Special Agent Man: My Life in the FBI as a Terrorist Hunter, Helicopter Pilot, and Certified Sniper
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For decades, movies and television shows have portrayed FBI agents as fearless heroes leading glamorous lives, but this refreshingly original memoir strips away the fantasy and glamour and describes the day-to-day job of an FBI special agent. The book gives a firsthand account of a career in the Federal Bureau of Investigation from the academy to retirement, with exciting and engaging anecdotes about SWAT teams, counterterrorism activities, and undercover assignments. At the same time, it challenges the stereotype of FBI agents as arrogant, case-stealing, suit-wearing stiffs by portraying the real people who carry badges and guns. With honest, self-deprecating humor, Steve Moore’s narrative details his successes and his mistakes, the trauma the job inflicted on his marriage, his triumph over the aggressive cancer that took him out of the field for a year, and his return to the Bureau with renewed vigor and dedication to take on some of the most thrilling assignments of his career.
those hours also ensured that I couldn’t find stores before or after work to do Christmas shopping. The family did not have a Christmas tree until December 23, when Michelle finally gave up on me and found a very small Christmas tree to put in the living room. I did not make it home on Christmas Eve until 7 PM, after all the stores were closed. Christmas Day was wonderful, regardless of the situation, but certainly subdued. I returned to work on December 26 angry. I was angry at the FBI. I was
Helmet strap on, goggles down, balaclava pulled up, covering the face except for the eyes. I slapped the butt of the ammo magazine to check that it was seated into the Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun. A quick check that my muzzle light was working and a glance through the sight to make sure the red dot had reported for duty. A look down at my tactical belt confirmed that my Springfield .45 was secured and my reserve mags were locked down. Jeff radioed in to the command post. “Thirties at
a maniac to the other side of the airport. Driving up to a parking lot, I could see on the other side of the fence that a Cessna R182 aircraft, with the telltale FBI antenna package installed, sat with its engine running. The agent who picked me up told me, “Ricky’s waiting for you.” “Ricky?” I asked. “Ricky Madera?” “He says he was in your academy class.” I ran to the plane holding my headset, excited about what Ricky had in store. I had not seen him since the days of flying zero-g parabolas
“I” had sent an e-mail twenty minutes earlier, resigning from the FBI because I was “sexually attracted” to my latest supervisor, Vince “Lumpy” Monroe, and could not work anymore in an office with him, “unable to tell him of my love.” It took me half a day to straighten that one out. I eventually identified the perpetrator and had the opportunity to send an e-mail for him when he made a similar error. He had a desperate crush on an attractive female agent in the office, and she seemed to be
a primer, smokeless black powder, and the bullet, which is the only part that goes down-range.) Each night before we left, we would shoot one more time, then come in to the classroom to view a “good” shoot on video—a time when a sniper saved a life. It was intended to motivate us, and it served its purpose well. Just before lunch and just before the end of the day, we would take part in a contest known as the “Tour de Sniper.” It was a shooting challenge, usually complicated by physical activity