Chapter 10 - Hijacking the Apex Predator
The secure monitors in the laboratory flickered wildly as Clare desperately tried to punch through the firewall controlling the hijacked aircraft’s flight computer. The digital map on her screen showed Vulov’s private jet deviating sharply from its transatlantic flight path, banking hard over Lake Michigan and descending rapidly toward an abandoned airstrip in the industrial outskirts of Gary, Indiana.
"The firewall is locked behind a military-grade cryptographic key," Clare muttered, beads of sweat forming on her forehead as her fingers danced across the mechanical keyboard. "I can't break the encryption from here without crashing the onboard avionics."
Julian didn't hesitate. He pulled his phone from his tactical vest, dialing a direct satellite frequency while drawing his weapon with his other hand. "I’m scrambling our tactical transport from the hangar. We have fifteen minutes before that plane touches down."
"Julian, wait," Clare stopped him, her eyes widening as she analyzed a secondary telemetry window that had just popped up on her secondary monitor. "Look at the broadcast frequency. It’s not just a remote override... it’s a localized radio signal. They’re guiding the jet in using a ground-based transponder tower."
"Where?" Julian demanded, stepping toward the door.
"The old rail yards off Route 41," Clare said, reading the GPS coordinates flashing on her screen. "Less than two miles from where Thorne used to stash his contraband."
Julian nodded once, his expression hard as stone. "Pack your gear, Dr. Sullivan. We’re going hunting."
Within minutes, an unmarked, armored SUV tore out of the Institute’s underground garage, its high-powered engine roaring as it surged into the pre-dawn Chicago traffic. Julian drove with reckless, calculated precision, weaving through cargo trucks and running red lights as they pushed toward the Indiana border.
In the back seat, Clare worked frantically on a ruggedized military laptop plugged into the vehicle’s communication array, attempting to spoof a bypass signal that could trick the jet’s flight computer into accepting a manual override from the ground.
"If I can inject a counter-frequency into their local transponder," Clare explained rapidly, her eyes glued to the scrolling code, "I can force the autopilot to disengage before the landing gear deploys. But I need to get within five hundred yards of their broadcast tower to bridge the connection."
"Hold on to something," Julian warned as he slammed the SUV into a sharp, drifting turn off the highway, barreling down an unpaved access road choked with gravel and overgrown brush.
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Through the windshield, the rusted skeletons of the old Route 41 rail yards loomed out of the fog. At the center of the yard sat a temporary mobile communication trailer surrounded by three armed vehicles and half a dozen mercenaries in tactical gear.
And parked fifty yards away on the cracked asphalt airstrip was Donovan Vulov’s private jet, its massive engines whining as it slowed to a rumbling halt, its exit door hissing open under the harsh glare of portable floodlights.
