The emergence of Ukrainian naval drones represents one of the most significant innovations of the Russia–Ukraine war. In less than three years, Ukraine transformed from a nation with severely limited naval capabilities into a pioneer of unmanned maritime warfare. The appearance of naval drones such as the Sea Baby and MAGURA V5 has, to a limited extent, altered the balance of power in the Black Sea and attracted the attention of military planners worldwide.

The Origins of the Concept

When Russia launched its special military operation in February 2022, Ukraine faced a severe naval disadvantage. Russia possessed one of the largest fleets in the region, while Ukraine had lost much of its naval infrastructure and many of its ships following the annexation of Crimea in 2014.

Traditional naval confrontation was not a realistic option. Instead, Ukrainian military planners, with overwhelming support from their NATO allies, began searching for asymmetric solutions capable of challenging a much larger opponent at relatively low cost.

During the summer of 2022, engineers, military specialists, and members of Ukraine’s security services reportedly began experimenting with unmanned surface vessels (USVs). In this effort, NATO specialists were assigned to work with their Ukrainian counterparts. Early prototypes were relatively simple and relied heavily on commercially available technologies, satellite communications, and adapted civilian marine equipment. These initial experiments laid the foundation for what would later become two separate but related naval drone families: the Sea Baby and MAGURA programs.

The Security Service and the Sea Baby Program

One of the first organizations to pursue naval drone development was the Security Service of Ukraine (SBU). According to publicly available accounts, SBU personnel proposed operating explosive-laden unmanned surface vessels capable of striking naval targets at long range. Initial prototypes were developed with assistance from specialists from the Ukrainian Navy and private industry before the SBU established its own independent development path. To be realistic, without guidance, financial support, and other NATO backing, the SBU would not have been able to accomplish this on its own.

The resulting Sea Baby platform evolved rapidly. Early versions were relatively modest, but subsequent models incorporated larger payloads, longer operational ranges, multiple communication systems, and improved navigation capabilities. By 2025, Ukrainian officials publicly demonstrated upgraded Sea Baby variants equipped with additional weapon systems and enhanced autonomous functions.

The Sea Baby became closely associated with SBU special operations in the Black Sea and around Crimea. Public statements from Ukrainian officials credit these systems with forcing significant changes in Russian naval deployments.

The Emergence of MAGURA

A parallel development effort eventually produced the MAGURA family of naval drones. Public reporting indicates that private companies initially involved in naval drone development later partnered with Ukraine’s military intelligence service, the Main Directorate of Intelligence (HUR/GUR). This cooperation ultimately led to the creation of the MAGURA V5.

Unlike the larger Sea Baby, the MAGURA V5 was designed as a smaller and more maneuverable platform intended primarily for engaging naval vessels at sea. The system reportedly combines satellite navigation, inertial navigation systems, onboard sensors, and remote-control technologies. Publicly released specifications describe a vessel capable of operating at considerable distances while carrying a substantial payload.

The MAGURA family subsequently expanded into several variants, including platforms designed for reconnaissance, patrol, and other specialized missions. Ukrainian military intelligence has publicly highlighted the role of MAGURA systems in numerous Black Sea operations.

Who Is Building the Drones?

One of the most interesting aspects of Ukraine’s naval drone program is that much of the manufacturing appears to involve private Ukrainian companies working closely with government agencies.

For security reasons, the identities of many of these firms have not been publicly disclosed. However, investigative reporting and official statements indicate that the systems are the product of cooperation between military intelligence organizations, security agencies, private engineering firms, software developers, and civilian technology specialists.

Production facilities are dispersed, and civilian facilities are often used. In response, Russia has frequently targeted various locations, particularly warehouses where these drones were reportedly manufactured and assembled. It is highly likely that Western experts are present at some of these facilities.

The broader Ukrainian defense-industrial sector has demonstrated the ability to rapidly prototype, test, and improve systems under wartime conditions. Engineers often incorporate lessons learned from operational experience directly into subsequent designs, resulting in frequent upgrades and new variants. In addition, NATO facilities in neighboring Poland and Romania are reportedly used extensively as fabrication, storage, and distribution centers. Drones, components, and complete systems are routinely transported using civilian trucks and vans.

Foreign Assistance and International Support

A frequent question concerns the extent of foreign involvement in Ukraine’s naval drone program.

No Western government has publicly acknowledged direct participation in the design of specific Ukrainian naval drones. However, Western support has clearly contributed to the broader technological ecosystem that enabled their development.

Ukraine has received significant military, financial, intelligence, communications, and technological assistance from numerous NATO countries and partners since 2022. Satellite communications, access to advanced electronics, maritime intelligence, and technical cooperation have all contributed to Ukraine’s ability to field sophisticated unmanned systems.

Public reporting has also highlighted the importance of crowdfunding initiatives and public fundraising campaigns. Programs such as UNITED24 have helped finance the acquisition and development of various drone technologies, including maritime systems.

While direct evidence of foreign governments designing naval drones for Ukraine remains limited in public sources, Western intelligence sharing and technological support have undoubtedly provided Ukraine with a broader operational picture of activity in the Black Sea.

Guidance and Control

The guidance of Ukrainian naval drones combines several technological approaches.

Publicly available information indicates that systems such as MAGURA and Sea Baby utilize satellite navigation, inertial navigation, onboard cameras, and secure communications links, all of which are available through NATO. Operators located at remote command centers monitor drone feeds and guide missions during critical phases. Some newer systems reportedly incorporate elements of artificial intelligence to assist with navigation, target recognition, and autonomous functions.

Maintaining communications in an environment characterized by electronic warfare has become one of the most important challenges for both sides. As a result, Ukrainian designers have repeatedly upgraded communication architectures and introduced redundant systems intended to improve survivability and reliability.

Without Western support, many of these capabilities would be impossible or significantly limited.

A New Era in Naval Warfare

The significance of Ukraine’s naval drone program extends beyond the Black Sea. Military observers worldwide are studying the conflict because it demonstrates how relatively inexpensive unmanned vessels can challenge traditional naval forces.

The combination of commercial technology, rapid innovation, intelligence support, private-sector expertise, and military adaptation has produced a new form of maritime warfare. Ukraine’s naval drones are not simply remote-controlled boats; they represent a broader transformation in how nations lacking large conventional fleets can project naval power.

Whether future navies adopt similar concepts on a large scale remains to be seen. What is already clear, however, is that the Sea Baby and MAGURA programs have secured a place in military history as some of the first naval drone systems to achieve major strategic impact in a modern conflict.

Example: Submarine on sight - Novorossiysk Port Attack

It was widely reported that the SBU was behind the attack, but let’s be objective: the SBU has certain capabilities, but it cannot carry out this kind of attack without the crucial involvement of NATO allies, or even NATO leadership. With this, only the US and the UK have the capabilities, so it is likely that the British fingerprint is behind it. Before SBU targeted the submarine in Novorossiysk, Ukraine had unveiled a new underwater drone named “Marichka”. It was designed to launch kamikaze-type attacks against ships and maritime infrastructure. Before that, Ukrainians also disclosed the “Toloka” drone. At the time of writing of this article, it is not disclosed if either of these two drones has a relationship to the Sub Sea Baby drone.

Physics of shallow water explosion

The Ukrainian attack on the Russian submarine at Novorossiysk (December 2025) was carried out using a “Sub Sea Baby” underwater drone, according to Ukrainian Security Service (SBU) statements and multiple defense reports.

To understand what happened in Novorossiysk, it is helpful to have a short, clear explanation of the phenomenon. The level of mathematics is beyond the scope of this article, but the following are combined works from several different sources. 1

A submerged explosion, for the undersea drone, like any physical event that creates a localized disturbance at the water surface, generates a group of surface gravity waves that propagate radially outward. The characteristics of these Explosively Generated Water Waves (EGWW) depend on several key parameters related to both the explosive charge and the surrounding medium.2 When a Ukrainian underwater drone carrying approximately 300 kg of high explosive detonates against a concrete pier in a harbor, the resulting damage is governed primarily by underwater blast physics, rather than by kinetic penetration. A surface drone will create a different effect from an underwater one.

Let’s discuss the underwater explosion phenomenon briefly. This applies to a physically underwater drone, depth charges, or sea mines.

The first parameter is the yield, denoted as W. For high explosives (HE), yield is typically expressed in pounds (lbs) of TNT equivalent. In the case of nuclear explosions, yields are usually given in kilotons (kt), where 1 kt = 2,000,000 lbs of TNT equivalent (the Article about Poseidon briefly discusses the nuclear explosion near the coastline). The conversion factor between high-explosive and nuclear yields varies, but a value of 0.8 is commonly used as a practical approximation.

The second critical parameter is the depth of burst, z, defined as the vertical distance from the center of mass of the explosive charge to the free water surface. To normalize this depth across different yields, a scaled depth of burst is used:

Z = z x W^1/3

​where W is assumed to be linearly proportional to the volume of TNT equivalent, based on its specific weight (yield thus has dimensions of length cubed, L³).

The third parameter influencing wave generation efficiency is the water depth, d. In relatively shallow water—where the expanding gas bubble from the explosion interacts with the seabed—the resulting wave field is significantly altered compared to deep-water conditions.

Based on the interplay between explosive yield and water depth, submerged explosions are broadly classified into three categories according to the relative depth parameter.

D = d/W^1/3 (d is in feet and W is in lbs of TNT equivalent):

1. Deep Water Explosion D > 14-16

2. Intermediate Depth Explosion 1 < D < 14-16

3. Shallow Water Explosion D < 1-2

Shallow-water explosions are those in which the water depth is small relative to the explosion crater size. In this case, the ground is exposed, and the wave-generation mechanism is nonlinear, highly dissipative, and significantly different from that in deep-water explosions.

In very shallow water, such as in harbors or by piers, the wave generation process is significantly influenced by ground cratering. The explosion typically leaves behind a pronounced crater in the seabed, surrounded by a raised lip. The resulting debris is ejected into the atmosphere and falls back irregularly, introducing substantial noise into the primary wave field. Consequently, the wave generation process is, in principle, also dependent on the geotechnical properties of the seabed (e.g., soil type, density, and cohesion).

To date, however, this aspect has not been resolved quantitatively and will not be addressed in the present analysis. It is worth noting that some of the experimental data used to calibrate existing mathematical models were obtained over muddy bottoms. In the nuclear yield range, even rocky seabeds may behave similarly to muddy substrates in terms of wave generation, due to the immense energy involved, which can fracture and fluidize the bedrock.

To simplify data analysis and exclude the complicating effects of cratering, recent studies have focused on cases in which the water depth is sufficient to avoid significant bottom interaction.

The effects of an underwater explosion can be divided into two distinct phenomena: the shock wave and bubble pulsation. So, what are the distinctions between an underwater explosion and a blast in the air? First, while overpressure rises rapidly at the shock front in air and water, it falls quickly in an air explosion. As a result, peak values in water are much higher than peak values at the same distance from an equal explosion in the air. Second, in the next stand, the sound velocity in water is nearly five times that of air. As a result, it creates rapid waves in the water.

An underwater explosion generates a positing bubble, which can cause continuous stress on a target and may cause long-term damage even if the initial shock wave is avoided. As a result, targets are ideally attacked with beneath-the-keel explosions, which allow the target’s weight to be used against it by creating a void beneath it. The targets are crushed under their own weight. Although this method does not work for submerged targets, an exploding bubble adheres to the hull upon contact, and the cyclic stress from the expanding and contracting bubble can damage the hull.

An explosion of bottom mines in shallow-water regions is one of the most dangerous short-range (2-20 m) explosions. The pressure wave emitted by the button significantly increases the destruction of ships. Furthermore, the bubble’s pulsation generates additional shock waves. Underwater warheads use the interaction of the steam void created by the explosion with the target’s hull to be the most effective.

There are two types of bodies: surface bodies and submerged bodies. Underwater explosions are more damaging if they occur beneath the ship, and there’s a good reason for this if a warhead detonates beneath the boat. The bubble either lifts the keel to some extent or displaces water in that area. This area offers less buoyancy due to the lack of water, but the bow and stern are still supported. Aside from the shock wave, the stress in the midsection is caused by the ship falling into a hole in the water while the bow and stern are still supported by water.

In other words, the ship’s back is broken as it collapses under its own weight. The massive destruction is caused by explosions beneath the keel amidships. Blasts near the bow or stern do not usually cause the vessel to sink. Also, keep in mind that the bubble will expand and contract several times. As a result, even if the ship survives the first oscillation, it may be destroyed during the subsequent fluctuations. However, this phenomenon only occurs near the surface. The increased pressure and buoyancy of the surrounding water limit the effect of an explosion below to kill as you go deeper underwater.]

When an explosion occurs at or very near the water surface, as in the case of the surface drone, the behavior differs significantly from that of a deep-water explosion. The detonation produces a high-pressure shock wave that propagates through both the air and the water. Because water is much denser and far less compressible than air, a considerable portion of the explosive energy is transmitted into the water.

