The thin line between Security Expert & Egoist?
Are you a security expert? That is a good question. It's one I'm often asked and consistently ask myself. Am I a security expert? Well, maybe... at least for this month.
During one of my first major security consulting projects, I found myself in an impoverished nation, dealing with an incredibly unpredictable threat environment. I distinctly remember feeling vulnerable, more so than in any previous situation. There were no weapons, no backup, no legal recourse, and no government safety net to shield me if things went wrong. As I arrived in the country, I observed people in the airport disregarding turnstiles and metal detectors, paying no attention to the security personnel trying to perform their duties. It was evident that these personnel lacked motivation due to inadequate pay, suggesting that the threat level I initially assessed for this location was likely underestimated.
The risk level escalated to the point where I deemed it necessary to request my own security detail, an action that wasn't typical for me. While I had been assisting my clients in onboarding a local security company, I saw this as an opportunity to assess their performance and identify areas for improvement. After careful analysis, I concluded that blending in with the team picking me up was wiser than traveling conspicuously as a typical executive. With my hat pulled low and my neck gaiter covering my face, I settled into the back seat of a Toyota Hilux for the hour-long journey to the compound where I would be stationed.
My team, armed with shotguns and pistols, maintained a high state of alertness. I noticed that none of them wore seat belts as we sped down the road at seventy-five miles per hour. I fastened mine and soon understood why they had chosen not to—our bumpy ride over potholes left marks on my neck. At times, we encountered heavy traffic passing through bustling markets. The driver's frequent honking made me feel even more exposed, as if everyone's gaze was fixed on us.
Throughout the trip, a sense of unease lingered. Our actions weren't aligning with the procedures I was accustomed to. Despite our goal of maintaining a relatively low profile, I felt like a conspicuous object amid the chaos. I lacked control, placing my life in the hands of my security detail. So, this is what vulnerability feels like...
Surprisingly, we reached the compound without significant delays, and I began preparing for an exceedingly high-risk assignment scheduled for the next day. Engaging local security was often mandatory due to their legal certification to carry firearms in their country. Although I had thoroughly vetted the security company and collaborated with them for two months, this trip marked my first face-to-face interaction with the team. I had provided them with my standard operating procedures and key performance indicators for evaluation. However, their performance the previous day indicated a gap in meeting my expectations.
Early the following morning, my team assembled. I had meticulously prepared for the mission—intelligence reports, vehicle checks, operational briefings, route reconnaissance, and a strong emphasis on operational security. I had done everything within my control, but I was entrusting a significant portion of operational control to an external vendor. Despite my preparations, uncertainty still lingered, prompting me to ensure the team's readiness.
I had designed a motivating safety briefing, assuming that my understanding of protective security surpassed theirs. I chose not to accompany them, recognizing that my presence would only make the team and passengers more conspicuous. Kidnapping and extortion were major threats in this region. A tall, visibly foreign individual like myself would inevitably attract attention, especially at the likely checkpoints along the route.
With their vehicles lined up—passenger vans followed by Hilux trucks and motorcycle scouts ahead—the team consisted of about fourteen agents in total. Looking at them, I couldn't help but feel they needed more training. They lacked access to the same resources available to me. Gathering them in a huddle, I sought assurance of their preparedness, though I myself felt unprepared.
As I looked into the eyes of my team, a realization dawned on me. This was their everyday reality. Just the previous night, two executive protection agents had lost their lives, and their client had been abducted. A couple of days before that, another security detail had been kidnapped for ransom. Despite these grim circumstances, my team remained steadfast, ready to execute their duties. They faced tangible threats daily while shuttling people across the city and to and from the airport. Unlike me, they lacked a secure haven to retreat to. They risked their lives for a salary that most protection professionals in the US would dismiss.
In that moment, I put my ego aside and relinquished my grip on perceived control. A challenging question surfaced: had any of them been in a firefight? Slowly, they raised their hands... all of them. I was taken aback. I followed up by asking if any had experienced more than one firefight. Again, all hands remained raised. Reflecting on Western statistics, which suggest that involvement in a firefight is highly unlikely, I felt humbled and embarrassed for assuming I was the sole expert among them.
I initiated a dialogue, asking for their thoughts on the plan. Were there any adjustments to consider? Were we utilizing the optimal routes? What tactics did they know of that local criminals employed? Initially surprised that I, a recognized protective services professional, would value their input, the team leader conveyed his perspective and sought input from his members. They readily shared their advice. Many factors—cultural, geographical, and legal—that I hadn't accounted for were brought to light.
Swiftly, we refined the plan. While the adjustments were minor, they were crucial in helping us navigate potential issues along the route. The team's attitude transformed drastically. My willingness to acknowledge vulnerability, especially in a culture where leaders often abuse their power, marked a significant departure from the norm. It was evident that I prioritized their safety, respected their insights, and acknowledged the risks they confronted daily. The mission proceeded smoothly, with only a brief encounter with setbacks, as is customary with Murphy's Law. I had earned their respect and trust, just as they had earned mine.
Considering myself a protective security expert, I recognize that true expertise and leadership involve understanding my limitations. I cannot possibly possess exhaustive knowledge, and there will always be nuances—tactical, cultural, and regional—that demand collaboration for comprehension. Time constraints prevent me from mastering everything, and success is impossible without assistance. The moment I believe otherwise is when I should exit the industry. Keeping those under our care safe requires a collective effort, involving individuals with varying training and experience. My expertise stems from collaboration with fellow professionals.
The most direct path to failure is paved by our own egos. I would never have gained the team's trust had I not sought their input in devising the plan. Worse still, my ego-driven decisions might have endangered clients. Beyond earning their trust, I gained a wealth of knowledge about protective security in that region. Once the barrier of hesitancy was broken, the team willingly shared their local expertise. The intelligence I acquired was invaluable.
In the realm of protective security, mistakes are unforgiving and can dictate life or death outcomes. In a small industry populated by strong personalities, making life-and-death choices daily, it's tempting to assume we're the sole experts in the room. Yet, avoiding that trap is crucial. Be humble, earn trust, and thrive.
