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That dog’s jaws can open wide enough to wrap around my forearm. It would probably break my wrist. All ego aside, there’s no way I can outrun him.

It looks like a Belgian malinois, a common breed for cops, but this one is military-trained.

And now it’s nosing around my back seat, sniffing my beach towels and rummaging through my surf gear.

But I’m not in any position to do anything about that.

An armed guard stands between me and my truck. Several other security men and women are intently watching me, on alert, handguns at their side.

They don’t seem to appreciate interlopers at NSA headquarters. Their dog doesn’t either.

Our Local Spy Service

The National Security Agency has long been one of the U.S. government’s most closely guarded secrets. The NSA’s early nickname — “No Such Agency” — hinted at an old-school spy world of dark alleys, dark trench coats and smokey interrogations.

But the NSA evolved so that we envisioned faceless analysts hunched over supercomputers deep in the bowels of windowless offices as they crunched data. It was easy to picture analysts who were all brain and no heart or passion.

Then Edward Snowden, a high school dropout-turned-digital spy-turned whistle-blower, updated our perceptions with his revelations about the extent of state-sponsored spying on the American people.

Snowden also brought attention to the vast intelligence community in Hawaii. When the national media descended on Oahu after news broke that Snowden’s last known residence was a quiet neighborhood in Waipahu, most sought out his pole-dancing girlfriend. So did we, but without much luck.

But we still wanted to know more about the NSA’s presence in Hawaii. What exactly was the agency doing here?

Are they really spying on us? It was my duty to find out.

A Lonely Corridor

I jumped into my truck, and weaved through the congested H1 freeway, and out of Honolulu. I headed for Kunia Road, which runs through the fertile fields between the Waianae and Koolau mountains.

There’s little reason to travel through the Kunia corridor unless you’re a farmer, a GMO seed-producer or a member of the military. Large swaths of agricultural land gradually gave way to barbed wire fences and warning signs that say: “Restricted Area.”

I reached the gates of the NSA.

My plan was to snap some photos of the guard kiosk, maybe even find a way inside where some mysterious security man might say, “No comment,” and politely ask me to leave.

I’d been kicked out of places before, most recently from the offices of Booz Allen Hamilton, the company that Snowden worked for. I’ve also taken plenty of wrong turns onto U.S. military bases. Security tends to be strict, but I’ve usually been met with little more than a stern glance and request to make a U-turn.

But this was different. This was the NSA.

Knock, Knock. Who’s There?

I don’t know if it was my long hair, beard or t-shirt, but the young woman dressed in U.S. Navy camouflage knew I was an outsider from the moment I pulled up.

I told her I work with the media and that I was hoping to take some photographs. I push my luck with a smile.

“I’d love a tour. Maybe even get some shots of buildings, if at all possible.”

A second Navy guard emerged from the security post. He directed me to pull over and take the keys out of the ignition. He put them on the roof. Precaution, he said, so I can’t run.

At that point I wasn’t too worried. My editors knew where I was headed. If I didn’t show up for work they’d at least have a starting point. Plus, it’s not like I had reached foreign soil or hostile territory. This is still the United States.

In my rear-view mirror, I saw Guard No. 2 taking down my license plate. In the guard shack phone calls were being made and transmissions sent to say that a reporter is at the front door.

The guard tells me he’s filling out a “turnaround” form, saying it’s protocol for uninvited guests. The top of it says “National Security Agency.” They said I wouldn’t receive a copy.

He took my driver’s license and started asking me questions about where I work. What’s the address? Who’s your boss? He points at my camera. Did you take any pictures?

All the while military workers filtered in and out of the gate. The guard said tourists take wrong turns all the time. Lots of them get upset, he told me, but I was handling it quite well.

Maybe because I was getting paid to be there.

But inside I had begun to wonder how much longer I would be detained. I also considered the point at which I say, ‘Enough is enough, either let me go or arrest me!’ And then it hit me: What are my rights in this situation? Do I even have any?

The NSA obviously plays by different rules.

Who’s Ed Snowden?

Two Navy chaperones kept an eye on me while an animated discussion took place inside the security kiosk nearby. They still had my car keys and my license.

As the minutes ticked off on my work day, I engaged Guard No. 2 with some small talk.

“I bet it’s been crazy around here with all the media, huh?”

“No. Why? What do you mean?”

“Uh. Well, because of Ed Snowden.”

“Who’s that?”

“You know, the NSA whistleblower who worked in Hawaii?”

“Never heard of him. I don’t really pay attention to the news.”

He might have been lying, but maybe not. Those guards didn’t look any older than college seniors. And there were indications that they didn’t get off the base often. One of them believed “fine dining” was a Korean joint in Wahiawa. I also had to explain to them what a kamaaina discount was.

Men In Black

A mystery man drove up in an SUV. He was dressed in an all black uniform and he carried a sidearm. There was no name on his breast pocket. But to make things absolutely clear, he wore a hat that read: NSA.

He was older and more serious than the Navy sentries, and he asked me many of the same questions that they did, making sure that my “turnaround” form was complete.

A second man, also dressed in black and wearing an NSA hat, troubled me with his furrowed brow and jawline out of central casting.

In all, five people were watching over me. But the last ones were the kind of people that I had been hoping to see.

The NSA guys told me to step out of my vehicle and open all of the doors. They wanted to run their K-9 through it, although they won’t tell me what they’re looking for.

It was a strange moment. I couldn’t think of anything in my truck that should alert an NSA security dog, but what did I know. I was nervous.

Dogs make mistakes. I’ve seen it happen before when an off-duty police dog mauled an innocent jogger. I eyed the Belgian malinois uncomfortably.

Watched

So that’s how I got here. And I’m sweating so it must be hot. The guards are sweating, but maybe not as much. That dog must be hot, too. Do dogs sweat? I don’t know, but it just keeps sniffing my seats.

What is the dog trained to look for, I wonder. Drugs? Bombs? Money? I risk asking the question. The guards are not amused. The canine’s training, one of the guards suggested, is classified.

And then the thought hits me: Uh-oh, I hope Sex Wax doesn’t smell like C4 explosive.

It didn’t. My car was all clear. I can get back into my vehicle.

There’s one last thing before they let me go.

The NSA needed to run my name through a national criminal database. And perhaps they’ve since included me on one of the agency’s own special lists.

In the end, I went to take a peek at the spy agency next door, but it’s me who got probed.

It’s an uneasy feeling. And I suspect I’m not alone.