By the time officials determined the threat was indeed legitimate and put out an international call to all TWA flights for an immediate and mandatory bomb search, a host of planes were already airborne. One of these flights, a West Coast–bound Boeing 707, was already more than a hundred miles into its nonstop flight to Los Angeles. They’d only been in the air 15 minutes when the pilot, Captain William Motz, came over the intercom to tell the 45 passengers and the seven-person crew that they were headed back to New York, citing mechanical difficulties.
Motz landed the plane and taxied to a remote part of the runway, a good distance from the main hub of the airport. It was ten minutes past noon; if there was a bomb on the plane it was set to go off at 1 p.m. The passengers were hurried off the aircraft. The police, who were already waiting on the tarmac, rushed aboard. With them were two search dogs: Brandy, a German shepherd, and her handler, David Connally, worked the front end of the plane; another police officer worked Sally, a Labrador, toward the back. Inside the cockpit Brandy was nosing her way around a large black case marked “Crew.” It was a nondescript piece of pilot gear, the kind of case that carried a flight manual. But after a few good sniffs, Brandy sank her haunches into a resolved sit. Connally knew they’d found the bomb and he signaled the others. The time was 12:48 p.m.
Detective William F. Schmitt of the police department’s bomb squad called for all the officers to get off the plane. He cut into the case and quickly scanned over its contents—what he guessed to be roughly six pounds of plastic C-4 explosives with a fuse rigged to a timer. It was enough, he knew, to rip the plane to shreds. In a fast decision, Schmitt picked up that clunky, ticking case and carried it off the plane and onto the runway, moving quickly away from the crowd of people. Setting down the case on the ground, Schmitt disabled the bomb. The time was 12:55 p.m.
The very next day a bomb hidden inside another TWA plane in Las Vegas exploded. The plane, which was sitting idle and empty at the time, had been searched, but the bomb in the cockpit had gone undiscovered. No one was injured but a panic ensued. By noon that day, two of the airline’s pilots refused to fly, and its business was down 50 percent.58
In response to the bombs and the public concern, a Federal Aviation Administration representative, retired Lieutenant General Benjamin Davis, sat in front of TV cameras and in a grave tone warned that his organization was now engaged in a “war for the survival of the air transportation industry.”59 By the end of that week President Richard Nixon gave orders to Transportation Secretary John A. Volpe to push into action, early, security measures that were already in development as part of the response to recent hijacking attempts made on American flights. Travelers would now be subjected to mandatory passenger and baggage screenings; airline and cargo facilities would now be off limits to unauthorized personnel. Nixon also ordered the secretary of transportation to create a force that included dogs. That same year, the Federal Aviation Administration started its Detection Canine Team Program.
It was that very program that is responsible for the two bomb dog teams patrolling the terminal in the Colorado Springs airport more than 40 years later: Colorado State police officer Mike Anderson and his dog Cezar, and fellow officer Wayne Strader and his dog Rex. These teams are part of the Transportation Security Administration (TSA) Bomb Dog Program that started here at this airport in 2005.
There’s something about being followed by a big German shepherd and a police officer in uniform that makes my heart skip and my legs twitch with the urge to run. I’m pulling a smooth-gliding and nondescript black carry-on suitcase, possibly the most inconspicuous piece of luggage on the planet. And it’s empty, except for the explosives packed inside. Technically speaking I’m not guilty of anything, but I am trying to act as normal as possible because I don’t want anything other than the odor of the explosive material to tip off the dog, who’s about to make a find on this piece of moving luggage.
I keep walking straight as I feel the dog team about to pass me. The dog’s nose is barely a foot away from my suitcase and he’s already picked up the scent. His body swivels with intense interest and that alone is enough to signal to his handler that there’s something in my bag. The dogs make this find, as well as a series of others that day throughout the airport, without trouble. Anderson is especially happy with Cezar’s performance because the dog is getting older and the handler has noticed he’s started to slow down. Cezar is as big a dog as Anderson, who stands 6 feet 7 inches, is a man. Unlike military working dogs, Cezar and Rex live at home with their
handlers—their careers together can span as long as the dog’s working life. Both of these teams have been partnered together for over six years. Which is why Anderson is sad that Cezar isn’t performing like he used to—it means that their work together will have to end.
On this December day in 2011, the terminal at the Colorado Springs airport isn’t very crowded, and the few passengers sitting and waiting for their flights to board take great interest in the dogs—some point and smile, curiously, while a few eye the large Cezar warily. That visibility, Officer Strader explains, is a big part of the role they play in keeping the airport secure. Cezar and Rex do their jobs simply by being on the job, acting as a visual deterrent and inspiring any would-be criminal to think twice. Most of the time, Rex and Cezar search unattended bags or vehicles left without a driver by the curb. In addition to their post at the airport, they also respond to any bomb threats in the city.
The dog program that was born out of Brandy’s heroic find in 1972 evolved under different agencies, and after 9/11 the canine program was transferred to the TSA, which would become part of the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) the following year. It’s expanded significantly since. There are now over 900 canine teams working in 120 airports nationwide.