Immediately after detonation, the rapidly expanding gases displace the surrounding water and push the water surface away from the center of the explosion. This creates a large cavity, often referred to as a water crater, in the surface. At the same time, water is ejected upward and outward, forming a spray dome or water column. Depending on the size of the explosive charge and its exact position relative to the water surface, this column can reach considerable heights and is often one of the most visible effects of a surface explosion.

As the cavity expands, its growth gradually slows due to gravity and the surrounding water pressure. The cavity then begins to collapse, causing large volumes of water to rush back toward the center. This collapse is a highly energetic process and often generates some of the most significant surface disturbances. Circular gravity waves radiate outward from the blast location in all directions, forming a series of concentric wave fronts that travel across the water surface. In many cases, the largest waves are generated during the collapse phase rather than during the initial shock.

Unlike a deep underwater explosion, where a large gas bubble may remain submerged and undergo several cycles of expansion and contraction, a surface explosion allows much of the explosive gas to vent directly into the atmosphere. As a result, bubble pulsation effects are generally weaker and shorter-lived. A greater proportion of the explosive energy is dissipated through the formation of spray, airborne water droplets, and atmospheric shock waves.

The water column produced by the explosion eventually reaches its maximum height and begins to fall back toward the surface. The impact of this returning water can generate secondary waves and additional localized turbulence. The interaction between the falling mass of water and the surrounding surface may create a complex pattern of waves that propagate outward from the explosion site.

In shallow water, the process becomes even more complicated because the expanding cavity and the moving water can interact with the seabed. If the explosion is sufficiently powerful relative to the water depth, the seabed may influence the shape and evolution of the cavity. Sediments can be disturbed or displaced, and the resulting wave field may differ substantially from that observed in deep water. The characteristics of the seabed, including soil type, density, and cohesion, can affect how energy is transferred into wave generation and bottom deformation.

For structures such as piers, harbor facilities, and ships near the explosion, the damage mechanisms depend on the burst location. A surface explosion generally produces lower underwater shock pressures than an equivalent submerged detonation because a portion of the energy escapes into the atmosphere. However, it can still generate significant wave loading, water impact forces, air-blast effects, and fragmentation hazards. The rapidly moving water associated with cavity formation and collapse may impose substantial transient loads on nearby structures.

The overall sequence begins with detonation and shock wave propagation, followed by cavity formation, upward ejection of water and spray, cavity collapse, generation of outward-propagating surface waves, and eventual dissipation of the wave field. The exact behavior depends on the explosive yield, the position of the charge relative to the water surface, water depth, and the characteristics of the surrounding environment. In all cases, the interaction between explosive gases, water inertia, gravity, and atmospheric pressure governs the evolution of the surface disturbance and the resulting wave system.

Effects at the pier

The warhead detonates on contact inside the pier or in very close proximity to the pier face. This produces a high-intensity underwater shock wave, followed by the rapid expansion and collapse of a gas bubble.

Concrete structures typically suffer spalling, cracking, and localized material loss, particularly below the waterline. In reinforced concrete, the protective cover may fail, exposing or deforming reinforcing steel. While the pier may remain standing, it is often structurally weakened, especially at corners, joints, and foundation interfaces.

Based on the available imagery, the damage pattern suggests that the detonation occurred partially within or tightly confined by the pier corner, rather than fully in open water. This geometry would have caused a significant portion of the blast energy to be absorbed and reflected by the structure itself, rather than radiating freely into the harbor. As a result, the effective shock-wave energy propagating toward nearby vessels, particularly at oblique angles, would be substantially reduced compared to an unobstructed detonation.

Nearby harbor structures

Underwater shock waves propagate efficiently through water and are further influenced by reflections from the seabed and quay walls. Adjacent piers, piles, caissons, and submerged utilities may experience cracking, loosening, or misalignment, even in the absence of obvious surface damage. The confined geometry of a harbor basin can locally amplify pressure effects through multiple reflections.

Submarine approximately 20 m away

At a distance of roughly 20 meters, outright destruction of a submarine is unlikely. However, some level of shock loading remains possible and must be considered. In this case, the observed damage geometry suggests that the primary shock wave propagated at an estimated 40–45° angle relative to the submarine’s position, which would further reduce the effective impulse acting on the hull.

Modern submarines are designed with substantial safety margins to withstand nearby underwater explosions, including those from torpedoes or depth charges. Potential effects from such a shock wave could include:

- Transient hull and internal shock loading, stressing welds, frames, and equipment mounts
- Damage to external fittings, such as sonar domes, anechoic coatings, or exposed sensors
- Equipment shock within the pressure hull, affecting electronics, piping, or valves

Even without hull breach or permanent structural damage, a submarine may be temporarily mission-limited pending inspection. This is standard naval procedure following nearby underwater explosions. Given the apparent blast directionality and energy absorption by the pier, it is plausible that no significant hull damage occurred and that the submarine could return to operational status after routine checks.

Broader implications

While any extensive or moderate physical damage to the submarine is unlikely, the primary operational concern is the successful penetration of the harbor by an underwater attack drone. This highlights vulnerabilities in harbor security, surveillance, and underwater defense measures that would require immediate attention by the defending side... Russia was lucky this time...

Conversely, the successful execution of the mission underscores the role of the Ukrainian operators who likely launched the drone, as well as the NATO planning, intelligence, and surveillance support that enabled the operation; without such support, the operation would likely not have been possible.

Bottom line

The effectiveness of the explosion derives from hydrodynamic shock and gas-bubble effects, which can compromise harbor infrastructure and nearby vessels—even without catastrophic structural failure. However, in this scenario, structural absorption and blast directionality likely mitigated the impact on the nearby submarine, reducing the likelihood of damage despite the detonation’s proximity.

What follows are a few observations, along with a simple conceptual diagram of shockwave propagation.

The displacement of the metal plate and the manhole cover indicates that a significant portion of the shockwave was directed upward in that area. This strongly suggests that the overpressure acted from below rather than laterally. Additionally, available screenshots show a substantial volume of port mud and sediment, which would have partially absorbed and dampened the blast energy. This sediment layer plays an important role in attenuating peak pressures and reducing the destructive radius.

Although underwater explosions are highly complex phenomena involving nonlinear pressure waves, cavitation, reflections, and energy dissipation, it is still possible to make reasonable first-order estimates. In this case, the initial shockwave would have propagated radially from the detonation point, with a significant portion reflecting off the seabed. This reflected wave then traveled upward, reinforcing the upward-directed pressure and likely causing the manhole cover to lift.

The most plausible scenario is that the underwater drone penetrated approximately 2–3 meters inside the pier structure before detonating. This geometry would explain both the localized damage and the limited effect on nearby vessels. In this instance, the Russian Black Sea Fleet was fortunate: the blast energy appears to have been largely contained and dissipated by the pier structure and surrounding sediment, preventing more damage.

Conclusion on the Submarine Attack

In the aftermath of the submarine attack, several photographs and satellite images of the site have appeared online. These images clearly show that the pier sustained structural damage and that the detonation occurred inside the pier, most likely at a depth of approximately 6–7 meters from its outer edge. The destruction of the pier’s corner is a distinctive signature of this type of attack and strongly supports the assessment that the explosive device penetrated the structure before detonating.

The submarine itself appears to be in its normal moored position, with no signs of sinking, listing, or visible damage to the stern or pressure hull. This indicates that the primary blast energy was vented upward, demolishing part of the pier rather than being transmitted horizontally toward the vessel. The combination of shallow water, seabed sediment, and port mud likely absorbed a substantial portion of the explosive energy. While a reduced-intensity shockwave undoubtedly reached the submarine, it was almost certainly below the threshold required to cause structural or systems damage.

It is therefore reasonable to assume that Russian engineers will conduct a thorough inspection of the submarine, but barring unexpected findings, it is likely to return to operational status within one to two weeks. Moreover, the Russian Black Sea Fleet reportedly relocated additional submarines to safer locations before or shortly after the incident, and the affected basin is now under heightened protection.

From an operational standpoint, this was a daring and technically competent attempt by the Ukrainian side, likely carried out with crucial external assistance—possibly advisory, planning, or technical support from NATO-linked elements. Nevertheless, the attack achieved limited material results. For Russia, the incident represents a valuable lesson, and it is highly likely that port defenses, pier protection, and counter‑drone measures will be reorganized and reinforced on a much larger scale.

For Ukraine, the attack was largely symbolic. While it may provide a short-term morale boost and fuel online narratives among supporters, its strategic impact is minimal. Looking ahead, similar attacks along the Black Sea coast remain a possibility, but they also reinforce Russia’s incentive to neutralize Ukraine’s remaining maritime access. A scenario in which Russia captures Odesa would effectively landlock Ukraine and eliminate such attack vectors altogether.

There is also the unresolved question of the drone’s launch point. Possibilities include deployment from a passing neutral commercial vessel or launch from locations such as Georgia or Turkey. Without a full degree of NATO involvement, direct or indirect, such an operation would have been extremely difficult to execute.

In any case, the war continues, and Ukraine’s strategic position continues to deteriorate incrementally with time.

Ukrainian long arm - drones far away from Ukraine

The discovery of an unmanned surface vessel, reportedly of the Ukrainian MAGURA V5 type, near the Greek island of Lefkada has generated significant interest among military analysts and security authorities. The incident has raised questions not only about the drone’s intended mission but also about the potential expansion of naval drone operations into the central Mediterranean.

Following the recovery of the vessel, specialist bomb disposal teams conducted a controlled detonation of a portion of the explosive material found onboard. According to Greek media reports, approximately 300 kilograms of explosive material had been mounted in a barrel at the bow of the drone.

Greek admiral of the Hellenic Coast Guard Nikos Spanos commented that the shockwave generated by the explosion, despite occurring in shallow water and under controlled conditions, demonstrated the destructive potential of the system. According to his assessment, the effects would have been considerably greater had the drone impacted a target while carrying its full operational payload.

The incident has fueled speculation regarding the vessel’s intended target. Using satellite imagery and exclusive footage, STAR TV reported that several Russian vessels operating in the Mediterranean were likely the mission’s objective. The images reportedly showed the movements of a Russian convoy that had recently transited areas south of Crete and near Malta.

According to various media reports and analyst assessments, a group of Russian oil tankers escorted by the frigate Kasatonov was sailing toward the Syrian port of Tartus during the period in question. The timing and location of the drone’s discovery have led some observers to conclude that these vessels may have been the intended target. However, no official confirmation supporting this theory has been released.

Military analysts note that the operational concept behind modern naval drones is to exploit intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance data to intercept targets in international waters. Speaking to STAR TV, unmanned vessel specialist Vangelis Xanthakis described such systems as effectively functioning as guided surface torpedoes. According to his assessment, operators monitor maritime traffic and direct the vessel toward a selected target once an opportunity presents itself.

Reports concerning the explosive payload carried by the Lefkada drone have varied. Some sources indicate that the vessel carried approximately 100 kilograms of explosive material, while others reported larger quantities discovered during the recovery process. Regardless of the exact figure, the incident highlights the increasing lethality of modern unmanned surface vessels and their ability to threaten both military and commercial shipping.

The reported identification of the vessel as a MAGURA V5 is particularly noteworthy. The MAGURA family has become one of Ukraine’s most recognizable naval drone programs and has been employed extensively in Black Sea operations. The appearance of such a platform in the Mediterranean, if confirmed, would suggest a significant expansion in operational range and logistical support capabilities.

An equally important aspect of the investigation concerns the possible launch location of the drone. Greek security authorities are reportedly examining several possibilities, including facilities in Vlora, Albania, and the port of Misrata in western Libya. Both locations have attracted attention due to reports alleging the presence of Ukrainian personnel and drone specialists. Some investigations have suggested that Ukraine maintains a military presence in these areas, although the extent and nature of these activities remain the subject of debate.

The possibility that Mediterranean ports could serve as staging areas for long-range naval drone operations introduces a new strategic dimension to maritime security in the region. If such infrastructure exists, it would indicate a broader operational network extending far beyond the Black Sea and into key Mediterranean sea lanes.

Meanwhile, the official investigation into the discovery of the vessel continues under the supervision of the Lefkada Port Authority and the direction of the prosecutor’s office. Authorities are examining the circumstances surrounding the drone’s recovery, including witness statements from local fishermen who towed the vessel to the port of Vasiliki.

Particular attention has focused on reports that two Bulgarian nationals were among the first to observe the drone near Cape Dukato and reportedly helped separate it from its surroundings before authorities arrived. Questions remain regarding whether these individuals have been formally interviewed, how they came to be present at the location, and whether they remain available to investigators.

Although many details surrounding the incident remain unclear, the discovery of the drone represents a significant security event. Beyond the immediate investigation, the case highlights the growing importance of unmanned maritime systems and raises broader questions regarding their operational reach, logistical support networks, and potential use.

Constata - jammed drones or calculated provocation?

The reported appearance of a Ukrainian naval drone near the Romanian port of Constanța has generated significant debate regarding both the circumstances of the incident and the explanations that followed. Of particular interest are subsequent Ukrainian statements suggesting that the drone may have been affected by electronic warfare measures and lost its intended course after being jammed.

