We trusted him with $38 million. And he sent nearly a million of it to a company that didn’t even exist when the contract was signed.
That’s not a metaphor. That’s a transaction.
The Foreign Military Financing (FMF) program provides U.S. taxpayer dollars to help foreign allies purchase defense equipment. It’s tightly regulated, with strict oversight designed to ensure transparency and accountability.
On August 29, 2023, Cyberlux CEO Mark Schmidt signed a subcontract with HII Defense & Federal Solutions worth $78.8 million, funded through FMF. Less than two weeks later—on September 8—Cyberlux received a $38 million advance payment.
Then things got weird. At the time Cyberlux received the $38 million advance payment, their bank account reportedly held just $3,000—an amount that wouldn’t cover a decent laptop, let alone a drone contract backed by the U.S. government.
Seventeen days later, on September 25, 2023, a UK company called G2G Global Ltd was incorporated. No employees. No defense credentials. No public presence. Just a virtual office address shared by hundreds of shell companies. A ghost with a filing number.
Then, on October 16, Cyberlux wired $994,460 to that ghost.
The man behind G2G also previously operated two now-dissolved entities: Lex Fori and Lex Riscorum. Both marketed themselves as legal-intelligence hybrids, offering services rooted in risk mitigation, adversarial positioning, and strategic diversion. Neither company left a lasting footprint. They simply vanished, much like G2G nearly did in early 2024 when it was almost struck off the UK company register for inactivity. There are no known drone-related deliverables linked to G2G, Lex Fori, or Lex Riscorum. Why would you pay nearly a million dollars in public funds to a company whose owner’s past firms specialized in “diversion,” “risk displacement,” and “adversarial strategy”? Not logistics. Not defense manufacturing. Diversion. If that’s who you choose to funnel government money through, you’re not just outsourcing services—you’re outsourcing accountability.
Let that sink in: they paid a newly minted, unproven, nearly anonymous UK firm almost $1 million—using taxpayer money—within three weeks of its creation, and less than six weeks after receiving FMF funds. No traceable deliverables. No evidence of contribution to drone production. No public disclosure of what services, if any, were rendered.
And here’s the kicker: the subcontract explicitly forbids payments to third parties without written approval. Section 27 spells it out. No subcontracting. No lower-tier vendors. No mystery checks to virtual mailboxes. Unless HII signed off—and there’s zero indication that they did—this wasn’t just questionable. It was potentially a breach of contract.
And who authorized that payment?
Mark Schmidt.
The CEO. The signatory. The man who cashed the FMF check and immediately started sending money where no one could follow it. He wasn’t misled. He wasn’t left out of the loop. He was the loop.
This wasn’t an accounting error. If not an accident, the timing suggests choreography. The company didn’t exist when the contract was signed. It was formed after the money arrived. And it was paid—nearly a million dollars—before it had a single visible output. If that’s not a red flag, it’s a full-blown fireworks display at the Ministry of Nonsense.
And now it’s on him. Because every defense partner, every government official, every taxpayer has the right to ask:
Where did the money go, Mark?
And why the hell did you send it to a company that wasn’t even on the map when the ink dried?
Because here’s the thing: this doesn’t stay contained. This kind of maneuver—sliding nearly a million dollars of FMF funds into a ghost company with no paper trail—doesn’t just tarnish Cyberlux. It stains everyone they touch. Every employee trying to do real work inside the company. Every engineer trying to build something meaningful. Every partner who stood next to them at a defense expo. Every photo op. Every handshake. Every logo placement on a PowerPoint slide suddenly feels like complicity.
TrellisWare, a company with real credibility, is now downstream from this circus. HII, the prime contractor, has to explain how its subcontractor took FMF money and wired it to a shell entity that didn’t exist a month prior. And every future partner—whether military, private, or foreign—has to ask: can we trust anything this company touches?
Because when the guy at the top plays shell games with government money, it contaminates the whole operation. You can have brilliant staff, solid partners, cutting-edge tech—but none of it matters if the company’s leadership is torching the playbook in the background.
And just when it couldn’t get more farcical, a sworn declaration surfaced from a retired Major General claiming the Cyberlux contract was Cost-Plus-Fixed-Fee (CPFF). That would be strange, given the official subcontract—signed by Schmidt himself—clearly designates it as Firm-Fixed-Price (FFP). Under FFP, payments are tied to deliverables. There is no room for discretionary “consulting” payouts. No pretext for routing taxpayer money to third parties without approval. Suggesting otherwise now, after the money has moved and the scrutiny has begun, looks less like a clarification and more like a scramble to rewrite the rules after breaking them. It’s not just sloppy—it risks misrepresenting a federally funded contract.
This isn’t just a story about misused money. It’s a story about credibility—how fast you can lose it, how hard it is to get back, and how many people you take down with you on the way out.
How many careers, reputations, and partners need to burn so one man can keep chasing his own reflection?
And sure, some people say I’m obsessed—that I hate Cyberlux too much, that I’ve gone too deep. But when you’re watching a publicly funded drone fantasy unravel in real time, staying quiet isn’t integrity. It’s complicity. One of their employees, clearly with nothing better to do, has been creeping my LinkedIn profile. And as a 30-year-old woman, I’m used to old creepers with wedding bands and a LinkedIn account lurking around. It doesn’t rattle me. If anything, it tells me I’m getting uncomfortably close to something they hoped no one would look at twice. In fact, I’ve started to notice a pattern: the more losers poke at me, the more I write about Cyberlux. Because the more they creep, the more I know I’ve hit a nerve—and their sensitivity is the best metric I have that I’m on the right path. I even sent the employee in question a LinkedIn invite to connect, just for a laugh.
I’ve dealt with this kind of behavior before. A few months ago, some creep who was a Cyberlux devotee asked me for nudes. That’s the kind of invasive entitlement that shows up when a man feels threatened by a woman who writes with clarity and doesn’t back down. So when another one starts lurking on my LinkedIn profile—married, job title polished, pretending it’s just business—I put them in the same category. It’s not curiosity. It’s intimidation dressed up as professionalism. And it doesn’t work.
And what’s truly tragic is that some of the people still clinging to this ship know better. They’ve tied themselves so tightly to Cyberlux—professionally, reputationally, even financially—that they can’t let go. One even loaned the company $400,000. That’s not investment. That’s a slow-motion self-immolation. Because at some point, it’s not just the company circling the drain. It’s everyone hitched to it.
Want me to stop writing? Stop giving me a reason to.
Congratulations Trellisware – you’re now linked with a company whose employees and followers creep on young women who dare speak the truth.
Disclaimer
All posts, articles, and op-eds about Cyberlux Corporation are grounded entirely in information sourced from publicly available court records, government documents, and financial disclosures filed with OTC Markets. This content is intended for informational purposes only—it’s not legal advice, it’s not financial guidance, and it’s definitely not an invitation to dive headfirst into investment decisions. Our interpretations, opinions, and conclusions stem exclusively from these accessible resources. Ultimate adjudication of legal matters rests with the courts and qualified legal professionals. As always, you’re encouraged to verify independently because, let’s face it, trust but verify is a motto that never goes out of style. If you believe there is an error in our reporting and have verifiable proof, we encourage you to present it, and we will promptly review and address any inaccuracies.