Tag: force

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From Backpacks to Orbit: New Disclosures Put Directed-Energy Claims in a Different Light

For years, people who identify as “targeted individuals” have alleged that sophisticated directed-energy or electromagnetic weapons are being used covertly against people. Their accounts vary dramatically: some describe attacks originating from nearby vehicles or portable devices, while others believe energy is being directed from aircraft, satellites or other space-based platforms, with some specifically pointing to the U.S. Space Force. Those individual allegations remain unproven. But roundly dismissing targeted individuals as “crazy conspiracy theorists” merely because the technologies they describe sound impossible is increasingly difficult to justify. Two developments are particularly noteworthy: neuroscientist Dr. James Giordano has publicly discussed directed-energy systems small enough to be carried in backpacks or mounted in vehicles, while the Pentagon has now acknowledged for the first time that the United States has operational weapons in orbit.

Giordano’s comments during a July appearance on NewsNation’s Katie Pavlich Tonight are especially relevant. Giordano, who has been involved in examining cases associated with the so-called Havana Syndrome, told Pavlich that directed-energy technology is not science-fiction “ray gun” material: the technology exists and can be weaponized. More strikingly, he discussed the increasing scalability and portability of these systems. NewsNation’s reporting said directed-energy weapons can be mounted in backpacks or vehicles and that Giordano said there was evidence of domestic use. He also discussed countermeasures capable of detecting, blocking or deflecting directed energy and stressed the importance of identifying exposures quickly enough to treat affected individuals. That doesn’t establish who was responsible for any particular incident, much less validate every targeted-individual account. But it significantly changes the technological part of the conversation.

Now add what happened in September. Air Force Secretary Troy Meink announced that the Space Force has “on-orbit space control weapons” capable of defending U.S. forces against hostile adversary action. Meink deliberately declined to say whether those systems are kinetic or non-kinetic, how they operate, whether they have been tested, or precisely what they can target. The following day, Space Force Chief of Space Operations Gen. Douglas Schiess confirmed that Guardians currently operate weapons in orbit. The disclosure is extraordinary, but it is important not to connect dots that the available evidence doesn’t connect. There is currently no public evidence demonstrating that the portable systems Giordano discussed and the newly acknowledged orbital weapons are components of the same system, work together, or are being used against civilians. Indeed, “space control” could mean weapons intended primarily to interfere with or destroy adversaries’ satellites.

Still, viewed together, the disclosures illustrate how broad the directed-energy and advanced-weapons landscape has become—from potentially concealable systems operating at relatively short range to highly classified military capabilities operating hundreds of miles above Earth. That makes an important distinction unavoidable: the existence and weaponization of these technologies is one question; whether a particular person has been attacked with one is another. Targeted individuals cannot use the Pentagon’s orbital announcement or Giordano’s remarks as proof that their particular symptoms, injuries or alleged fatalities were caused by government weapons. Establishing that would require independently verifiable evidence connecting an actual device, operator and exposure to an individual case. But critics likewise should no longer treat concepts such as portable directed-energy weapons or weapons operating in space as inherently fantastical when experts and the government are openly discussing precisely those broad categories of technology.

That brings us to the transparency problem. National-security agencies necessarily keep genuine military capabilities secret, but that secrecy can also create profound distrust when technologies become publicly acknowledged only years after their development. In this instance, Meink even said the wording of the orbital-weapons announcement was “very well thought out,” while declining to reveal the systems’ specifics. Given the much more serious allegations raised by targeted individuals—including alleged directed-energy injuries, deaths and nonconsensual experimentation—the Pentagon should address the civilian question explicitly. Have U.S.-controlled directed-energy weapons ever been tested or deployed against civilians inside the United States? Have unwitting civilians ever been subjects in experiments involving them? Could portable systems and space-based military capabilities ever operate as parts of a larger architecture, and if so, what safeguards prevent their misuse? If civilians were subjected to such experimentation, what legal authority permitted it, who provided oversight, and would victims be entitled to compensation? None of those questions presupposes that targeted individuals’ allegations are true. But between Giordano publicly discussing concealable, weaponized directed-energy technology and the Pentagon acknowledging weapons operating in orbit, demanding clear answers about the boundaries, oversight and history of these technologies is no longer a conversation that can reasonably be dismissed with ridicule.

Congress also has an important—and necessarily bipartisan—role to play. Questions involving directed-energy technology, national security and possible harm to Americans should not become another partisan football. Congress has already demonstrated that Democrats and Republicans can act together on anomalous health incidents: the HAVANA Act passed unanimously and established a mechanism to compensate qualifying U.S. government personnel suffering certain brain injuries, while congressional committees have previously called for continued investigation of unexplained cases and possible external stimuli. Lawmakers should bring that same bipartisan scrutiny to the broader questions raised here, using their oversight powers to demand classified and unclassified briefings from the Pentagon, intelligence agencies and Space Force; determine what directed-energy capabilities exist and what rules govern them; and establish whether any such technology has ever been tested on or used against unwitting civilians. If evidence ultimately substantiates civilian victims, Congress should also examine accountability and an appropriate compensation mechanism. If investigations find no evidence supporting those allegations, that conclusion should likewise be made public to the greatest extent national security permits. Either way, these are questions that deserve investigation and evidence—not partisan assumptions or ridicule.

