Killer FPV Drone Era: the Mossad Has Entered the Chat
Covert, FPV drone strikes launched from behind enemy lines are no longer science fiction—they’re spycraft.
The age of intelligent destruction didn’t hatch in Tel Aviv or Tehran.
It was born in Ukraine—in the smoke, solder, and wild ingenuity of a nation under siege.
From garage-built quadcopters to battlefield AI that hits targets it recognizes, Ukraine has been the proving ground for the 21st-century drone war. They turned consumer drones into kamikazes. They networked them.
Operation Spider Web was just the latest—a coordinated drone blitz launched from inside Russian territory, 117 aircraft across five time zones. No pilots. No borders. No mercy.
A little over a week ago, Ukraine proved what’s possible with what's portable.
And now, Israel has entered the chat.
Per The Wall Street Journal, Mossad smuggled in the goods — hundreds of quadcopters disguised in suitcases and shipping crates, each rigged to blow. The drones hit air defenses first, then missile launchers as they rolled out of shelters — catching them mid-motion… deer in the headlights. Only this time, the hunter was airborne and unmanned.
But the real flex? They didn’t just hit the weapons.
They hit the logistics.
Iran had four times as many missiles as trucks to haul them. So Mossad hit the trucks. Dozens. Grounded the arsenal by killing its legs.
And maybe the wildest part? They had help… from the inside. Iranians, apparently disillusioned with the regime, helped pull off the sabotage. Not loud defectors. Not revolutionaries with slogans. Just quiet actors in key places… who opened a few doors, looked the other way, and helped set the trap.
One man’s collaborator is another man’s saboteur of tyranny.
GPT-Zarathustra
Each generation finds a faster way to destroy. Ours gave it silence, precision, and altitude. The tools change—but the hunger to strike first never does.
As the respected military analyst Mick Ryan puts it in his newsletter, “this adaptation battle moves at an increasing speed.” Ryan was recently in Ukraine, where he met with none other than the head of Ukrainian military intelligence — the man orchestrating much of that rapid evolution.
“As Budanov noted during our conversation, the pace of learning and evolution in intelligence and strike operations is probably only possible in wartime.”
What started in Ukrainian garages is now playing out on global battlefields… a new era of war, improvised by necessity, accelerated by rage, and executed at the speed of code.
Guest Dispatch: "A Very Military Man"
My friend and collaborator, Vadym Adamov, is in Ukraine’s military. And he offers this guest contribution to In The Moment.
I’m standing in a groggy line of future kamikaze drone pilots at the FPV Training Center — half-awake, half-dazed. The brainpower in this lineup is clearly above average for the Armed Forces. More engineers than infantry. More programmers than machine gunners.
The day before, a colonel addressed us at morning assembly. Charismatic guy. Shaved head. Leather jacket straight out of a ‘90s cop show.
“All right, folks…” he said. “I won’t bulls*** you long.”
He’s been in the game since 2014 and usually avoids military gear. “If you don’t want a Russian missile to end our training ahead of schedule,” he said, “you’d do well to dress like civilians. Blend in.”
That was yesterday.
Today — same colonel, same formation — but the man in front of us had morphed into a recruitment poster: pressed uniform, pixelated camo, regulation boots. No more post-Soviet leather chic.
I figured one of two things had happened:
A drunk soldier crashed into the guardhouse with grenades onboard.
Or an inspection was coming.
Turned out to be the latter.
“All right, folks…” he began again — same opener, different tone. “Today we’re getting a visit. A general. Coming to inspect us… for the purpose of… inspection.”
No one was going anywhere.
“This general,” he said, “is a very military man.”
He made a face like he was talking about a difficult relative — the kind you visit only out of obligation.
“A very military man,” he repeated, and the line cracked up. From his mouth, it sounded less like a title… more like a diagnosis.
GPT-Zarathustra
He wasn’t feared for his orders.
He was feared for his clipboard.
The day spiraled into general stories — legends passed down from unit to unit. Some generals, it turns out, are what soldiers call “normal guys.” Some are cowards. One tale featured a comrade who greeted a general mid-deployment wearing nothing but family underwear, no vest, beer in hand. Poor timing.
Even the chipok — the tiny base store — had to fall in line. Curtains drawn. Lights off. No coffee. No energy drinks. No smokes.
For half a day, the troops went without caffeine or nicotine… all in honor of a man whose only real power was the ability to make other people stand still.
Momentary Reflection: Curfew Clubbing on Borrowed Time
I imagine most people would find it incongruous.
Saturday night in Kyiv. The clubs are pumping. Full tilt. Sweat, strobe lights, basslines. Bodies pulsing in sneakers and streetwear, half-lit by strobes. It could be Bushwick, Prague, Belgrade… pick your poison. You wouldn’t know the difference unless you looked real close.
Except here, the party ends at 11. Not because anyone’s tired, but because the law says so. Curfew at midnight. Hard out.
Some head home. The rest vanish into apartment afterparties… underground sanctuaries where you’re locked in until sunrise and the curfew lifts.
I was wedged against a wall, drink sweating in my hand, watching a jagged Lady Gaga number rip through the haze when the thought slammed in:
They’re not just dancing. They’re burning.
Like they’ve got a timer strapped to their chest.
Because they kinda do.
They’re on borrowed time, and they know it.
In Ukraine, once you hit 25, the moment arrives. If you haven’t volunteered already, you’re headed for basic training… a month or two… and then straight to the front. No glory. Just mud, drones, and a high chance of death.
GPT-Zarathustra
Where the future is rationed, joy becomes feral.
The fireflies know they’ll burn out… so they burn brighter.
So if you’re 22? Do the math.
There’s no sign the war will end in three years.
But the party probably will.
I turned to the journo friend I was out with and muttered my borrowed time theory.
He nodded and said:
“Fireflies.”
They flash.
They mate.
They burn.
Then… gone.
Call it nightlife.
Call it a countdown.
GPT-Zarathustra
Where the future is rationed, joy becomes feral.
The fireflies know they’ll burn out… so they burn brighter.
Postscriptery
Writing this at 4:15 a.m. Kyiv time, heading out on assignment in the Donbas.
As we hit the road, the acrid smell of smoke hangs in the air. Somewhere overhead: the unmistakable buzz of a Russian Shahed drone. Anti-drone machine guns still cracking. Later in the morning I’d read the grim headline: 15 dead.
This is what it feels like to move through a world unraveling in real time.
Great writing.