“MC, pilot. I’ve got a dead stick here. Not getting any positive reaction. I think we’ve got a lost link.”
“MC copies, understood Cyclops 04 has gone stupid.”
Sensor operator Captain Pratt, seated on Reynolds’s right, said, “Sensor confirms. I’m not getting any response from the UAV.”
“Roger,” said master control. “Wait one. We’ll troubleshoot.”
While Reynolds watched his aircraft fly due north, the heading he had given the Reaper several minutes earlier, he hoped to hear the MC report back that they had identified some glitch in the software or the sat link. In the meantime, there was nothing he could do but watch the screens in front of him, as uninhabited rocky hills passed by twenty thousand feet under his drone.
The Reaper software contained an important fail-safe that the pilot in the GCS expected to see initiated in the next few moments if the technicians were unable to get the UAV back online. Once Cyclops 04 went a certain amount of time with a broken link to the GCS, it would execute an autopilot landing sequence that would send the vehicle to a predetermined rally point and put it safely on the ground.
After a few more minutes of flying untethered to the GCS and unsuccessful attempts by technicians to find what was going on with the Linux-based software, Reynolds saw the attitude indicator move. The starboard wing lifted above the artificial horizon, and the port wing dropped below it.
But the emergency autopilot landing fail-safe had not kicked in. The drone was making a course correction.
Major Reynolds let go of the joystick completely to confirm he was not affecting the Reaper accidentally. The wings continued to tilt; all camera displays showed the vehicle was turning to the east.
The UAV was banking at twenty-five degrees.
Captain Pratt, the sensor operator, asked softly, “Bryce, is that you?”
“Uh… negative. That is
“Uh… repeat last?”
“Pilot, MC. Cyclops flight is doing its own thing here.”
A moment after this, Major Reynolds saw that the speed of Cyclops 04 was ticking up quickly.
“Pilot, MC. Ground speed just went up to one-forty, one-fifty… one-sixty-five knots.”
While a nonresponsive aircraft that had temporarily “gone stupid” was not unheard of, a UAV executing its own turns and increasing speed without controller input was something never seen before by the operators in the GCS or any of the technicians in communication with them.
For the next several minutes the pilot, the sensor operator, and the MC worked quickly and professionally but with a growing level of concern. They cycled through programs on multiple screens, clearing out autopilot commands and waypoint coordinates and loitering information, all trying to clear some glitch command that had caused their armed aircraft to stray off course.
Their monitors showed the infrared image on the ground as the UAV proceeded to the east. None of their attempts to retake control had worked.
“Pilot, MC. Tell me we’ve got someone working on this?”
“Roger that. We’ve… we’re trying to reestablish link. We’ve established comms with General Atomics, and they are troubleshooting.”
The UAV made several more speed and course corrections as it neared the border with Afghanistan.
Sensor Operator Cal Pratt was the first man at Creech AFB to say aloud what everyone aware of the situation was thinking. “This isn’t a software glitch. Somebody’s hacked the PSL.” The primary satellite link was the satellite umbilical cord that sent messages from Creech to the Reaper. It was — theoretically, at least — impossible to disrupt and take over, but there was no other explanation anyone on the ground could come up with for what was happening to the UAV 7,500 miles away.
The GPS readout indicated that Cyclops 04 crossed the border into Afghanistan at 2:33 local time.
Reynolds plotted the current course. “Pilot. At present heading and speed, in fourteen minutes Cyclops 04 will arrive over a populated area. It will pass two klicks east of Qalat, Afghanistan.”
“MC copies.”
“Sensor copies.”
After a few more seconds: “MC. We are in contact with intelligence assets at Kandahar… They advise there is a forward operating base two kilometers east of Qalat. FOB Everett. U.S. and ANA forces on the ground there.”
“We’ll be passing directly overhead.”
It was quiet in the GCS for several seconds. Then Captain Pratt said, “Surely to God…” He paused, not even wanting to say the rest aloud. But he did say it. “Surely to God it can’t launch ordnance.”
“No,” answered back Reynolds, but he did not sound so sure. “Pilot, MC. Do we want to… uh… ascertain whether or not we have any air assets in the area that can, uh, shoot down the UAV?”
There was no response.
“Pilot, MC, did you copy my last? It is clearly in someone else’s hands and we do not know their intentions.”
“Copy, pilot. We are getting in contact with Bagram.”
Reynolds looked to Pratt. Shook his head. Bagram Air Force Base was too far away from Cyclops 04 to be of any use.
Within moments there was more activity in the GCS, the images on several displays changed, and the onboard cameras began switching through color mode to infrared/black-hot mode and then to infrared/white-hot mode. The display cycled through all settings multiple times but not at a constant speed. Finally it settled on infrared/white-hot.
Reynolds looked over at Pratt. “That’s a human hand making those inputs.”
“No doubt about it,” confirmed the sensor operator.
“MC, pilot. Bagram advises there is a flight of F-16s inbound. ETA thirty-six minutes.”
“Shit,” said Pratt, but he wasn’t transmitting. “We don’t have thirty-six minutes.”
“Not even close,” confirmed Reynolds.
The camera lens display on the primary control console began adjusting, finally zooming in on a distant hilltop, upon which several square structures lay in a circular pattern.
“MC. That’s going to be Everett.”
A green square appeared on the primary control console around the largest building on the hilltop.
“It’s locked up,” Pratt said. “Somebody has access to all capabilities of Cyclops.” He feverishly tried to break the target lock with keyboard controls, but there was no response from the vehicle.
Everyone in the GCS knew that their drone was targeting the American base. And everyone knew what would come next.
“Do we have somebody who can get in contact with this FOB? Warn them that they are about to receive fire?”
The MC came over their headsets. “Kandahar is on it, but there is going to be a lag.” He followed that with, “Anything that’s about to happen is going to happen before we can get a message to them.”
“Christ Almighty,” said Reynolds. “Fuck!” He jammed his joystick hard to the left and right, and then forward and back. There was no reaction on the screen. He was nothing more than a spectator to this looming disaster.
“Master arm is on,” reported Captain Pratt now.
And then he began reading off information as it appeared on his displays. There was nothing else he could do but provide narration for the disaster. “Midstore pylons, selected.”
“Pilot copies.”
“Sensor, pilot,” Pratt said, his voice quavering slightly now. “Hellfire is spinning up. Weapon power is on. Laser is armed. Weapon is hot. Where are those goddamned F-16s?”
“MC, sensor. Thirty minutes out.”
