Immigration and Customs Enforcement held a hiring expo this week outside Dallas at a place called the Esports Stadium. Set between the Texas Rangers ballpark and the roller coasters of Six Flags, the arena was built for video-game competitions, and a wall of bright-blue screens welcomed job candidates at the entrance. “With honor and integrity, we will safeguard the American people, our homeland and our values,” one message read. “Start your journey towards a meaningful career in law enforcement.” Inside the cavernous main hall, organizers had parked a shiny Mustang with stenciled lettering that read Defend the Homeland. A blinding 90-foot-wide LED display at the center of the stage was lit up with the ICE logo and recruitment slogans. The setup resembled a poker tournament or an ESPN draft night, lending a whiff of excitement and opportunity. ICE’s pitch for meaning and purpose seemed to draw in many of the applicants I met. Some were military veterans with combat tours in Iraq and Afghanistan who told me they longed for the camaraderie and sense of belonging they once had. Others said they were bored, or wanted to serve the country, or fill a hole in their life left by a failed marriage or the creeping regrets they felt in middle age after screwing up in their 20s. Chris Freese, 34, who works in elevator repair, told me he wished he had joined the military after high school like his brother, who became an explosives expert in the Army. “I’ll do anything to help secure the country,” said Freese, who wore a T-shirt and cap emblazoned with the American flag, but had forgotten to bring his résumé. “If I don’t make it this time, I’ll keep trying,” he told me. [Nick Miroff: Fast times at Immigration and Customs Enforcement] The Trump administration plans to hire, train, and deploy 10,000 new ICE officers by the beginning of next year, a frantic pace that would nearly triple the current workforce. The Department of Homeland Security is set to spend more than $40 million in the next several months on ICE recruitment, even as the department says it’s already received 130,000 applications. ICE had advertised same-day offers to qualified candidates, especially those with prior military service or law-enforcement experience, and a $50,000 bonus to sweeten the pot. In the parking lot were license plates from New Mexico, Tennessee, and as far away as New Jersey. Hundreds of applicants began lining up before the doors opened at 8 a.m., many in suits, with résumés and diplomas in hand. A small group of protesters began to gather across the roadway, yelling “Shame!” and “Hey hey, ho ho, ICE has got to go!,” but attendees in line mostly turned away. Wandering the expo felt like walking through the set of a game show, a kind of speed dating for deportation jobs: After an on-the-spot interview, some got offers immediately and were sent to provide urine samples for drug testing, while others had to sit and wait for their name to be called. ICE planned to issue 900 tentative-offer letters to new recruits by the end of the two-day expo. They would need a medical screening, a fitness test, and a background check. But those selected could start at the ICE academy within four to six weeks, ICE officials told me. The majority of applicants were male, but it was an otherwise diverse crowd, both in age and ethnicity, and certainly not the kind of all-white Trump army that some of the president’s fiercest critics have caricatured. I traveled to Texas because I wanted to hear what the new recruits thought they were signing up for, and what ICE was telling them the job would be like. “ICE career expos are an opportunity for patriotic Americans who want to help remove the worst of the worst from our country,” the DHS spokesperson Tricia McLaughlin told me in an emailed statement. The job-fair attendees I spoke with said the defend-the-homeland message and Donald Trump’s presidency were big draws. “I want to stand up for my beliefs and protect America from foreign invaders,” Brennan Sheets, 30, told me. “I’d like to be there for others who can’t defend themselves. God is pushing me down this path.” Sheets, an Army veteran who has been working for a carpet-cleaning company, said he and his wife are expecting their first child, a daughter. The February 2024 murder of Laken Riley in Georgia by a Venezuelan man who was illegally in the country—which became a rallying cry among Trump supporters—“hurt my heart,” he told me. He was offered a job that afternoon. Sheets was one of 15 applicants I spoke with at the expo. Some provided only a first name, saying they hadn’t told their current employer, or even some of their close family members, including parents or siblings who dislike Trump and ICE. I asked Sheets what he thought it would be like to arrest families and face children crying while ICE hauls off their parents. He paused. “I’m good at compartmentalizing my emotions. I believe that I can make difficult decisions that I need to make,” he said. “Life isn’t all about love and rainbows.” Trump’s funding bill set a goal of 1 million deportations a year. Despite a fourfold increase in immigration arrests in U.S. cities and communities, ICE is not on pace to meet that goal, with the latest data showing the agency on track for about 300,000 deportations during the 2025 fiscal year, which ends in September. The hiring surge will put Trump in position next year to deploy teams in far more Democratic-led “sanctuary” cities that limit police cooperation with ICE. [Listen: How ICE became Trump’s secret army] ICE has about 5,700 deportation officers nationwide. New entry-level jobs will pay roughly $70,000 to $90,000 a year, including overtime and cost-of-living adjustments, officials told me. Within Department of Homeland Security agencies, mass-hiring binges are viewed warily, and the rapid expansion of the U.S. Border Patrol a generation ago