After conducting an analysis of the Customs and Border Protection Canine Program from April 2006 to June 2007, it was determined that the dog teams, while accounting for only 4 percent of overall agents, were responsible for “60% of drug arrests and 40 percent of all other apprehensions in 2007.”60 In other words, this program was a rousing success.
Despite the influx of K-9 security presence in airports and mass transit systems around the country over the last decade, the majority of airports rely almost entirely on scanning machines. So officers Anderson and Strader don’t use their dogs to check the majority of the luggage they encounter; it’s not part of their job.
Since 9/11, airport security under the TSA has depended heavily on a series of electronic scanners and full-body imaging machines that have stirred controversy over the years, not only for their invasiveness, but also for their ineffectuality. During a July 2011 congressional hearing convened in front of a House Oversight and Government Reform subcommittee, House members listened to testimony offered by TSA representatives, the former director of security at Tel Aviv Ben Gurion International Airport, and an inspector with the Amtrak Police Department’s K-9 unit, among others, in order to evaluate the current state of US airport security and DHS policies. Subcommittee chairman Congressman Jason Chaffetz, a Republican from Utah, led the inquiry and did not mince words as he kicked off his opening remarks, citing a litany of concerns—chief among them that, since November 2001, there had been 25,000 security breaches at US airports.
From there the hearing unfolded in high drama, especially when explosive-detection dogs were brought into the discussion. Proponents of canine detection teams went head to head with those advocating machines. Among the many issues that were hotly debated: invasion of privacy, the longevity of million-dollar machines that proved ineffectual, and the cost of Alpo.
During the height of this inquiry and testimony, Chaffetz invoked the Pentagon’s conclusion, with its $19 billion price tag, that dogs were the best bomb detectors. He then leveled a challenge at TSA assistant administrator John Sammon:
You’re suggesting that the whole body imaging machine is a cheaper a
lternative than using the K-9s. I tell you what, let’s do this. I would love to do this. I would love to do this. You take 1,000 people and put them in a room, I will give you 10 whole body imagining [sic] machines. You give me 5,000 people in another room and you give me one of [the] dogs, and we will find the bomb before you find your bomb.
That is the problem. There is a better, smarter, safer way to do this. And the TSA is not prioritizing it. And if you look at who those lobbyists were that pushed through those machines, they should be ashamed of themselves, because there is a better way to do this and it is with the K-9s.61
But though there is nothing yet that proves technology has outmatched or outdone a canine’s ability to detect odor—especially bomb detection in a combat arena—or even that they could, scientists and technology developers and their vendors have long tried to re-create and out-design Mother Nature’s canine nose. In security or defense settings, groups of private contractors and researchers at universities are racing to do this, at the behest of the military.
When dealing with IEDs or landmines, the priority for these projects is to eliminate the risk to human life. Imitation might well be the most sincere form of flattery, but when it comes to detecting bombs, these attempts have proven to be lacking, and their results have fallen hopelessly short of expectations.
In the mid-1990s, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency initiated its “Dog’s Nose Program” to make the bionic version of a dog’s nose, and backed the venture with $25 million. As Discover Magazine reported in its September 2001 issue, two companies were in the running to develop this technology. Each took a slightly different approach.62 The first, run by a neuroscientist at Tufts University, sought to create a “true electronic nose, capable of distinguishing a large variety of smells.” The other, partnered with Nomadic, Inc., focused on two particular materials used in explosive making (TNT and DNT) and created Fido, the first “artificial nose capable of sniffing out a land mine in the real world.” But results were mixed. As one of the Tufts researchers said in 2001, what they produced was “probably about a factor of 10 times less sensitive than the best dogs, but about par with the worst dogs.” Hardly a glowing appraisal, and hardly a ringing endorsement for the mechanical answer to the dog.
Even now new iterations of Fido persist—the latest version, Fido X3, was recently launched, advertised on its website as the “next generation of threat detection.” But its promoters are no longer trying to sell these devices as viable replacements for a canine, but, instead, as an additional resource for base detection work. Amy Rose, the product sales director at the sensor manufacturer Flir Systems, the company that makes Fido, told the New York Times: “We see our technology as complementary to the dog. Dogs are awesome. They have by far the most developed ability to detect concealed threats.” But, Rose continued, “dogs get distracted, cannot work around the clock and require expensive training and handling.”63
Army dog handler Staff Sergeant Taylor Rogal has had experience with bomb dogs, but he’s also worked with the electronic bomb-detecting gear—handheld devices. Most soldiers, if they don’t have dogs with them when they conduct searches, will use sensors like Fido. But Rogal says they have a reputation for breaking easily or being too sensitive to humidity and sand, which can render them ineffective. Rogal would rather put his trust in a dog—even a dog who’s tired, thirsty, or hungry and has had a bad day.
When Rogal was deployed to Qatar in 2009, he and his detection dog, a German shepherd named Teri, worked security at the gate to their base. One time while they were on duty, a civilian drove onto base and Teri gave a standard search before they let him through. But then, to Rogal’s surprise, Teri paused and sat. He was on odor. Teri could be a stubborn dog, but Rogal knew that this was the dog’s serious, no-bullshit response: there was something in that car. So Rogal called it in.