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The Hope Florida Money Trail: DeSantis, $10 Million, and the Test of JD Vance’s Anti-Fraud Crusade

Vice President JD Vance has spent months casting himself as one of Washington’s fiercest enemies of fraud in America’s public-benefit systems. President Donald Trump put Vance in charge of a government-wide Task Force to Eliminate Fraud, and federal authorities have aggressively pursued health-care fraud in Minnesota, including a May takedown charging 15 defendants with more than $90 million in alleged fraud. The message from Vance has been emphatic: taxpayer money is sacred, fraud must be hunted down, and political considerations should not determine who is held accountable. 

Now Florida presents an extraordinary test of that principle. A state grand jury has concluded that Gov. Ron DeSantis’ administration “misappropriated” $10 million from a $67 million Medicaid settlement with health-care company Centene and that taxpayer money ultimately flowed through the Hope Florida Foundation—the charitable arm of First Lady Casey DeSantis’ signature initiative—and into political organizations advancing the governor’s agenda. The grand jury described the episode as part of a “sophisticated scheme to fund political activities.” On MSNOW’s The Briefing, Jen Psaki put the contradiction squarely before viewers: if Vance is prepared to unleash the federal government against alleged fraud involving public-benefit programs elsewhere, including the highly publicized Minnesota crackdown that has focused substantial attention on the Somali community, what happens when an allegation involving public money leads directly into the political orbit of a powerful Republican governor? Psaki said her team contacted Vance’s office for comment on the Florida revelations and, as of airtime, had not heard back. 

The Florida story begins with Centene, a contractor accused of overbilling state Medicaid programs for prescription drugs. Florida eventually reached a $67 million settlement with the company in 2024. But rather than all $67 million remaining with the state, $10 million was directed to the Hope Florida Foundation. Hope Florida is closely associated with Casey DeSantis, who launched the broader initiative to connect Floridians in need with charitable, faith-based and community assistance. The grand jury rejected the administration’s contention that the $10 million was effectively a “bonus” above what taxpayers were owed. Jurors concluded that the entire $67 million belonged to Florida taxpayers and characterized the $10 million diversion to Hope Florida as the “original misappropriation.” 

What happened next is what turns a questionable settlement arrangement into a potentially devastating political scandal. Hope Florida divided the $10 million into two $5 million grants, one to Secure Florida’s Future and another to Save Our Society From Drugs. Within days, those organizations transferred a combined $8.5 million to Keep Florida Clean, a political committee connected to James Uthmeier, who was DeSantis’ chief of staff at the time. Keep Florida Clean was heavily involved in opposing Amendment 3, the 2024 initiative that would have legalized recreational marijuana—an initiative DeSantis made defeating a major political priority. Money subsequently moved to the Republican Party of Florida and to the Florida Freedom Fund, another DeSantis-aligned political committee chaired by Uthmeier. The grand jury concluded that Keep Florida Clean was the “prime recipient” of the majority of the $10 million in taxpayer funds. 

That money trail is difficult to explain away as an ordinary charitable transaction. Taxpayer money arising from a Medicaid settlement went to a foundation associated with the governor’s wife; the foundation rapidly distributed it to two outside nonprofits; most of it then moved into a political committee run by the governor’s chief of staff; and the money helped finance political activity consistent with the governor’s objectives. The grand jury found that Uthmeier occupied a position of authority over officials handling the Centene settlement and that testimony identified him as involved in directing the money after it reached Hope Florida. Jurors also concluded that the decision to “donate” the $10 million to Hope Florida was intended to circumvent the purpose of a Florida law governing the disposition of settlement money. 

Then there is the remarkable question of what became of the officials involved. Uthmeier, DeSantis’ chief of staff during the episode and the man whose political committee received most of the money, was subsequently appointed Florida attorney general by DeSantis. Jason Weida, who headed Florida’s Agency for Health Care Administration and signed off on the settlement, subsequently became DeSantis’ chief of staff. Ashley Moody, who was Florida attorney general when the settlement was approved and authorized her chief deputy to sign it, was subsequently appointed by DeSantis to the United States Senate after Marco Rubio left for the Trump administration. John Guard, Moody’s chief deputy, was later appointed by DeSantis to a state appeals court. Andrew Sheeran, the AHCA general counsel who helped construct the settlement, was appointed by DeSantis to a state judgeship. Those promotions do not prove bribery, a quid pro quo or any criminal agreement. But against the backdrop of the grand jury findings, the concentration of subsequent promotions among people connected to the transaction creates an appearance that demands scrutiny rather than dismissal. 