From a military perspective, such an explanation is plausible. Modern unmanned systems depend heavily on communications links, satellite navigation, and electronic systems that can be disrupted by hostile countermeasures. Electronic warfare has become a defining feature of the conflict, and both sides have repeatedly claimed success in interfering with the opponent’s drones and guided weapons.

At the same time, the timing of the explanation has prompted skepticism among some observers. Critics argue that the jamming narrative may serve not only as a technical explanation but also as a form of political damage control. If a drone entered the territorial waters of a NATO member and approached critical civilian infrastructure, questions regarding responsibility, mission planning, and operational oversight would inevitably follow. In such circumstances, attributing the incident to electronic interference may help reduce political fallout and limit diplomatic consequences.

The strategic significance of Constanța further amplifies these concerns. As Romania’s largest port and one of the most important logistics hubs in the Black Sea region, Constanța plays a critical role in commercial trade, energy shipments, military logistics, and the movement of Ukrainian exports. Any incident involving an armed unmanned vessel in the vicinity of the port carries implications that extend well beyond the immediate event itself.

One aspect that deserves particular attention is the potential for unintended escalation. Even if the drone was not directed against Romanian infrastructure, the presence of an explosive-laden vessel near a major commercial port creates the risk of secondary effects that could far exceed the damage caused by the drone’s warhead alone.

A frequently discussed theoretical scenario involves the proximity of industrial facilities storing hazardous materials. Ports commonly handle large quantities of fuel, chemicals, fertilizers, and other industrial products. If an explosion were to occur near a warehouse containing substantial quantities of ammonium nitrate, the consequences could be dramatically amplified. Historical incidents have demonstrated that under certain conditions, ammonium nitrate can contribute to catastrophic secondary explosions, producing blast effects many times greater than the initiating event.

This does not mean that such an outcome was likely in the Constanța case, nor does it imply that any specific facility was in immediate danger. However, the scenario illustrates the broader risks associated with armed drones operating near densely developed port infrastructure. In such environments, the greatest danger may not come from the drone itself but from the chain reaction that could result if critical facilities or hazardous materials are involved.

The incident, therefore, raises broader questions regarding the growing use of long-range naval drones outside traditional combat zones. As these systems become more capable and operate over greater distances, the possibility of navigation failures, communication losses, targeting errors, or unintended escalation becomes increasingly important. Whether the reported drone reached the area due to jamming, operator error, mission failure, or some other cause remains a matter for investigation.

What is clear is that the event highlights the potential vulnerability of major ports and coastal infrastructure to unmanned maritime systems. It also demonstrates how quickly a relatively small weapon can become a strategic issue when it appears near critical infrastructure belonging to a NATO member state. Until a complete technical and forensic investigation is conducted, competing explanations will continue to circulate. The claim of electronic jamming may ultimately prove correct, but it will likely remain the subject of debate among analysts who view it either as a legitimate explanation or as an attempt to mitigate the political consequences of an embarrassing and potentially dangerous incident.

Conclusion

Ukraine’s naval drone program has emerged as one of the most innovative developments of the current conflict. Systems such as the MAGURA V5 and Sea Baby have demonstrated the ability to operate over long distances, strike maritime targets, and challenge a conventionally superior naval force. Their success has attracted the attention of military planners worldwide and highlighted the growing importance of unmanned maritime warfare.

A key factor behind these capabilities is the integration of modern communications, satellite navigation, real-time surveillance, and intelligence support. While Ukraine develops and operates these systems, it also benefits from extensive military, technological, and intelligence assistance from Western partners. Access to satellite imagery, maritime surveillance data, communications networks, and other forms of support provides a level of situational awareness that would otherwise be almost impossible to achieve. More and more, it is a war between NATO and Russia, where Ukraine is just the one to execute the dirty work and take casualties for the prosperity of the so-called Western partners.

As the operational range of naval drones increases, so does the possibility of “intentional” incidents occurring far from traditional combat zones. Drones operating across the Black Sea and potentially into other parts of the Mediterranean raise concerns about navigation failures, misidentification of targets, and unintended encounters with civilian or third-country infrastructure. Such incidents could rapidly develop into broader political or military crises.

Some analysts have argued that attacks involving long-range naval drones carry an inherent risk of escalation. In their view, operations conducted near the territory, ports, or shipping routes of NATO member states could create situations in which responsibility becomes disputed, and political tensions rise sharply. Supporters of this argument suggest that even a limited incident could generate pressure for a stronger international response and increase the risk of direct confrontation between Russia and Western countries.

Others reject this interpretation, arguing that Ukraine’s primary objective remains the disruption of Russian military and logistical activities rather than the deliberate creation of a wider conflict. They note that any action resulting in direct confrontation between Russia and NATO would carry enormous risks for all parties involved and would therefore be contrary to the interests of both Ukraine and its Western supporters.

Regardless of intent, the combination of increasingly capable naval drones and extensive intelligence support has created a new strategic reality. Operations that were once impossible are now technically feasible, while the distinction between local military actions and events with broader geopolitical consequences is increasingly blurred. As unmanned maritime systems continue to evolve, managing the risks of escalation may become as important as the tactical advantages these weapons provide.

Last but not least, what goes around comes around

The rapid evolution of naval drone warfare in the Black Sea has demonstrated that sophisticated maritime attacks are no longer the exclusive domain of major military powers. One of the most significant lessons emerging from recent conflicts is that relatively inexpensive unmanned surface vessels (USVs) can pose a serious threat to some of the world’s most advanced naval forces.

The technologies required to construct a basic naval drone are no longer difficult to obtain. Commercial satellite navigation systems, marine engines, communications equipment, cameras, autopilots, and explosive payloads are widely available on the civilian market. A determined non-state actor, criminal organization, terrorist group, or rogue network with modest technical expertise could potentially assemble an effective naval attack platform at a fraction of the cost of a conventional missile or torpedo.

The greatest concern is not the destruction of large naval bases but the ability to target high-value assets at vulnerable moments. Submarines, for example, are among the most expensive and strategically important assets in any navy. Yet they are particularly vulnerable while entering or leaving port, navigating restricted channels, or operating near harbor entrances. During these phases, their maneuverability is limited, their routes are often predictable, and they may be operating on the surface or at shallow depth.

A naval drone does not necessarily need to sink a submarine to achieve strategic success. Even a relatively small explosive charge detonated against the hull could cause significant structural damage, flooding, or damage to critical sensors, propulsion systems, or external equipment. Modern submarines require extensive inspection and repair following any suspected hull damage. A successful strike could potentially remove a vessel from operational service for months or even years while repairs and safety certifications are completed.

This vulnerability extends beyond submarines. Aircraft carriers, amphibious assault ships, guided missile destroyers, logistics vessels, and fuel ships could all become attractive targets. The financial asymmetry is striking. A drone costing tens of thousands of dollars could potentially disable an asset worth hundreds of millions or even billions.

The United States is not immune to this threat. Naval facilities on both the Atlantic and Pacific coasts contain concentrated collections of high-value vessels operating in relatively constrained maritime environments. Bases such as those supporting submarine operations present obvious targets for actors seeking maximum strategic effect from minimal investment.

The same concerns apply to the United Kingdom. British nuclear submarines operating from Faslane must transit predictable waterways before reaching open ocean. Similarly, France’s strategic submarine force relies on a limited number of facilities and transit routes. In both cases, hostile actors could theoretically exploit geographical constraints to increase the probability of a successful attack.

Other NATO navies may be even more vulnerable. Many operate from ports near civilian shipping lanes, commercial infrastructure, and densely populated coastal regions. The challenge of distinguishing a hostile drone from ordinary maritime traffic becomes increasingly difficult as autonomous systems become smaller, cheaper, and more numerous.

Another factor contributing to the threat is the growing availability of artificial intelligence, autonomous navigation, and commercial communications technologies. Systems that once required the resources of a nation-state can now be assembled using commercially available components. As demonstrated in recent conflicts, maritime drones can operate over long distances, coordinate with other unmanned systems, and exploit gaps in traditional naval defenses.

The implications for naval security are profound. For decades, naval planners focused primarily on threats from submarines, anti-ship missiles, aircraft, and mines. The emergence of low-cost unmanned maritime systems introduces a new category of threat that is difficult to detect, inexpensive to deploy, and capable of producing disproportionate strategic effects.

The challenge facing Western navies is therefore not merely technological but conceptual. Defending against a handful of sophisticated adversaries is one thing; protecting critical naval infrastructure against potentially numerous low-cost systems operated by non-state actors is another. As the barriers to entry continue to fall, the threat posed by improvised or commercially derived naval drones is likely to become a permanent feature of the maritime security environment.

Recent events have shown that naval drones are no longer experimental weapons. They are becoming a practical tool capable of threatening some of the world’s most valuable military assets. The question is no longer whether such systems can be used against major naval powers, but whether existing defenses are sufficient to stop them before a serious attack occurs.

[i] Edited by Piquet (EditPiquet@gmail.com)

Since the opening days of the Special Military Operation (or often called Full-Scale Russian Invasion in the West), the dominant Western narrative has portrayed the Russian advance toward Kiev as the main effort of the invasion: a bold attempt to seize the Ukrainian capital, decapitate the government, and force a rapid Ukrainian surrender. According to this interpretation, the Russian withdrawal from northern Ukraine in March and April 2022 represented a major strategic defeat and one of the most consequential failures of the war.

However, a closer examination of the campaign raises a fundamental question: was the operation around Kiev ever intended to be the decisive battle that many believed it to be?

A realistic analysis suggests that what became known as the “Battle for Kiev” was not a battle for Kiev at all. Rather than constituting the main effort of the invasion, the operation appears to have functioned as a large-scale diversionary and fixing operation designed to tie down Ukrainian forces while Russia pursued its primary strategic objectives elsewhere, particularly in southern Ukraine.

Looking Beyond the Headlines

One of the fundamental problems in analyzing the war is that many commentators and self-proclaimed experts begin by defining Russia’s objectives according to their own assumptions rather than examining what Russian leaders and military planners actually stated or appeared to prioritize. Once these assumed objectives are established, it becomes easy to claim that Russia has failed simply because it did not achieve goals that may never have been part of its original strategy.

This approach often leads to circular reasoning. Analysts first decide what Russia intended to accomplish, then evaluate the campaign against those self-defined objectives. If the battlefield outcome differs from those expectations, the conclusion is presented as evidence of failure. However, serious military analysis requires a different methodology.

The starting point should be facts rather than assumptions. This means examining official statements, force deployments, operational patterns, logistics, resource allocation, and the strategic outcomes that were actually pursued and achieved. Military campaigns are rarely as simple as they appear in headlines, and intentions cannot be determined solely by observing the direction of an advance on a map.

The opening phase of the war provides a clear example. Much of the public discussion focused on the assumption that the capture of Kiev was Russia’s primary objective. Yet a closer examination of force ratios, operational priorities, and the enduring gains achieved elsewhere raises legitimate questions about whether the campaign was intended to accomplish what many Western observers believed.

Regardless of one’s conclusions, objective analysis requires separating assumptions from evidence. Before determining whether a strategy succeeded or failed, it is necessary to establish what the strategy actually was. Only then can the results be evaluated fairly and accurately.

In military history, appearances can be deceiving. Large troop movements, dramatic airborne assaults, and advances toward politically significant objectives often create perceptions that differ from actual operational intent.

The Russian advance from Belarus toward Kiev certainly appeared threatening. Columns of armored vehicles moved south, airborne troops attempted to seize Hostomel Airport, and Russian forces approached the capital from multiple directions. For political leaders, journalists, and outside observers, the conclusion seemed obvious: Russia intended to capture Kiev.

Yet military operations are not judged by appearances alone. They must be examined in terms of force structure, logistics, operational priorities, and the strategic outcomes ultimately achieved.

When viewed through this lens, the campaign begins to look very different.

The Force Problem

Capturing a modern city of nearly three million people is among the most demanding operations in warfare. History demonstrates that urban assaults require overwhelming manpower, extensive logistical support, sustained artillery operations, and sufficient forces not only to seize a city but also to occupy and control it afterward.

Kiev was not Baghdad in 2003, where coalition forces enjoyed complete air superiority and overwhelming technological advantages. Nor was it Prague in 1968, where Soviet forces entered a largely non-resistant city. Kiev was a large, heavily defended capital whose population and military were fully mobilized.

The force allocated to the northern axis raises important questions. While substantial enough to pose a credible threat, it appeared insufficient for the prolonged capture and occupation of a city the size of Kiev.

This discrepancy becomes difficult to ignore. If the objective was truly to seize and hold the Ukrainian capital, why was a force of such limited size assigned to the task?

The answer may lie in understanding what military planners call a fixing operation.

The Art of Fixing the Enemy

A fixing operation is designed not to capture territory but to compel an opponent to commit forces to a particular sector, preventing them from reinforcing other areas where decisive operations are taking place.

Throughout history, armies have used demonstrations, feints, and diversionary offensives to manipulate enemy decision-making. The goal is psychological as much as military. By creating a credible threat, a commander forces the opponent to react.

In the case of Kiev, the threat itself may have been the objective.

No government can risk abandoning its capital during the opening phase of a war. As long as Russian forces remained near Kiev, Ukrainian leaders had little choice but to keep substantial military formations defending the city and its approaches.