When EOD came to investigate, Rogal’s squadron commander, Lieutenant Colonel Gregory Reese, came to watch. It was a nerve-wracking few minutes for the handler, who was worried he had shut down gate access for nothing. But he trusted his dog. And while there wasn’t a bomb, Teri’s response was still a good one: EOD confirmed there was explosive residue in the car, as the driver, a contractor who worked with explosive materials, hadn’t cleaned up the car properly. The find was a testament to the dog’s powerful nose. The lieutenant colonel was impressed.
Rogal felt lucky to have a commander who supported the dog teams—one who would weigh this support against his reputation one day when a vendor came out to the base touting a Fido sensor. The man was wearing a Polo shirt and had a briefcase slung over his shoulder, sorely sticking out. He was selling his product hard to the men in the group gathered around him, promising that these little handheld sensors would soon be all the detection help they needed. Rogal stood watching from off to the side with another handler when he noticed Lieutenant Colonel Reese had come out to see the vendor’s pitch.
To demonstrate the effectiveness of his sensor, the salesman took out a sample of C-4 and pressed it against his thumb. He walked over to the bathroom trailer wall and pressed the same thumb against the side of the building. After that he pulled out Fido and ran it over the trailer wall. A ding sounded; the minuscule amount of explosives had been detected.
Reese chuckled and told the vendor their dogs could do that and just as fast. The vendor scoffed. Reese called over to the handler next to Rogal. “Go grab Hhart,” he told him. The handler came back with Hhart, his search dog, and walked him over to the trailer, following a standard search pattern. As soon as they hit the spot with the thumbprint, the dog sat.
The vendor was visibly taken aback, shocked that the dog had performed so well and so quickly. It was clearly not what’d he’d been expecting. Reese, on the other hand, just kind of gave him a satisfied smirk. His confidence in the dogs had paid off.
Being a handler, Rogal knows that he comes to this debate with a bias. But when he thinks back to standing guard on that gate, watching Teri give a fast and clear alert on just residual odor alone, there’s no question in his mind which he would chose if given the chance. All Teri did that day was stick his nose in the car, and that, Rogal says, took just two seconds. And for Rogal those extra seconds could mean the difference between life and death.64
It was raining, or at least it had been. The morning ground was wet and muddy. It was spring 2010, the rainy season in Haji Rahmuddin, Afghanistan, and Staff Sergeant Justin Kitts was up early. He washed his face and brushed his teeth using bottled water, as there was no plumbing or electricity. This base was small and remote; outside the makeshift gate and beyond the safety of the military-constructed Hesco border was open farmland and grape fields.
The day’s mission was pretty standard. Kitts’s unit had orders to travel to a nearby town and meet with a few of the locals. Every now and then, as part of their efforts to build better relationships with the people of Afghanistan, the Army sent in soldiers to see if the locals needed anything. The soldiers packed their pockets with candy to hand out to the children who lived there. But they were also hoping to find people who could become reliable and friendly sources of information on the Taliban and to gather new intelligence and reports of suspicious activity in the area.
Along with 20 other members of the 101st Airborne and an Afghan interpreter, Kitts geared up and prepared his detection dog, Dyngo, to accompany them. To keep from being easy to track, the unit avoided the shorter, more direct route on a hardened surface road. Instead, they rambled through a grape field, its earthen-packed walls, each about waist high, covered in tangled vines. Hopping over them slowed down the patrol but made their movements less predictable.
The gray weather started to clear as they walked through the grape field. The sun came out and then, suddenly, so did the sound of gunfire: it was an ambush. In this field they were exposed, so Kitts, Dyngo, and the rest of the unit ran for the cover of some higher walls that flanked t
he main road, the sound of their boots pounding the ground. Once they reached the road, the soldiers spread out along the front wall and took aim with their guns, while a few others stayed behind them, covering the wall on the other side of the grape field and laying down suppressive fire. The unit called for air support, but they knew it would take a while to arrive. In the meantime they would have to hold their ground yet also find a way to move out of their vulnerable position.
Kitts took Dyngo and looked for an exit route. He started down the road to the left, sending Dyngo up ahead, watching the dog carefully as he put his nose to the ground. When Dyngo was about 30 meters out, Kitts noticed the change in the dog’s search pattern. Dyngo began taking in deep, sweeping breaths. There was something there. Kitts shouted to Dyngo, calling him back.
The others in the unit, pulled back from the left side of the road, were still trying to return gunfire at an enemy they could not track or see. Kitts pulled Dyngo down against the walls, keeping the dog low and close to him for cover. Suddenly, the enemy shot two RPGs toward them. The first went over the back wall and exploded in the field behind them. But the second flew into the wall, destroying a chunk of it just ten feet from where they sat.
The explosion registered a deep shock to the ground and the noise was deafening. Dyngo began to whimper; it was a high whining sound the seven-year-old Belgian Malinois rarely made. Kitts knew his dog was not reacting to the noise or the chaos—it was the pressure from RPG blast that scared him, the shock wave causing real pain to Dyngo’s sensitive ears. Dyngo collapsed to his stomach, his limbs limp, his ears flattened. The dog was afraid.
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