The day after that phone call to Joe Armstrong, I met him at our usual meeting place. Rich Vaughn was not there, having other business to attend to for Homeland Security. That meant I was about to provide very sensitive information to the men who served as my handlers for a vital operation, and only one of them was present. This was not just some guys yapping away in a garage. These guys had the goods. The assassination was going to happen, unless we prevented it.
I laid it all out for Armstrong, who listened with an expression that wavered between dumbstruck and pained. Atypically, he never cut me off to ask a question and let me tell the entire story unbroken.
“You think Hawley’s still in contact with these cops out of Fruitland Park?” Armstrong asked me after I’d finished my report.
“I have no doubt,” I told him. “I haven’t found evidence of other law enforcement involvement, but I’m sure it’s there.”
Armstrong nodded, more to himself than me. “Okay, let’s stay on it. Catch as many people in this sweep as we can.”
I was under the impression that we’d be handling this according to FBI guidelines and that the Bureau had jurisdiction, as opposed to the Secret Service; since we had uncovered the threat, it was up to us to deal with it, which meant it was up to me.
“We’ve got faith in you, Joe,” Armstrong continued. “We know you can get the job done.”
My first thought was, What am I going to do? Did the FBI expect me to take everyone out on my own? I assumed Armstrong was playing this by the book, following his orders, which meant I had to follow mine and do whatever it took to prevent the assassination of Barack Obama.
Because I was the only one who could.
William Hawley had hinted at the fact that he’d wanted me to work with his shooters on the ranges set up on his property in the days leading up to the assassination. I could take them out then and there, and knew I just might have to do that, which would fall directly into the marching orders Armstrong had given me.
Whatever it takes . . .
Since that would blow my cover, and potentially lead to a gunfight with Hawley himself and others, like Brother Brown, I sought alternate means to preempt the plot. If I was going to continue in my role, the decision to abort had to come from Hawley. He could be acting on information I provided him, but the call had to be his.
A potential way out of this dawned on me one day while I was standing outside staring at a plane soaring high in the sky, a mere speck on the horizon, flying at maybe thirty-five thousand feet. Knowing that William Hawley detested all forms of electronic communication, I showed up at his property unannounced two days before Obama’s planned visit to Kissimmee, and four days before Halloween, with a well-rehearsed warning about what I’d concluded awaited us just six days before Election Day.
He ushered me into the kitchen, where Brother Brown was seated at the table drinking a beer, even though it was morning. Brown was wearing the same grease-stained overalls I always saw him in, as if he didn’t have another pair. Fortunately, Hawley’s wife, Beth, and son, Joey, were nowhere about.
“Brother William,” I said, addressing Hawley, “we’ve got a problem.”
Hawley cast a sidelong glance toward Brown. “Speak freely, Brother Joe.”
“I was reconnoitering the objective and noticed black specks up in the sky, twenty thousand feet maybe, flying in a circular pattern,” I continued, using that kind of professional terminology to establish subject-matter authority.
“Go on,” Hawley instructed after I’d paused for effect.
“They were Predator drones, Brother William,” I continued, trying to instill restrained panic in my voice. “The Secret Service must have been test-flying them for Obama’s appearance on the twenty-ninth.”
“You sure they couldn’t have just been airplanes?”
“Yes, sir. The circular flying pattern gave them away.”
Hawley swallowed hard. I could see his mind working, coming to grips with what that meant. I waited for him to respond, not wanting to continue unprompted.
“What kind of problem does that pose for us?” he asked finally.
“Predator drones carry four Hellfire missiles each. The operators can read a man’s watch from twenty thousand feet. If they spot our men in those trucks . . .”
“Twenty thousand feet is a long way up, Brother Joe.”
“I’ve seen what those Predators can do up close and personal while I was serving, Brother William. They are precise enough to be fired through your kitchen window over there,” I said, indicating it.
I was pushing the absolute limits of my cover, hoping Hawley would either default to my expertise or figure I was an informant. Either was possible, and I could only hope both would lead to him aborting the mission, although the latter could end up getting me killed. I was straddling a line between giving up too much information and not enough.
I could see Hawley looking toward Brother Brown, who was twisting the beer can between his hands, looking deferential while remaining silent. My mind was spinning. If Hawley decided to stick with the plan, my only choice would be to take out his chosen shooters once they were deployed in the trucks on the day in question.
I had my own .50-caliber rifle to make the shots.
Those nerve-racking final forty-eight hours passed in agonizing fashion. I began to fear the worst and plan for it, knowing I was going to have to kill two men to save the life of a Black man who was the odds-on favorite to become the next president of the United States.
Finally, the day before Obama’s visit to Kissimmee, Hawley summoned me to his property. We were alone this time, which comforted me a bit, but I was alert to any motions he made for the pistol he routinely wore holstered on his hip.
“Brother Joe,” he started, “we’ve decided to postpone the operation.”
I felt relieved, but still on edge because I didn’t know what was coming next. All I knew was that the original plan had been shelved and no attempt on Barack Obama’s life would be made by the Klan during his campaign stop in Kissimmee the following day.
“The decision’s been made,” Hawley continued, “that the event will achieve much more of an effect if we wait for him to win, and we’ve begun gathering information about what his Secret Service detail will be like with regard to positioning after he becomes president-elect. We’d love to hear any thoughts you have on that subject.”