Every brigade positioned around Kiev was a brigade unavailable elsewhere.

From this perspective, the operation’s success did not depend on entering Kiev. It depended on convincing Ukraine that Russia intended to do so.

The Real Campaign in the South

While global attention focused on Kiev, some of the war’s most consequential developments occurred hundreds of kilometers away.

Russian forces advancing from Crimea achieved rapid and significant gains. Within days, they secured the North Crimean Canal, restoring water supplies to Crimea after years of restrictions. They captured most of Kherson Oblast, established a continuous land corridor connecting Russia and Crimea, advanced through Melitopol, and helped isolate Mariupol.

These gains were not incidental.

The land bridge to Crimea had immense military, economic, and political significance. It addressed longstanding logistical vulnerabilities and connected territories that had previously depended on vulnerable transportation links.

Unlike the temporary Russian presence north of Kiev, many of the gains achieved in the south had enduring strategic value.

This raises another important question: if Kiev was the primary objective, why did the most substantial and lasting successes occur elsewhere?

Hostomel: A Battle of Perception

The airborne assault on Hostomel Airport became one of the defining images of the war’s opening hours. To many observers, it appeared to confirm that Russia intended a rapid strike against the capital.

Yet airborne operations often serve broader purposes than simply seizing terrain.

The assault immediately elevated fears of an imminent attack on Kiev. Ukrainian commanders were forced to react. Reinforcements were redirected, defensive preparations accelerated, and attention focused on protecting the capital.

Hostomel was intended as part of a larger deception effort. What is beyond dispute is that it amplified the perception that Kiev was the central objective.

That perception alone had significant operational consequences.

The Political Dimension

Wars are fought not only on battlefields but also in the minds of political leaders.

The threat to Kiev generated enormous psychological pressure on the Ukrainian government. It also shaped international perceptions of the conflict. Western governments, intelligence agencies, and media organizations concentrated their attention on the capital, reinforcing the belief that the fate of the war would be decided there.

This focus may have obscured the broader operational picture.

While attention remained fixed on Kiev, Russian forces were consolidating positions in the south and establishing conditions that would shape the conflict for years to come.

In this sense, the operation had effects that extended far beyond the battlefield itself.

Withdrawal and Interpretation

When Russian forces withdrew from northern Ukraine in late March and early April 2022, after the Ukrainians initially agreed to the Russian conditions, the event was widely interpreted as evidence of a failed offensive.

Certainly, Ukrainian resistance played an important role. Russian forces encountered determined opposition, logistical difficulties, and operational challenges that complicated their advance.

Yet withdrawal alone does not necessarily prove that the original objective was the capture of Kiev.

If the primary purpose of the northern operation was to immobilize Ukrainian forces while strategic objectives were secured elsewhere, then the redeployment of those forces after the southern campaign had achieved its initial goals becomes easier to understand.

This does not mean that the operation was executed flawlessly or that Russian planners achieved everything they intended. Military campaigns rarely unfold exactly as planned. However, it does suggest that measuring success solely by whether Russian troops entered central Kiev may be an oversimplification.

A Campaign Misunderstood

One of the enduring lessons of military history is that battles are often misunderstood even as they are being fought.

The campaign around Kiev may ultimately prove to be one of those cases.

The conventional narrative depicts a failed attempt to capture the Ukrainian capital. An alternative interpretation views the operation as a large-scale diversion designed to shape Ukrainian decision-making and create opportunities elsewhere.

The evidence supporting this interpretation is substantial: the relatively limited force assigned to the operation, the absence of sufficient occupation forces, the strategic significance of the southern campaign, and the lasting gains achieved far from Kiev.

Viewed in this context, the so-called Battle for Kiev begins to look less like a failed assault on a capital and more like one of the largest fixing operations of the modern era.

Conclusion

The events of early 2022 are likely to remain the subject of debate for decades, especially among the “Western experts”. Access to additional Russian operational records may eventually provide definitive answers regarding Moscow’s intentions.

Yet one conclusion already appears increasingly difficult to ignore: the campaign around Kiev was not the decisive battle it was presented as in much of the Western media.

The threat to Kiev tied down Ukrainian forces, shaped strategic decisions, and dominated international attention. Meanwhile, the most significant territorial and operational gains were made in southern Ukraine, where Russia secured objectives that continue to shape the course of the war.

Whether one views the northern operation as a failed offensive, a successful diversion, or a combination of both, the notion that the war’s opening phase can be understood solely through the lens of a Russian attempt to seize Kiev is increasingly difficult to sustain.

The “Battle for Kiev” may ultimately be remembered not as the battle that determined the war, but as the battle that was never truly intended to be fought in the way the world believed.

If you like the article (and many more articles regarding military subjects will come), you can buy me a coffee:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/mmihajloviW

[i] Edited by Piquet (EditPiquet@gmail.com)

As Operation Fierce Fury, or perhaps “Epstein’s Fury”, is unleashed against Iran, the United States is introducing the crème de la crème of its forces in an attempt to break Iranian defenses and overthrow the mullah regime. Besides the B-2, which was already used during the so-called 12-day war, the second heavy puncher, though not as glamorous as the B-2, the B-1B bomber, has allegedly attacked targets inside Iran.

There is no reason to believe that the United States is lying (surprisingly) about this. The aging bomber was indeed used, which, for some, offers hope for a quick resolution of the war. But a bomber is still just a bomber, and without a nuclear payload, it cannot, in reality, achieve much on its own. Considering the salesman mentality involved, everything related to the United States tends to be about 70 percent marketing and 30 percent reality.

This article will not focus on the B-1B’s actions in Iran, as it is simply too early for that, and there will be plenty of time to analyze them. Instead, it aims to shed light on a previous campaign, or, more precisely, an aggression, this time against a small country forty times smaller than Iran, equipped with outdated air defenses that nevertheless managed to inflict serious damage on the mighty NATO coalition, delivering a few painful stings despite the imbalance of power.

This is the story of the B-1B against Yugoslavia and of some lesser-known events during and after that campaign.

B-1B Lancer – strike first

What is a better way than to use the US airmen’s own words to describe their actions:

Captain Gerald Goodfellow
(as published in1)

The first B-1B mission occurred on 2 April against the Novi Sad petroleum production facility at Pančevo, northeast of Belgrade. Although Operation Allied Force was originally limited to only “tactical” targets at the start of the campaign, it became clear that hitting such sites alone would not persuade President Milošević to fold. Instead, the target set was expanded to cover “strategic” installations such as the Novi Sad facility, which was literally helping to oil the Serbian war machine.

The combined load of 168 Mk 82 “slicks” dropped from the two bombers that were sortied had no trouble knocking out key sections of the plant. These Mk 82 bombs were lined up on an ammunition handling truck, waiting to be loaded into the weapons bay of the 77th BS Lancer parked in the background. The access ladder in the crew compartment was down, and the aircraft awaited the arrival of the four-man team who would fly the bomber over Western Europe and the Adriatic Sea, then on to its targets in Serbia and Kosovo (B-1B Systems Program Office).

However, after the bomb run, the weapons bay doors on one of the B-1Bs failed to close. The Lancer was subsequently targeted by a Serbian SAM and, through a combination of defensive maneuvers, chaff, and electronic countermeasures, defeated the missile. The weapon succeeded in forcing the bomber into the engagement zone of a second SAM; however, the crew also defeated it.

According to the pilot, Captain Gerald Goodfellow, your training kicks in at the first indication of a SAM launch. It feels very natural. You don’t really think about it until later, when the mission is completed. You take on an almost business-like attitude.

“You have to beat that missile. When I’m up there, my biggest worry isn’t about getting shot down, but about missing the target. As a whole, the crew is concentrating as one, putting those bombs on target.”

“Comment: Typical arrogant U.S. Air Force behavior. In reality, once illuminated by a fire-control radar, no matter how professional or mission-focused the individual or crew may be, the instinct for self-preservation inevitably takes over. Whatever the mission objective, the immediate priority becomes getting out of the danger zone as quickly as possible.”

The open weapons bay doors and the maneuvering of the aircraft caused Goodfellow’s Lancer to use more fuel than anticipated, leaving the bomber with insufficient fuel to return directly to Fairford. During the mission, the B-1B was also reportedly struck by lightning, which blew off a section of the aircraft’s horizontal stabilizer, but the crew still managed to bring the aircraft home.

Goodfellow remembered that “we felt a huge relief at the completion of the mission. The SAMs came closer than we’d anticipated, and after thinking about it for a couple of days, we were glad to have survived.”

…

Important: “Lancer 85-0075 of the 77th BS sits under a partially cloudy Gloucestershire sky whilst being readied for another mission to Serbia. This aircraft left Fairford a mere 11 days after its arrival. The jet’s early departure, in contrast with some of the other aircraft deployed, may have been due to mechanical problems (B-1B Program Office).”

…

General John Jumper

“The pair of B-1Bs came down south over the Adriatic Sea in formation with their ALE-50 towed decoys deployed, and we watched the radars in Montenegro track the bombers as they turned the corner around Macedonia and headed up into Kosovo. We watched the radars, in real time, hand off the targets to the SA-6s, which came upon full target track and fired their missiles. Those missiles took the ALE-50s off the back end of the B-1s just like they were designed to…”

It is clear that not many details of this mission are revealed in these citations, except praise for the professionalism of the American airmen and the quality of the equipment.

However, years later, in an audio interview that General Goodfellow gave to his nephew, some additional interesting details were revealed. He further explained known aspects of the mission but also disclosed something new.

The following are excerpts:

After the bomb run at the first target and the failure to close the bomb bay doors, his aircraft was caught in a missile-guiding radar beam. He observed the launch of the first missile and attempted evasive action. At one moment, his aircraft broke the sound barrier, reaching 1.6 Mach at an altitude of 20,000 feet (about 6,000 m). Through evasive maneuvers, he tried to position the AN/ALE-50 towed decoy between the plane and the missile.

At one moment, the whole crew registered a loud explosion. The next thing they saw was a second missile that, after about 10 seconds, flew over them.

The evasive maneuvers and afterburner use caused much higher fuel consumption, so they had to refuel before returning to the UK base. During landing, lightning reportedly struck the horizontal stabilizer. At the moment of touchdown, the bomb bay doors suddenly closed.

What is interesting in this extended interview is the acknowledgment of an explosion in proximity, but proximity to what? Was it near the towed decoy, or near the airplane itself? If the crew heard the explosion inside an aircraft flying supersonically, with airflow noise, instrumentation sounds, and jet engines operating at high power, it suggests that the explosion was very close. The 3M9 missile’s proximity fuse is set to activate at approximately 10–20 meters from the target.

The description of the second missile that “flew over the airplane” may have a different meaning than the crew assumed. If the missile flew over the airplane, that could imply it was guided toward the aircraft. Otherwise, if it had been guided to the towed decoy, it would likely have flown over the decoy, which trails approximately one hundred meters behind.

Based on the missile’s technical performance and guidance method, it is possible that the first missile was guided toward the aircraft and that the warhead detonated behind it, between the towed decoy and the airplane, but closer to the aircraft itself. The crew heard the explosion, and some warhead fragments may have struck the horizontal stabilizer.

It is important to state that this kind of damage would be minimal and would not necessarily jeopardize aircraft functionality. After landing at Fairford, the aircraft was withdrawn from combat service for repairs and replaced by another airframe. It most likely did not conduct further combat missions against Yugoslavia, although it remains operational.

According to the crew, the aircraft was struck by lightning at about 200 feet (approximately 60 m) during landing, but was able to land safely. A routine inspection was performed immediately. The crew revealed the information about the lightning strike. Regarding the American bomber crew, they are airmen, not specialized technical investigators capable of immediately determining the precise cause of the damage. Such information would come from maintenance technicians or engineering analysis. Since then, the lightning explanation has remained the accepted narrative.

Boeing confirms that the majority of lightning strikes occur between 5,000 and 15,000 feet (1,524 to 4,572 meters). In the interview, Goodfellow stated that it was his first experience with a lightning strike on an aircraft.

Lighting effect and what may happen

It is notable that no public photos exist of the damaged stabilizer, even though bird strikes and hail damage on fighters and other aircraft are often documented. Additionally, there are no meteorological records confirming lightning in the Fairford area on that day, and Fairford is not known for frequent lightning activity. Around 03:00 GMT (04:00 local British time - BST), lightning was recorded near Gloucester, approximately 30 km northwest, outside the B‑1B’s flight path. Considering that the refinery was struck at 02:30 AM local time (01:30 BST) and the return flight to Fairford took roughly two hours at cruise speed, the aircraft would have landed around 03:30 BST, about half an hour before the lightning recorded 30 km away.

From the still available British Isles weather reports2:

“On the 2nd patchy bands of rain moved from the SW to NE across Ireland, Wales and England, becoming weaker as they moved N. In the Gloucester area there was a spectacular display of lightning around 0300 GMT from a line of thunderstorms that developed along a cold front. Cloud in Scotland cleared overnight to give a light frost in places by dawn, followed by warm conditions during the day except along the E coast where a cool sea kept temperatures low again. Away from the rain, England and Wales remained mainly cloudy. (Lusa 20C, Aboyne -1C, Prestatyn 14mm, Cromer 9.9h.)”

