As a journalist, I had followed reports of poor morale in the screener ranks and the disturbing leaked reports about screeners failing to detect bomb components in undercover tests. I was mystified by the idea that after a five-year, $20 billion investment overhauling the system, federal screeners were no better at their jobs than the poorly trained private workers they had replaced. Could it be true, as critics allege, that all we got for our money was "security theater"—a show that does little more than make us feel safer? I also knew that the TSA had been working with Israeli security experts recently to develop a smarter approach to screening which would focus on finding dangerous people rather than dangerous items. The chance to get an inside look was irresistible.

It takes two minutes to fill out the information requested on the application and press the send button. Within three weeks, I receive an e-mail saying that I've made it past the first round. I then report to a location I was told not to reveal, for a surprisingly arduous test of my aptitude for picking weapons out of what amounts to a lineup of X-ray images of baggage. After an hour, I leave with a throbbing headache and the conviction that I've failed completely. But that same day, I receive another e-mail from the TSA with an effusive opener: "Congratulations! You have passed the…test to become a transportation security officer with the TSA."

Within a few days, I am directed by another e-mail communiqué to a TSA office at an airport. There, I am fingerprinted and consent to the expected background investigation. (I have no reason to assume it wasn't done, but not one of the half-dozen references I gave, including people who have worked with me professionally, was contacted.)

My "interviews" are so detached and impersonal that they could have been carried out by a robot. My first face-to-face with a TSA official consists of my sitting mutely while she reads to me stiffly from a script. I am then ushered into a different office, where another interviewer asks me a series of generic questions that he reads from his computer screen ("Have you ever helped anyone in need without being asked?"). The queries offer no opportunity for probing, and never during the hiring process am I asked about my reasons for wanting this job. One assistant tells me: "We are supposed to ask everyone the same questions," which, if correct, seems a rather literal-minded interpretation of a government-fairness policy.

When I'm contacted by phone, I get the odd feeling that I'm talking to someone in a telemarketing center. When I finally ask where the caller is located, I learn that I'm not dealing with the TSA directly but with Accenture HR Services, a division of the giant consultancy which was created out of the remains of the Arthur Andersen accounting firm. A quick check on the Internet reveals that Accenture and another recruiting firm, CPS Human Resource Services, were hired as a sort of "rent-a-personnel department" for the fledgling TSA. The contracts were valued at $776 million over five years. Although the TSA is hardly hiring at the pace it was five years ago—when some sixty thousand employees were needed to fill the ranks—the contracts with the two consultants are still in effect.