats, ears forward and eyes looking in the same direction as his handler's. He hopped to the flat area in front of the kennel and just stood.