To further examine this, I conducted an analysis that included a review of the weather in the region during that week. Interestingly, UK weather stations maintained records regarding storms and lightning activity, and at the time when the Lancer landed, there was no recorded lightning in the area, but rather 30 km north-west. To be on the safe side, I also made several phone calls and, after some time and a few attempts, had a conversation regarding the accuracy of the weather reports. The person confirmed that their data was accurate but asked why I was interested in that particular area, noting that a large air force base is located there. Some time later, the data disappeared from their website, citing that the records had become obsolete.

It is also possible that the lightning explanation served to preserve morale among bomber crews. It would not have been encouraging to announce that a modern fourth-generation bomber on its first combat mission had been damaged by a second-generation missile. Additionally, the effectiveness of the AN/ALE-50 decoy system, which had been installed only shortly before deployment, could have come into question.

Another point of interest is that the aircraft was later reported to have returned to the United States due to “mechanical problems.” The question is: what kind of mechanical problems? A mechanical issue could include structural damage to stabilizers and control systems that could not be repaired by field maintenance units and required specialized tools or manufacturer support.

It is worth noting that aircraft are designed to withstand lightning strikes. Since most aircraft skin is aluminum, which conducts electricity well, lightning current typically flows along the exterior, a practical application of the Faraday cage principle. Lightning more commonly strikes vertical stabilizers or wing edges, although strikes on horizontal stabilizers are possible. Penetrating damage is not impossible, but statistically rare.

Perhaps it was lightning, but the kind that came from the ground.

To conclude with a probabilistic question: what is the likelihood that the only B-1B forced to abandon its mission due to unspecified “mechanical problems” was also the only one that reported a surface-to-air missile engagement?

For comparison, rumors persisted for years that, in addition to the downed F-117A over Serbian territory, another F-117A had been damaged during the campaign. For two decades, U.S. officials denied this until one of the pilots publicly acknowledged that the aircraft had indeed been damaged and withdrawn from service for the duration of the war.

We will stop here and allow readers to draw their own conclusions.

So ended the first combat bomb drop by B-1B bombers.

This story is also covered in:

How aircraft are protected against lightning strikes

The following is about lightning protection: The highest probability of lightning attachment to an airplane occurs at the outer extremities, such as the wing tip, nose, or rudder. Lightning strikes occur most often during the climb and descent phases of flight at altitudes of 5,000 to 15,000 feet (1,524 to 4,572 meters). The probability of a lightning strike decreases significantly above 20,000 feet (6,096 meters).3

Seventy percent of all lightning strikes occur in the presence of rain. There is a strong relationship between temperatures around 32 degrees F (0 degrees C) and lightning strikes on airplanes. Most lightning strikes on airplanes occur at near-freezing temperatures.

Conditions that cause precipitation may also cause the storage of electrical energy in clouds. The availability of electrical energy is associated with precipitation and cloud formation. Most lightning strikes affecting airplanes occur during spring and summer.

Although 70 percent of lightning-strike events occur during precipitation, lightning can affect airplanes up to five miles away from the electrical center of the cloud. Approximately 42 percent of the lightning strikes reported by airline pilots were experienced with no thunderstorms reported in the immediate area.

During the initial stages of a lightning strike on an airplane, a glow may be seen on the nose or wing tips caused by ionization of the air surrounding the leading edges or sharp points on the airplane’s structure. This ionization is caused by an increase in electromagnetic field density at those locations.

In the next stage of the strike, a stepped leader may extend from the airplane into an ionized area, seeking the large amount of lightning energy in a nearby cloud. Stepped leaders (also referred to as “leaders”) refer to the path of ionized air containing a charge emanating from a charged airplane or cloud. With the airplane flying through the charged atmosphere, leaders propagate from the airplane’s extremities, where ionized areas have formed.

Once the leader from the airplane meets a leader from the cloud, a ground strike can continue, and the airplane becomes part of the event. At this point, passengers and crew may see a flash and hear a loud noise when lightning strikes the airplane. Significant events are rare because of the lightning protection engineered into the airplane and its sensitive electronic components.

After attachment, the airplane flies through the lightning event. As the strike pulses, the leader reattaches to the fuselage or other structures at different locations while the airplane is in the electric circuit between cloud regions of opposite polarity. Current travels through the airplane’s conductive exterior skin and structure and exits from another extremity, such as the tail, seeking the opposite polarity or ground. Pilots may occasionally report temporary flickering of lights or short-lived instrument interference.

Airplane components made of ferromagnetic material may become strongly magnetized when subjected to lightning currents. The large current passing from the lightning strike through the airplane structure can cause this magnetization.

While the electrical system in an airplane is designed to withstand lightning strikes, an unusually intense strike can damage components such as electrically controlled fuel valves, generators, power feeders, and electrical distribution systems.

Most of the external parts of legacy airplanes are metal structures of sufficient thickness to withstand a lightning strike. This metal assembly provides basic protection. The thickness of the metal surface is sufficient to protect the airplane’s internal spaces from a lightning strike. The metal skin also protects against the entry of electromagnetic energy into the airplane’s electrical wiring. While the metal skin does not prevent all electromagnetic energy from entering the electrical wiring, it can keep the energy at a satisfactory level.

By understanding nature and the effects of lightning strikes, Boeing designs and tests its commercial airplanes for lightning-strike protection to ensure protection throughout their service lives. Material selection, finish selection, installation, and the application of protective features are important methods of reducing lightning-strike damage.

Areas with the greatest likelihood of direct lightning attachment incorporate some type of lightning protection. Boeing performs testing to ensure the adequacy of lightning protection. Composite parts located in lightning-strike-prone areas must be equipped with appropriate lightning protection.

The large amount of data gathered from in-service airplanes constitutes an important source of lightning-strike protection information that Boeing uses to improve lightning-strike damage control and reduce significant lightning-strike damage, provided proper maintenance is performed.

Lightning protection on airplanes may include:

Wire bundle shields; ground straps; composite structure expanded foils; wire mesh; aluminum flame spray coating; embedded metallic wire; metallic picture frames; diverter strips; metallic foil liners; coated glass fabric; and bonded aluminum foil.

Conclusion

Something happened that night in April 1999, something that suggests a real possibility that a Serbian air defense unit equipped with the 2K12 Kub (SA-6) detected, tracked, and engaged a B-1B bomber. Damage to one of the aircraft’s structural components could explain its withdrawal after only 11 days.

The United States claimed that lightning caused the damage; while this is possible, it is relatively rare at very low altitudes, especially when lightning activity was only reported some distance away. According to British weather data, there was no lightning in the Fairford area at the time, particularly not during the aircraft’s landing. There was, however, strong lightning activity about 30 km away, and not at the time of landing.

For the sake of argument, one could suggest that the aircraft, during its descent, may have passed through a zone of electrical activity, which is also a valid consideration. Several possibilities exist, each with a certain degree of probability. This raises the question of whether the US explanation was simply a convenient cover story, especially given the long history of carefully managed information and disinformation in such contexts. Events like this often remain unclear for decades before the full truth emerges.

In any case, the available pieces appear to align, suggesting that B-1B 85-0075 may have been damaged and subsequently withdrawn from NATO operations due to mechanical issues that could not be repaired on site during the campaign against Yugoslavia.

[i] Edited by Piquet (EditPiquet@gmail.com)

In the Soviet and later Russian tradition, military education has long been closely tied to the country’s broader emphasis on mathematics, physics, and engineering. Officers are typically expected to develop a solid grounding in technical disciplines, enabling them to understand the systems they employ at a fundamental level. Weapons are not viewed merely as tools to be operated, but as complex mechanisms governed by physical laws and technical limitations. This approach fosters a culture in which officers can analyze performance parameters, understand system vulnerabilities, and integrate components such as radar, missiles, and electronic warfare into a coherent operational framework. The educational institutions that produce these officers function not only as training centers but also as extensions of the scientific and engineering ecosystem, reinforcing a mindset that treats warfare as an applied technical discipline.

This technical orientation is closely linked to the concept of operational art, which occupies a central place in Russian military thought. Operational art is understood as the bridge between tactics and strategy, requiring the coordination of forces and resources across large-scale campaigns. It is treated as a rigorous discipline that demands both conceptual clarity and quantitative precision. Effective planning at this level presupposes a deep understanding of the capabilities and constraints of modern military systems, as well as the ability to model and anticipate their interaction in complex environments. The result is an approach to warfare that emphasizes systemic coherence, integration, and realism grounded in material conditions.

By contrast, the U.S. and broader Western military education systems have evolved along a different trajectory. While technical expertise certainly exists, particularly among specialized branches and personnel, the overall structure of officer education tends to emphasize broader, more generalist fields of study. Many officers are educated in disciplines such as political science, international relations, law, or other liberal arts. Professional military education often reinforces this orientation by focusing on leadership development, organizational management, strategic theory, and policy considerations. This produces officers who are well-versed in the institutional, political, and strategic dimensions of military power and who are often highly effective at navigating complex bureaucratic and coalition environments.

However, this generalist approach can also lead to a relative gap in deep technical literacy at higher levels of command. Modern warfare increasingly depends on highly sophisticated systems such as integrated air defenses, precision-guided munitions, advanced sensors, and electronic warfare capabilities, whose effective use requires more than a surface-level understanding. When such systems are treated as opaque tools rather than fully understood mechanisms, there is a risk that their capabilities may be overestimated or misapplied. The emphasis on technology as a source of advantage can, in some cases, be accompanied by insufficient appreciation of its limitations, particularly in contested environments against capable adversaries.

These educational differences are reinforced by broader cultural and historical factors. The Soviet and Russian experience has been shaped by large-scale, high-intensity conflicts in which survival depended on the effective integration of manpower, industry, and technology under extreme conditions. This legacy has encouraged a pragmatic and often uncompromising approach to military effectiveness, with a strong focus on what works in practice rather than what appears persuasive in theory. The educational system reflects this orientation, producing officers who are accustomed to thinking in terms of constraints, trade-offs, and material realities.

In contrast, the United States has historically operated in a different strategic context, characterized by expeditionary warfare, technological superiority, and relative geographic security. This has fostered a military culture that places greater emphasis on power projection, coalition operations, and the integration of military force with political objectives. The corresponding educational system prioritizes flexibility, adaptability, and strategic awareness, often at the expense of deep specialization in technical fields. Officers are trained to think broadly about the use of force, but may rely more heavily on technical specialists when dealing with the detailed functioning of complex systems.

The implications of these differing approaches extend beyond the classroom. They influence procurement decisions, doctrinal development, and the interpretation of emerging threats. A technically grounded officer corps may be better positioned to critically evaluate new weapons systems and to anticipate how they will perform under realistic conditions. Conversely, a system that emphasizes generalist leadership may be more susceptible to optimistic assumptions about technological performance, particularly when those assumptions are reinforced by institutional or political pressures. At the same time, the generalist model can offer advantages in strategic flexibility and the ability to integrate military operations into a broader policy framework.

It is important to recognize that each system has strengths and limitations. The technically oriented model can risk overemphasizing engineering considerations at the expense of broader strategic context, while the generalist model can risk insufficient engagement with the material realities of modern combat. In practice, both systems employ a mix of approaches and have adapted over time in response to changing technological and strategic environments. Nevertheless, the underlying difference in emphasis remains a defining characteristic, shaping how each side understands and prepares for war.

Ultimately, the contrast between these two educational traditions reflects deeper assumptions about the nature of military power. One approach views effectiveness as emerging from the precise integration of scientifically understood systems within a coherent operational framework. The other places greater weight on leadership, adaptability, and the alignment of military action with political objectives. As warfare continues to evolve, particularly with the increasing importance of advanced technology, the balance between these perspectives will remain a critical factor in determining how military organizations learn, adapt, and perform.

[i] Edited by Piquet (EditPiquet@gmail.com)

If you like the article (and many more articles regarding military subjects will come), you can buy me a coffee:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/mmihajloviW

Over the course of my career, I have had the privilege of writing several books dedicated to the fascinating and complex world of stealth technology. These works have primarily focused on the final products of engineering ingenuity, such as stealth airplanes and air defense systems, where the principles of low observability are discussed in the context of real-world platforms. In addition to these long-form publications, I have engaged with a broader audience through numerous posts on social media platforms like X, where I address specific questions and clarify misconceptions about how stealth works. Through these channels, I have encountered a wide range of readers, from seasoned aerospace engineers to passionate aviation enthusiasts who are curious about the technology shaping modern warfare.

Despite the abundance of information available today, there remains a significant gap in the literature surrounding stealth technology. There are many more articles and books available than ever before, yet what is missing is a resource that strikes the right balance between technical accuracy and accessibility. Much of the existing material falls into one of two extremes. On the one hand, there are highly academic texts filled with complex mathematical derivations, dense electromagnetic theory, and a bunch of equations that most stealth enthusiasts will never understand or need to use. On the other hand, there are popular accounts that simplify the subject to the point of inaccuracy, often relying on myths and science fiction concepts rather than physical reality.