Casey DeSantis’ position requires equal precision. Her name belongs in this story because Hope Florida is her signature initiative and the foundation carrying its name was the vehicle that received the $10 million. But the evidence described publicly does not establish that Casey DeSantis personally ordered the transfer, directed the nonprofits to send money to political committees, or committed a crime. That distinction matters. A compelling case for political corruption or misuse of government power should not be inflated into allegations the evidence cannot support. The serious question involving the first lady is how $10 million in taxpayer settlement money came to be routed through a foundation associated with her initiative and then rapidly emerged in organizations financing her husband’s political priorities—and what, if anything, she knew about that process.

There are other important defenses. Most significantly, the grand jury did not recommend criminal charges against anyone. Jurors said they lacked sufficient evidence largely because nobody would take responsibility for the original decision to send the $10 million to Hope Florida and witnesses could not identify—or claimed not to remember—who made that decision. DeSantis says his administration acted appropriately and has denounced the investigation as a hoax. Uthmeier has called it a politically motivated witch hunt and insists nobody did anything wrong. Moody says her attorney general’s office had no knowledge of how the money would eventually be spent and played no role in Hope Florida’s subsequent disposition of the funds. Weida told the grand jury he believed the $10 million was a permissible bonus and said lawyers had advised him the arrangement was legal. These defenses deserve to be presented alongside the accusations. 

DeSantis and his allies have also turned their attention to the leak itself. Because grand jury proceedings are secret under Florida law, they argue that the unauthorized disclosure of the report—not the conduct described inside it—is where an actual crime may have occurred. That is a legitimate legal issue: grand jury secrecy laws exist for a reason. But it does not answer the underlying question. Whether somebody unlawfully leaked a report and whether public money was improperly diverted are two different matters. The legality of the disclosure cannot by itself erase the grand jury’s findings about what happened to the $10 million. DeSantis can be correct that an unlawful leak deserves investigation while still facing serious questions about the conduct the leak exposed. 

And that brings the story back to Vance. His anti-fraud campaign has been built on the proposition that public-benefit fraud is not a technical violation but a betrayal of taxpayers and of the vulnerable people those programs exist to serve. The administration has mobilized federal investigators, prosecutors and agencies around that principle. DOJ explicitly says its Minnesota health-care fraud crackdown supports Vance’s Task Force to Eliminate Fraud.  If that standard is principled rather than political, Florida should present an obvious subject for serious examination. A state grand jury—not a partisan commentator—has concluded that $10 million belonging to taxpayers was misappropriated and eventually used for political purposes. The fact that the grand jury could not establish criminal responsibility is a reason for caution, but it is a strange reason for an administration committed to uncovering fraud to show no curiosity at all.

The paradox is particularly striking because the victims at the beginning of this story are precisely the kind of people government anti-fraud programs are supposedly designed to protect. Medicaid exists to provide health coverage to low-income Americans, including children, pregnant women, people with disabilities and the elderly. Florida’s $67 million Centene settlement arose from allegations involving overbilling of its Medicaid program. The grand jury concluded that the disputed $10 million belonged to Florida taxpayers rather than constituting an extra charitable windfall that state officials could send elsewhere. Whatever one ultimately concludes about criminal intent, this was not private money moving among private political donors. The controversy begins with money recovered through a government health-care program and ends with millions moving through organizations engaged in politics. 

None of this proves that Ron DeSantis personally ordered an illegal scheme. It does not prove that Casey DeSantis knowingly participated in one. It does not establish criminal guilt for Uthmeier, Moody, Weida, Guard or anyone else. The grand jury itself declined to recommend charges, and those limitations should be stated as prominently as its damning findings. But “no criminal charges” does not mean “nothing happened.” The grand jury found taxpayer money was misappropriated, found the $10 million ultimately financed political activity, questioned the credibility of explanations it received and described a decision-making process in which responsibility for the crucial initial transfer seemingly disappeared among officials who could not—or would not—identify who made it. 

That is ultimately why the Hope Florida affair deserves more investigation rather than less. The central question is not whether critics can prove from a leaked report that Ron and Casey DeSantis committed crimes; they cannot. It is whether Floridians deserve a complete accounting of how $10 million in taxpayer money traveled from a Medicaid settlement, through a foundation associated with the governor’s wife, through outside nonprofits, and into a political network advancing the governor’s agenda—and why nobody can identify who made the decision that started the money moving in the first place. And for JD Vance, the question is simpler still. If alleged misuse of public health-care money demands the full power of government when the targets are in Minnesota, does it demand the same vigilance when the trail leads into the highest levels of Republican government in Florida? The credibility of an anti-fraud crusade ultimately depends not on how aggressively it pursues convenient targets, but on whether it follows the money when the politics become inconvenient.