The headline on the news channel read:
ISLAMIC STATE TERRORISTS CLAIM RESPONSIBILITY FOR Fend 100 HIJACKING
The Fend chief marketing officer stormed into the room. “Charles, you’ve got to see this.”
“Is it true that someone from ISIS has hacked into the Fend 100 aircraft?” A reporter shoved a microphone in front of Charles Fend.
Another said, “Can you confirm that the Fend 100 has actually crashed? Are terrorists responsible?”
Charles held up his hands. “We’re just finding things out in real time, as are you. We’re working with our team to establish what—”
“The terrorist organization sent a message saying that there’s a Fend defense program that’s responsible for the deaths of innocent civilians in the Middle East, and that this is retaliation for that.”
The chief marketing officer glared at the reporter. “Was there a question there?”
“Can you comment on whether there’s a secret Fend drone program?”
Charles shook his head. “No, I can’t comment on that. Ladies and gentlemen, obviously we’ve just suffered a catastrophic event today. If you’ll please depart the building. We need to work with the United States Coast Guard to rescue any survivors. If you will excuse me.”
He walked away, ignoring the shouted questions behind him.
Max walked out of the building with Wilkes and Flynn. The column of dark FBI vehicles was in a frenzy of activity. Rough-looking men in tactical gear and sunglasses were gathered around the back of each vehicle, checking weapons and equipment.
One of the HRT men walked up to Special Agent Flynn. “This them?” the HRT man asked.
“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Special Agent O’Malley.” Brief introductions were made.
O’Malley said, “Is everything that you briefed us on last night still relevant?”
“Yes,” Wilkes said. “How soon will you be able to take off?”
As if on cue, four MD 530 helicopters flew overhead and landed on the taxiway over the fence. The helicopters were similar to the tiny MH-6 Little Birds that the Army special forces used. In fact, several of the FBI’s helicopter pilots were former Army helicopter pilots and had flown for the Army’s 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment.
O’Malley said, “We’re ready.”
“I need to go,” Max said. “Do you have extra gear?”
The HRT man looked skeptically at the three others.
Wilkes said, “Max, why don’t you just stay here for now?”
Max was stewing, but he could tell it would be a waste of breath to push further.
A few moments later, sixteen of the HRT men filed into their helicopters, which then buzzed off to the east.
22
The flight of four small black HRT helicopters skimmed the water, two sets of legs hanging out each side, weapons at the ready.
The team leader could see the massive yacht now.
“What the hell is that thing?” said the FBI agent next to him.
“That, my friends, is what you buy when you have absolutely more money than you know what to do with. Okay, gents, lock and load. Expect civilians on board. Rules of engagement as briefed.”
As the helicopters flew closer, fast ropes slung down from each side. The team leader kept scanning the deck of the yacht. So far, there was almost no movement…
There.
“One o’clock. I have two men, armed, one with a set of binoculars, just aft of the bridge.”
Yellow flashes came from several different locations on the yacht.
“Taking fire!” came the call from one of the pilots. The four-ship formation broke off into two sets of two aircraft, flying away from each other. They began evasive maneuvers to reduce the chances of taking on enemy fire. Two of the helicopters did an arc around the ship at high speed, angling their aircraft so that the HRT men could return fire.
A burst of controlled gunfire erupted from the cabin of the helicopters.
“One down. Two down. Looks like there’s some movement on the aft deck.”
When the two helicopters finished their arc around the boat, they peeled off and climbed. The other two helicopters were already on their approach to the flight deck of the ship.
Those HRT team members began sliding down the fast ropes. They landed gracefully on the helipad as the next pair of commandos followed suit. The first helicopter finished dropping off its four men, and the next one did the same.
The HRT men worked with fluid precision. Their movements carefully choreographed through hundreds of hours of repetitive practice. Weapons always trained outward — followed by expert eyes, scanning the ship, quickly entering and clearing the compartments.
A moment later, the other set of helicopters dropped off eight more HRT members. They joined the team already on board, systematically searching every compartment of the ship.
Bursts of machine gun fire could be heard at times, the HRT men communicating on their headsets as they neutralized all threats and secured the vessel.
Within ten minutes, five Russian security personnel were dead, and three were taken prisoner. Another seven civilians were on board, and the FBI agents had placed them in confinement near the flight deck. Two of the agents were working with the ship captain to turn the vessel towards Coast Guard sector Jacksonville.
“This door is locked,” said one of the men.
The HRT team leader said, “We need to get in there.”
One of the men was an explosives expert.
“Fire in the hole!”
A loud bang, and the door lock was blown. One HRT commando threw in a concussion grenade, and it burst as they waited outside the door. Then four of the HRT team members moved in fast.
The team leader knew this was the room they were looking for. “Get the CIA guy in here!”
Wilkes’s man — a computer expert — was escorted down to the room. It was empty, filled with rows of computers and electronics — all unmanned. After a quick evaluation, the CIA man concluded that all of the computers had been zeroed out. None of it was usable, let alone active. He radioed as much back to Wilkes, who was standing by at the Fend headquarters.
Wilkes and Flynn had just finished telling the group what the HRT team had found — or rather, what they hadn’t found. Max, Charles, and Renee listened.
Max said, “So where is Morozov?”
“We’re working on it,” said Wilkes. Flynn nodded.
The group disbanded, each of them needing to speak with someone on the phone to take next steps.
Renee called Max over. “Something isn’t right.”
He was only half-paying attention. His father was leaning against a wall, his face in his hands. Max needed to speak with him.
“Max. Listen.”
“Renee, it’s over.”
“I don’t think so. Look at this.”
She pointed to one of the computer monitors. It showed the aircraft status. Airspeed zero. Altitude zero. The latitude and longitude were static.
Max sighed. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”
Her voice was emphatic. “The plane’s pilots made their mayday call and said they were forty-five miles north of Bimini. I just looked up these coordinates that are on the screen here. They don’t match up.”
“What are you saying?”
“I don’t know yet. But when I did research on how one would hack into a drone aircraft, I learned that one of the main ways it could be done is through something called GPS spoofing. Basically, they trick the system into thinking it’s somewhere else. If Morozov’s hackers made the Fend 100 think it was somewhere it wasn’t, who’s to say that they couldn’t trick us into thinking the same thing?”