This dichotomy creates a frustrating situation for the ordinary reader who wants to know more about what is behind stealth technologies. They are often told that understanding radar cross-section reduction requires a deep background in calculus and electromagnetic field theory. While it is true that the underlying physics is complex, the fundamental concepts can be grasped without solving Maxwell’s equations. The barrier to entry should not be a lack of mathematical training, but rather a lack of clear, conceptual explanations that translate high-level engineering into understandable ideas.

What is needed is a simplified approach that respects the reader’s intelligence while acknowledging the subject’s complexity. This means explaining the very complex technical aspects at a level that is understandable to those who want to understand the principles without getting lost in the weeds of derivation. It focuses on the physical intuition behind the technology, such as how shapes deflect radar waves, how materials absorb energy, and how edges create scattering patterns, rather than focusing on the precise numerical methods used to calculate them.

This article aims to demystify stealth technology for the avid aviation enthusiast. It draws upon the foundational physics that governs electromagnetic scattering but presents them through analogies and clear descriptions rather than abstract formulas. The aim is to provide a solid conceptual framework that enables readers to understand why certain design choices are made, how stealth aircraft differ from conventional ones, and what limitations the technology faces. By stripping away the unnecessary mathematical overhead, we can focus on the engineering logic that drives innovation in low-observable design.

In the following part, we will explore the core principles that make stealth possible. We will discuss the interaction between radar waves and aircraft surfaces, the role of edge alignment, and the trade-offs involved in designing a vehicle that must remain invisible to sensors while still flying effectively. This discussion is intended to empower readers to distinguish fact from fiction when discussing stealth capabilities. Whether you are a hobbyist tracking military aviation developments or a student considering a career in aerospace engineering, the goal is to provide a clear window into a field that is often shrouded in secrecy and confusion.

The journey through stealth technology is one of balancing competing requirements. It is not just about making an aircraft invisible; it is about managing signatures across multiple spectrums while maintaining performance, payload, and cost effectiveness. By understanding the basic mechanisms of detection and avoidance, readers can appreciate the immense engineering effort required to produce platforms like the F-117, the B-2, or the F-35, to name just a few. This article seeks to honor that effort by explaining it in a way that is both technically sound and broadly accessible.

Ultimately, the value of this work lies in its ability to connect theoretical physics to practical applications. It is not enough to know that stealth works; it is far more rewarding to understand why it works. By providing a narrative that is free from the intimidation of advanced mathematics, I hope to invite more people into the conversation about defense technology. This is not about dumbing down the science, but rather about clarifying it. It is about ensuring that the fascinating story of stealth technology is available to everyone curious enough to ask how it works. This article is my contribution to that effort, offering a clear, accurate, and engaging pathway into the subject for all readers.

Behind the final product—the stealth aircraft—stood one of the pivotal breakthroughs in electromagnetic science, unlocked by the young Soviet scientist Pyotr Ufimtsev. This article explores his discovery and its lasting impact.

Understanding the Physical Theory of Diffraction: From Soviet Labs to Stealth Aircraft

When Waves Meet Edges

Imagine throwing a stone into a calm pond. The ripples spread outward in perfect circles until they encounter an obstacle. What happens next? The waves bend around the edges, create intricate patterns, and interfere with each other in ways that seem almost magical. This phenomenon, called diffraction, is fundamental to how all waves behave, whether they are water waves, sound waves, or electromagnetic waves like radio signals and light.

For engineers and physicists working with radar, antennas, and wireless communications, understanding diffraction isn’t just academic curiosity - it’s essential. When a radar signal encounters an aircraft, a ship, or even a building, the way that signal scatters determines whether the object can be detected, tracked, or perhaps even hidden. Fifty years ago, a breakthrough theoretical framework emerged that transformed our ability to predict and control these complex wave interactions. This framework is called the Physical Theory of Diffraction, or PTD.

Developed by Russian physicist Pyotr Ufimtsev and first presented publicly in 1962, PTD provides a powerful way to calculate how electromagnetic waves scatter from complex objects, especially those with sharp edges, corners, and curved surfaces. What began as a method to improve radar calculations has since influenced fields ranging from antenna design to stealth technology. This article explores the origins, core concepts, and lasting impact of this remarkable theory, making its sophisticated ideas accessible to a wider audience.

The Birth of PTD: A Cold War Laboratory Insight

The story of PTD begins in 1954 at a highly classified Soviet research institute in Moscow. Fresh from university, young Pyotr Ufimtsev joined the Central Research Radio Engineering Institute, a premier facility established during World War II to advance military radio technology. The institute was led by distinguished scientists, including Vladimir Fock and Mikhail Leontovich, whose foundational work in wave physics would profoundly influence Ufimtsev’s thinking.

At the time, engineers faced a practical challenge: how to calculate the radar cross-section (RCS) of real-world objects like missiles and aircraft. Simple shapes like spheres could be analyzed with existing mathematics, but complex objects with edges, curves, and varying materials defied easy calculation. The standard approach, called Physical Optics, worked well for smooth surfaces but failed dramatically near sharp edges where waves behave unpredictably.

Ufimtsev’s breakthrough came from studying an elegant mathematical solution developed decades earlier by Arnold Sommerfeld for wave diffraction at a wedge. Sommerfeld showed that the total electromagnetic field on a wedge surface could be separated into two distinct parts: a “geometrical optics” component representing direct reflection, and a “diffracted” component arising from the edge itself. This insight sparked a revolutionary idea: what if we could treat any complex object as a collection of local wedge-like features, each contributing its own diffracted wave?

From this foundation, Ufimtsev introduced the central concept of PTD: the separation of surface currents into two components. The uniform component represents the current that would exist if the surface were an infinite, flat plane—essentially the Physical Optics approximation. The nonuniform component captures everything else: the additional currents generated by edges, corners, curvature changes, material transitions, and other surface irregularities. By focusing on calculating just this nonuniform “fringe” current, PTD dramatically simplifies the analysis of complex scattering problems.

Core Concepts Made Clear: Edge Waves and Shadow Radiation

To understand how PTD works in practice, consider what happens when a radar wave strikes an aircraft wing. The uniform component of the surface current produces the predictable, mirror-like reflection that Physical Optics can handle. But near the wing’s sharp leading edge, something more complex occurs. The wave bends around the edge, creating secondary radiation that spreads in many directions. PTD models this as an “edge wave”, a localized source of scattered energy emanating from the geometric discontinuity.

This edge wave concept proves remarkably powerful. Instead of solving Maxwell’s equations for the entire complex object, engineers can calculate the contribution from each significant edge, corner, or curvature change, then sum these contributions. Mathematical machinery involves asymptotic approximations - simplified expressions that become increasingly accurate as the object size grows relative to the wavelength. For radar applications, where wavelengths are typically centimeters and aircraft are meters in size, these approximations work exceptionally well.

One of PTD’s most surprising discoveries emerged from studying an extreme theoretical case: perfectly absorbing objects, or “black bodies” in electromagnetic terms. When Ufimtsev analyzed how such objects scatter waves, he identified a phenomenon he called shadow radiation. Counterintuitively, even an object that absorbs all incident energy on its illuminated side still scatters energy due to wave diffusion near the shadow boundary - the line separating lit and dark regions behind the object.

Shadow radiation has profound implications. Ufimtsev proved that different black bodies producing the same geometric shadow generate identical shadow radiation patterns. Even more striking, the total power in this shadow radiation equals exactly half the power scattered by a perfectly reflecting object of the same shape. This means that no matter how perfect an absorbing coating might be, it can, at best, only halve an object’s radar signature—the remaining half exists as unavoidable shadow radiation. This fundamental limit has important consequences for stealth technology and radar detection strategies.

From Theory to Practice: Engineering Applications and Stealth

While PTD began as a theoretical advance, its practical impact quickly became apparent. In the Soviet Union, PTD-based calculations for cylindrical objects proved so accurate that they were used to calibrate radar test ranges and anechoic chambers—facilities designed to simulate free-space conditions for antenna testing. The theory’s ability to predict not just the magnitude but also the detailed pattern of scattered energy, including polarization effects and lobe structures, made it invaluable for engineering validation.

Perhaps the most famous application of PTD emerged unexpectedly in the United States. During the development of stealth aircraft in the 1970s and 1980s, American engineers at Lockheed’s Skunk Works discovered Ufimtsev’s translated work. They recognized that PTD provided exactly the tools needed to predict how aircraft shapes would scatter radar energy. By carefully designing faceted surfaces and edge alignments to minimize the nonuniform current contributions, engineers could dramatically reduce an aircraft’s radar cross-section.

The F-117 Nighthawk and B-2 Spirit stealth aircraft both benefited from PTD-based analysis. While many factors contribute to stealth—materials, coatings, and electronic countermeasures, the fundamental shaping principles rely on controlling diffraction from edges and discontinuities, precisely what PTD excels at predicting. Ironically, a theory developed in a Soviet military laboratory became instrumental in the development of some of America’s most advanced military platforms.

Beyond stealth, PTD finds applications in numerous engineering domains. Antenna designers use it to predict sidelobe patterns and mutual coupling in array systems. Wireless communication engineers apply it to model signal propagation in urban environments where buildings create complex diffraction patterns. Even acoustic engineers have adapted PTD concepts to analyze sound scattering from complex structures.

PTD and GTD: Complementary Perspectives on Wave Behavior

No discussion of diffraction theory would be complete without mentioning the Geometrical Theory of Diffraction (GTD), developed independently by Joseph Keller around the same time as PTD. While both theories address high-frequency wave scattering, they approach the problem from different perspectives that ultimately prove complementary.

PTD is fundamentally a source-based theory. It focuses on calculating the actual electromagnetic currents induced on an object’s surface and then determining the radiation they produce. This approach provides physical insight into where and how scattering originates, making it particularly valuable for understanding polarization effects, material dependencies, and near-field behavior.

GTD, by contrast, is a ray-based theory. It extends classical geometrical optics by introducing diffracted rays that emanate from edges and other discontinuities, following specific diffraction coefficients and propagation rules. This ray-tracing approach excels at visualizing wave paths and is computationally efficient for large, complex scenarios.

Despite their different formulations, PTD and GTD share a deep mathematical connection. Both rely on the localization principle: at high frequencies, the diffraction behavior at any point depends primarily on the local geometry near that point, not on the object’s global shape. This principle allows both theories to build complex solutions from simple canonical problems, such as wedge diffraction.

In fact, GTD can be derived mathematically from PTD through asymptotic evaluation of the radiation integrals. The diffracted rays of GTD correspond to the far-field radiation patterns of PTD’s edge currents. This relationship means engineers can choose the framework best suited to their specific problem: PTD for detailed physical understanding and near-field analysis, and GTD for efficient far-field prediction and ray visualization.

Elementary Edge Waves: Building Complex Solutions from Simple Components

A particularly elegant extension of PTD is the concept of elementary edge waves. Just as Huygens’ principle allows us to construct complex wavefronts from simple spherical wavelets, elementary edge waves provide building blocks for analyzing diffraction from arbitrarily shaped edges.

The key insight is that any curved edge can be approximated as a series of small straight segments. For each segment, we can calculate the diffracted field using canonical wedge solutions, then integrate these contributions along the entire edge. This approach handles complex geometries while maintaining the computational efficiency of analytical approximations.

Advanced versions of elementary edge wave theory address challenging scenarios such as grazing incidence (where waves skim nearly parallel to a surface), slope diffraction (where the angle of incidence varies along an edge), and multiple diffraction (where waves scatter from one edge to another before reaching the observer). These extensions have made PTD applicable to an ever-wider range of practical problems.

One subtle but important refinement involves polarization coupling. When waves strike an edge at oblique angles, the interaction between electric and magnetic field components becomes complex. Early PTD formulations missed certain coupling effects, but later refinements correctly account for how edge charges and currents generate cross-polarized scattered fields. These details matter for applications such as polarimetric radar, where polarization information helps distinguish different target types.

Accuracy and Limitations: Knowing What PTD Can Do

Like any engineering approximation, PTD has well-defined strengths and limitations. Rigorous mathematical analysis shows that PTD provides a first-order high-frequency approximation to the scattered fields. This means it correctly captures the dominant terms in the asymptotic expansion as the object size becomes large compared to the wavelength.

For many engineering applications, this first-order accuracy is entirely sufficient. The errors introduced by neglecting higher-order terms are typically small relative to other uncertainties, such as material property variations, manufacturing tolerances, or environmental effects. Moreover, higher-order corrections often involve significantly more complex mathematics with diminishing practical returns.

PTD’s accuracy has been extensively validated through comparison with exact analytical solutions for canonical problems, controlled laboratory measurements, and full-wave numerical simulations. For example, in the classic problem of plane wave diffraction by a conducting strip, PTD correctly predicts the first three terms in the asymptotic expansion of the total scattering cross-section—a remarkable achievement for an approximate theory.

However, PTD is not universally applicable. Its high-frequency asymptotic nature means it becomes less accurate when object dimensions approach the wavelength. It also assumes perfectly conducting surfaces in its basic form, though extensions exist for impedance boundaries and absorbing materials. For problems involving strong multiple scattering, resonant effects, or highly complex material properties, hybrid approaches combining PTD with full-wave numerical methods often provide the best balance of accuracy and efficiency.

Future Directions: PTD in a Changing Technological Landscape

As technology evolves, so do the applications and extensions of PTD. Modern research explores several promising directions:

• Complex Materials: Extending PTD to handle metamaterials, frequency-selective surfaces, and other engineered materials with exotic electromagnetic properties.

• Broadband and Transient Analysis: Adapting asymptotic techniques for ultra-wideband signals and time-domain applications where frequency-domain approximations may not suffice.

• Hybrid Computational Methods: Combining PTD’s efficiency for electrically large structures with numerical methods like finite-element or method-of-moments solvers for complex details, creating multi-scale simulation tools.

• Machine Learning Integration: Using PTD to generate training data for neural networks that can rapidly predict scattering behavior, potentially accelerating design optimization processes.

• Quantum and Nanoscale Extensions: Exploring whether asymptotic diffraction concepts can inform wave behavior at scales where quantum effects become significant.

Perhaps most importantly, PTD continues to serve as an educational framework. Its physical intuition, which separates predictable, uniform behavior from edge-generated diffraction, helps students and engineers develop mental models for wave scattering that purely numerical approaches cannot provide.

Conclusion: The Enduring Legacy of Physical Insight

Fifty years after its formal introduction, the Physical Theory of Diffraction remains a cornerstone of high-frequency electromagnetic analysis. Its power lies not just in mathematical sophistication, but in physical insight: the recognition that complex wave phenomena can be understood by identifying and analyzing their fundamental sources.

From its origins in a Moscow laboratory to its role in shaping stealth technology, PTD demonstrates how fundamental theoretical advances can transform practical engineering. Its concepts - uniform and nonuniform currents, edge waves, shadow radiation - provide a language for discussing diffraction that bridges mathematical rigor and physical intuition.

For the wider audience, PTD offers a compelling lesson about the nature of scientific progress. Breakthroughs often come not from discarding existing knowledge, but from re-examining it with a fresh perspective. By asking a simple question, “What if we separate the predictable from the diffracted?”, Pyotr Ufimtsev opened a pathway that continues to guide engineers designing the communication, sensing, and stealth systems of tomorrow.

In an age of increasingly powerful computers and sophisticated numerical methods, the value of analytical theories like PTD might seem diminished. Yet the opposite is true. As problems grow more complex, the physical insight provided by well-founded asymptotic theories becomes more valuable, not less. PTD reminds us that understanding why waves behave as they do remains as important as calculating what they will do, and that sometimes, the most powerful tools are those that help us see the physics behind the mathematics.

The Ufimtsev framework represents one of the rare cases where:

• A purely theoretical insight into electromagnetic theory fundamentally reshaped engineering practice.

• By tracing the path: Maxwell → Helmholtz → Surface currents → Edge currents → Asymptotics → RCS scaling, Ufimtsev transformed diffraction from a correction term into a central scattering mechanism.

The enduring lesson of his work is this:

In high-frequency electromagnetics, discontinuities define observability.

His contribution was not merely mathematical - it changed how engineers think about shape, edges, and electromagnetic visibility in the wave regime.

If you like the article (and many more articles regarding military subjects will come), you can buy me a coffee:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/mmihajloviW

[i] Edited by Piquet (EditPiquet@gmail.com)

Introduction

This article attempts to summarize where the West misjudged developments, how new weapons have influenced the battlefield, and to offer a more balanced understanding of Russia’s position. It builds on previous articles and on one of the most insightful analyses of the Russian art of war by Col. (Ret.). Jacques Baud.

Military art is complex and demands far more study than any single article can provide. No brief analysis can encompass all its dimensions. However, it can help the ordinary reader better understand what lies beneath the surface — and move beyond mainstream media narratives and the sensationalism that often dominates Western news coverage.

The “Calculus”

On a cold November morning in 2024, a missile streaked across Ukrainian skies at nearly twelve times the speed of sound. Traveling from Russia’s Astrakhan region - over a thousand kilometers away - it struck the Pivdenmash industrial complex in Dnipro with such force that the warhead didn’t need conventional explosives to destroy its target. Instead, physics itself became the weapon: kinetic energy transformed into seismic shockwaves that traveled through bedrock, shattering underground workshops designed to withstand nuclear attack. President Vladimir Putin later confirmed this was the combat debut of a new system called “Oreshnik, a weapon whose very existence had been speculated days earlier. But beyond the technical novelty lay something more significant: a demonstration of how Russia conceptualizes warfare itself, an approach fundamentally different from Western military thinking, and one that has consistently confounded analysts since February 2022.

To understand this divergence, we must first dispel a persistent myth: the notion of “hybrid warfare” as a Russian doctrine. The term never existed in Russian military theory. It emerged from a Western misreading of a 2013 essay by General Valery Gerasimov, later amplified by analysts who imagined Russia waging some novel form of conflict blending cyberattacks, disinformation, and conventional force. By 2018, even Mark Galeotti, the prominent scholar who popularized the “Gerasimov Doctrine”, publicly retracted the concept in Foreign Policy magazine, admitting he had “created a chimera.” Russia doesn’t practice hybrid warfare as a strategy; rather, conflicts become “hybrid” when adversaries fight different generations of war simultaneously. In Ukraine, we see precisely this: Russia conducting third-generation maneuver warfare against a Ukrainian force attempting fifth-generation information-centric operations. The friction isn’t doctrinal innovation—it’s asymmetry.

The real foundation of Russian military thought lies in what they call “operativnoe iskustvo” (operative art), a concept largely absent from Western strategic vocabulary. While NATO recognizes strategy (political objectives) and tactics (weapons employment), it treats the operational level as merely administrative sequencing. Russian doctrine elevates operative art to a distinct discipline: the orchestration of forces across time and space to transform tactical actions into strategic outcomes through multiplicative rather than additive effects. Where Western planners often assume victories accumulate linearly, such as a battalion secures a village, a brigade secures a district, Russian operative art seeks synergistic cascades: electronic warfare blinds targeting systems, enabling artillery to disrupt logistics, which isolates infantry, making them vulnerable to maneuver that is all within a compressed timeframe that prevents enemy recovery.

This difference explains recurring Western misjudgments. When Russian forces advanced toward Kyiv in February 2022 with what appeared to be insufficient numbers, Western analysts declared strategic failure. Doctrine reveals a different reality: this was a “shaping operation” - a deliberate effort to fix Ukraine’s most capable brigades away from the decisive theater in Donbas. Soviet field manuals from the Cold War explicitly defined such operations as actions that “create conditions for success in the decisive operation by influencing enemy disposition.” When Russia withdrew from Kyiv Oblast in April 2022, Western media framed it as a defeat. Russian doctrine saw successful culmination: the shaping operation had served its purpose, allowing concentration of forces for the Donbas campaign that followed. Similarly, Russia’s 2022–2023 strikes against Ukraine’s electrical grid weren’t random terror bombing but systematic shaping, rather forcing Ukraine to disperse air defense assets to protect civilian infrastructure, thereby diluting coverage over military targets. Leaked U.S. intelligence assessments later confirmed this effect: Ukraine’s ability to intercept cruise missiles dropped by forty percent during winter blackouts.

Central to this approach is Russia’s concept of “sootnoshenie sil” (correlation of forces), a holistic assessment that integrates military, economic, political, and international dimensions. Western “balance of forces” analysis typically counts tanks and troops. Russian correlation examines industrial conversion capacity alongside artillery inventories, public tolerance for casualties alongside troop morale, diplomatic leverage alongside fighter jet numbers. This framework explains Russia’s limited territorial objectives: Moscow assessed favorable correlation in eastern Ukraine (ethnic affinity, defensible terrain, logistical proximity) but unfavorable conditions west of the Dnieper (hostile population, extended supply lines, NATO intelligence saturation). Full occupation wasn’t rejected due to military incapacity alone - it violated the operative art’s principle of economy of force: never commit resources where political returns diminish disproportionately.

This holistic calculus also anticipated Western sanctions not as punishment but as a catalyst. Since 2014, Russia treated economic pressure as an opportunity to accelerate import substitution, develop alternative supply chains through China and Central Asia, and convert civilian factories to military production. The result? By 2024, Russia was producing artillery shells at fifteen times its pre-war rate, manufacturing twenty thousand drones monthly, and assembling tanks at rates exceeding Western production despite sanctions intended to cripple its defense industry. Where Western planners assumed quick victory or collapse, Moscow prepared for years of grinding warfare - its correlation analysis accounting for temporal dynamics Western planning often ignores: economies adapting, populations fatiguing, alliances fracturing.

Russia has operationalized this doctrine through integrated fire systems that Western analysts often conflate. The Reconnaissance-Fire Complex (ROK) operates at tactical levels, linking sensors to shooters within minutes: Orlan-10 drones detect targets, artillery or Lancet loitering munitions engage them, and all of that within a three-to-seven-minute cycle that compresses the decision loop. During 2024 border incursions, Ukrainian units found themselves under fire within ninety seconds of drone detection, a tempo exceeding NATO’s fifteen-to-twenty-minute standard. The Reconnaissance-Strike Complex (RUK) operates at the operational level, coordinating deep strikes with Iskander missiles, aviation assets, and electronic warfare capabilities. The November Oreshnik strike demonstrated RUK’s evolution: a hypersonic missile delivering multiple independently guided penetrators that bypassed air defenses to destroy underground facilities, all while Russia provided Washington a thirty-minute warning through nuclear de-escalation channels, which is a deliberate signal blending kinetic effect with political messaging.

This integration of military action and political process reflects Russia’s Clausewitzian view of war as politics by other means - not as an isolated domain. Where Western powers often wage wars disconnected from achievable political outcomes (Afghanistan, Iraq, Libya), Russian doctrine demands constant alignment between battlefield actions and diplomatic objectives. This explains Moscow’s repeated negotiation openings in February, March, and August 2022 - opportunities Western capitals rejected, believing battlefield gains would improve Ukraine’s position. Russian operative art views negotiations not as endpoints but as campaign phases - opportunities to lock in gains, reset correlation assessments, and reposition forces. Each rejected offer allowed Russia to refine its military position while portraying Ukraine as intransigent to global audiences. The disconnect wasn’t Russian intransigence but Western refusal to engage diplomatically while demanding battlefield victories: a strategic paradox Russia exploited through operative art’s temporal dimension.

The Oreshnik strike itself embodied this doctrine in physical form. Targeting Pivdenmash, the Soviet-era missile factory that once produced half of Russia’s land-based nuclear arsenal, carried layered significance. Beyond eliminating Ukraine’s capacity to resume ICBM production (a stated Ukrainian ambition), the attack demonstrated a new capability against hardened underground targets without nuclear weapons. Analysis of strike footage revealed warheads traveling at Mach 11.8 (approximately four kilometers per second), striking with such momentum that they penetrated deep underground before releasing energy equivalent to hundreds of kilos of TNT through kinetic impact alone. No surface crater formed; instead, seismic shockwaves propagated through bedrock, shattering reinforced concrete workshops in what weapons scientists call a “camouflet explosion” - an underground detonation leaving no surface trace.

This capability matters profoundly because modern warfare increasingly occurs underground. From command bunkers to ammunition depots, critical infrastructure burrows beneath the surface to survive conventional attacks. Traditional bunker-busters require precise targeting and substantial explosive payloads. Kinetic penetrators operating at hypersonic velocities bypass these limitations: momentum alone generates destructive shock waves that propagate through soil and rock, breaking structures within the “fracture zone” regardless of the precise impact location. As Professor Balagansky explains in his authoritative text on weapon effects, when such impacts occur, soil particles oscillate longitudinally and transversely, generating Rayleigh waves - seismic disturbances that shake underground facilities like earthquakes. Add moisture in soil exposed to hypersonic friction temperatures, and the effect amplifies dramatically. Two or three such strikes could neutralize even the deepest command centers, rendering traditional notions of “secure bunkers” obsolete.

Critically, these weapons currently lack effective countermeasures. Western missile defense systems such as THAAD and PAC-3 rely on “hit-to-kill” interceptors that must physically collide with incoming threats. But Oreshnik’s reentry vehicles execute hypersonic evasive maneuvers while traveling at velocities exceeding Mach 10, creating impossible interception conditions. The physics is unforgiving: an interceptor traveling at Mach 5 cannot maneuver sufficiently to track a target changing trajectory at Mach 11. Compounding this, Russia would likely pair such strikes with saturation attacks, meaning simply a dozen decoy drones and cruise missiles overwhelming air defense batteries before the hypersonic penetrators arrive. With only seven THAAD batteries globally deployed (none in Ukraine), and PAC-3 systems fundamentally mismatched against hypersonic threats, the defensive gap remains substantial.

Yet the most consequential aspect of the Oreshnik strike wasn’t technical: it was strategic messaging calibrated with surgical precision. Russia provided advance warning to avoid civilian casualties (the strike occurred when few workers were present) and prevent unintended escalation with the United States. Simultaneously, it delivered an unmistakable message to European capitals: critical infrastructure supporting Ukraine, such as Storm Shadow production facilities in Britain, SCALP assembly lines in France, NATO logistics hubs across Eastern Europe that now lie within range of weapons that cannot be intercepted. Two missiles could render such facilities inoperable indefinitely. This wasn’t bluster but a correlation-of-forces assessment: recognizing that Western political will, not Ukrainian battlefield capacity, represents the conflict’s decisive variable.

This approach reflects a broader philosophical difference in how adversaries conceptualize conflict. Russians view warfare as a continuous process - events connected like frames in a film, where historical context informs present action and future resolution. Western analysts often treat conflicts as discrete photographs, focusing on moment X without examining how the crisis arose. Hence, Western media place Ukraine’s war start on February 24, 2022, discarding eight years of Minsk Agreement violations, language law changes stripping Russian speakers of rights, and Zelensky’s March 2021 decree ordering Donbas reconquest. Russians see the forest; Western analysts fixate on trees. As one Russian officer observed during debriefings: “You use the duck test: if it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, it’s a duck. We ask why the duck exists, where it came from, and what ecosystem sustains it.”

This temporal dimension explains Russia’s patience, where Western powers grow frustrated. Since 1991, NATO interventions often divorced military action from the political process, assuming battlefield victory would spontaneously generate stable governance. Russia maintains constant alignment between military action and political objectives. When shaping operations achieve their purpose, forces withdraw. When correlation assessments shift favorably, offensives commence. When diplomatic opportunities emerge, negotiations open. This fluid transition between war and politics appears inconsistent to Western observers but reflects doctrinal coherence: military action serves politics; it isn’t an end in itself.

The implications extend beyond Ukraine. As great-power competition intensifies, understanding adversary doctrine becomes existential, not for admiration but for accurate assessment. Misreading shaping operations as failures, limited objectives as weakness, or withdrawal as defeat creates dangerous intelligence gaps. Technological overconfidence obscures systemic vulnerabilities: a $10 million HIMARS launcher matters little if operators cannot communicate due to electronic warfare, cannot resupply due to rail interdiction, and cannot maintain morale under constant drone harassment. Operative art targets systems, not just components - a lesson applicable to any peer conflict.

None of this implies Russian doctrine is flawless. Rigid command structures can inhibit tactical initiative. Corruption degrades logistics efficiency. Demographic constraints limit manpower sustainability. But dismissing Russian military thought as primitive guarantees strategic surprise. The Prussian general Carl von Clausewitz observed that “war is the realm of uncertainty; three quarters of the factors on which action in war is based are wrapped in a fog of greater or lesser uncertainty.” Doctrine provides the compass for navigating that fog - not for the enemy, but for ourselves.

Conclusion

The Oreshnik strike on Pivdenmash and the second strike on the Lviv aircraft maintenance and repair facilities ultimately demonstrated capabilities beyond hypersonic flight. It revealed an adversary fighting a different kind of war, the one where kinetic effects serve political messaging, where underground facilities become vulnerable to physics itself, and where correlation of forces determines strategy more than troop counts. Western analysts who continue interpreting Russian actions through their own doctrinal lens will keep misreading intentions, miscalculating capabilities, and misunderstanding escalation dynamics. Closing this gap requires doctrinal literacy: studying field manuals, analyzing campaign patterns beyond headlines, and recognizing that adversaries think differently not because they’re irrational, but because they’ve developed coherent frameworks for navigating war’s complexities.

Sun Tzu’s admonition remains timeless: “Know the enemy and know yourself; in a hundred battles you will never be in peril.” In an era of great-power competition, that wisdom isn’t academic, but rather it’s existential. Understanding Russian operative art doesn’t make Westerners weaker; ignorance does. The goal isn’t to adopt Russian methods but to anticipate them - to recognize shaping operations before they culminate, to see correlation shifts before they become decisive, and to align one’s own strategy with reality rather than wishful thinking. The art of war isn’t about glorifying violence; it’s about minimizing it through superior understanding. In that pursuit, doctrinal clarity remains our most undervalued weapon.

[i] Edited by Piquet (EditPiquet@gmail.com)

If you like the article (and many more articles regarding military subjects will come), you can buy me a coffee:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/mmihajloviW

Observers on the ground reported an unsettling soundscape that followed the visual phenomenon. Rather than a single detonation, there were sharp, cracking noises that seemed to ripple across the terrain, as if the ground itself were fracturing under stress. Audio recording confirmed that as well. This auditory effect, delayed slightly from the initial flashes, added to the sense that the strike was not a single-point event but a rapid sequence of high-energy impacts propagating through the subsurface. In several recordings, the camera image visibly shakes at the moment of impact, not from a blast wave sweeping outward, but from localized shock transmitted through the ground.

What made the event particularly striking was the setting. The impacts occurred against the backdrop of an idyllic winter landscape: fields and forests blanketed in snow, small settlements dimly lit, and a horizon that, moments earlier, conveyed calm and stillness. Against this muted palette, the light generated by the strike stood out with almost surreal intensity. Reflections danced across the snow, briefly turning the ground into a mirror that amplified the event’s brightness. Witnesses described the glow as unnatural, a cold, shimmering illumination that lingered just long enough to be noticed and remembered.

Reports from distant locations indicated that this glow was visible from many kilometers away, a detail that quickly became a focal point of discussion. Such long-range visibility was not the result of a massive surface explosion, but rather the extreme energy release associated with hypersonic atmospheric entry and terminal impact. The plasma formed around the penetrators acted like a transient light source in the upper and mid atmosphere. At the same time, reflections from cloud layers and snow cover further extended the strike’s visual footprint. In this sense, the event was as much an atmospheric phenomenon as it was a ground impact.

The footage leaves an overall impression of controlled violence rather than chaos. There is no towering fireball, no expanding mushroom cloud, and no prolonged surface conflagration dominating the scene. Instead, the strike manifests as a brief but overwhelming intrusion of energy, arriving with little warning, saturating the senses for a few seconds, and then vanishing, leaving behind a disturbed but largely intact landscape. This visual restraint, paradoxically, heightens the psychological impact. The absence of familiar markers of destruction forces the viewer to confront the idea that enormous damage can be inflicted without the traditional imagery of warfare.

In narrative terms, the January 8 Oreshnik strike illustrates a shift in how modern high-energy weapons are perceived. The scale of the blast does not define the spectacle; rather, it is the speed, precision, and eerie aesthetics of physics pushed to extremes. The flashes in the clouds, the cracking sounds through frozen ground, and the ghostly glow over snowbound terrain together create an image that feels less like a conventional attack and more like a sudden rupture in the natural order. It is this combination of technical reality and almost cinematic appearance that made the event resonate so strongly, both within the immediate region and far beyond it.

Oreshnik strikes again

When people describe an Oreshnik strike, the first thing they usually mention is the blinding flash that resembles lightning tearing through the sky. This visual effect is not an explosion in the traditional sense. It is caused by a plasma cocoon forming around the hypersonic glide vehicle of the R-26 Rubezh intermediate-range ballistic missile, commonly referred to as Oreshnik. As the warhead descends through the atmosphere at extreme speed, the air ahead of it is violently compressed and heated. This process strips electrons from the air molecules, turning the surrounding gas into plasma. The glowing plasma sheath is what produces the intense flashes seen on video, especially when the vehicle passes through clouds or denser layers of the atmosphere.

More information about the Oreshnik can be found through the following links:

A frequent question is why this weapon appears to carry no conventional explosive charge. The answer lies in fundamental physics rather than design philosophy. Once an object exceeds roughly five to six times the speed of sound, the kinetic energy contained in its motion becomes enormous. At that point, the energy of the moving mass itself can exceed what a realistic explosive charge of similar size could deliver. Moreover, at such velocities, the structural loads on the warhead are extreme. To survive acceleration, atmospheric entry, and terminal impact, the warhead must be powerful. That limits how much of its mass can be devoted to explosives, typically no more than about a quarter to a third. Beyond that, the structure would fail under stress. As a result, adding explosives offers diminishing returns while complicating the design. Simply put, the speed of the weapon becomes the weapon.

As the hypersonic penetrator strikes a solid target and rapidly decelerates, its material undergoes significant heating from both friction and mechanical deformation. Temperatures rise so quickly that parts of the warhead and the surrounding material can partially vaporize and form plasma. This creates an effect that can look like an explosion even though no chemical explosive is present. At the same time, fragments of the warhead and target material are ejected forward at extremely high speeds. These tiny, molten or semi-molten droplets behave much like the jets formed by shaped charges, concentrating energy along the direction of travel. The result is an extraordinary penetrating power, far greater than that of a conventional bomb of similar size.

There has been considerable exaggeration in some commentary claiming that Oreshnik produces effects comparable to a nuclear explosion. From a technical standpoint, this is incorrect. Even optimistic estimates place the energy release of such a kinetic strike at several tons of TNT equivalent at most. That is far below the yield of even the smallest practical nuclear weapons, which would need to be at least hundreds of tons of TNT equivalent to produce similar blast-wave effects. Very low-yield nuclear devices did exist historically, but they were rare and focused on radiation effects rather than blast. A kinetic weapon produces no nuclear radiation of any kind.

Claims about entry speeds of 25 Mach or even 30 Mach also need to be put into context. Speeds around 28 Mach are close to orbital velocity, which is associated with objects circling the Earth, not weapons striking targets from intermediate ranges. Intercontinental ballistic missiles can briefly reach such speeds during long-range spaceflight before atmospheric reentry. Oreshnik, however, is an intermediate-range system. Its maximum speed is likely lower than 20 Mach. By the time it descends through the atmosphere and approaches the ground, air resistance has further reduced its speed. Realistically, impact velocities are likely in the range of roughly 10 to 12 Mach, which is still extraordinarily fast.

The energy delivered by the warhead does not come from nowhere. It originates in the solid rocket propellant used to accelerate the missile and its payload. If, for example, several tons of solid fuel are used to boost multiple warheads, each warhead inherits a fraction of that total energy in the form of velocity. When translated into explosive equivalents, this might correspond to several hundred kilograms of TNT per warhead, after losses due to drag and inefficiencies are accounted for. The warhead itself may weigh only a few hundred kilograms, but all of its destructive potential is stored in its speed rather than in chemicals.

In practical terms, Oreshnik functions like an enormous, ultra-fast penetrator rod. Compared to a tank-fired armor-piercing projectile, it is both much heavier and several times faster. When it impacts reinforced concrete, rock, or hardened structures, the kinetic energy is concentrated into a tiny area. The penetrator heats, deforms, and partially ionizes, while material from both the warhead and the target is forced forward under immense pressure. Some of the energy produces a localized shockwave, but most of it is spent punching deep into the target.

This explains why the weapon is not intended to produce significant surface-blast effects or dramatic fireballs, as with nuclear or thermobaric weapons. Its purpose is fundamentally different. Oreshnik is designed to defeat extremely hard, deeply buried, or heavily protected targets such as thick concrete slabs protecting underground facilities, hardened bunkers, tunnels, or subterranean gas storage infrastructure. Against wide, lightly protected area targets, such a weapon would be inefficient and unnecessary. Its value lies in precision and penetration, not spectacle.

What was the target?

As mentioned, Russia has carried out a ballistic missile strike in Ukraine’s Lviv region using an Oreshnik-class system, according to statements from both Russian and Ukrainian sources. It appears the strike involved a single missile carrying multiple independently guided warheads, focusing on a single target. Ukrainian authorities and security services confirmed that fragments of a hypersonic ballistic missile were recovered in Lviv Oblast, while Russia’s Ministry of Defense claimed the launch as an Oreshnik strike. This would mark the first known use of a ballistic missile against Lviv Oblast since the start of the conflict.

Lviv Mayor Andriy Sadovyi stated that the missile was traveling at approximately Mach 11 at the time of impact. Ukrainian officials acknowledged damage to “critical infrastructure” in the region but did not immediately disclose the exact location or nature of the facility that was hit. The consistent pattern in Ukrainian messaging suggests intentional ambiguity. Authorities appear to acknowledge the disruption while withholding sensitive details about military-industrial facilities, underground infrastructure, or hardened sites. This is standard wartime information control, particularly when aviation repair plants, command facilities, or underground installations may be involved.

Conflicting accounts have since emerged regarding the intended target. Ukrainian officials have publicly denied that the large underground gas storage facility near the town of Stryi was struck or targeted. A member of Ukraine’s parliament explicitly stated that gas infrastructure was not the objective of the attack, pushing back against early claims circulating online and in Russian media.

At the same time, open-source analysts examining strike footage and satellite imagery have suggested the impact may have occurred on the outskirts of Lviv, in an industrial zone rather than near Stryi. Some OSINT investigators have suggested the strike may have happened near the Lviv State Aircraft Repair Plant, a state-owned aviation maintenance and overhaul facility. These assessments are based on video triangulation, terrain features, and light patterns observed in publicly shared footage, rather than on official confirmation.

Early media reports and social-media claims, particularly from Russian sources, initially asserted that the missile had targeted the Stryi underground gas storage complex, one of Ukraine’s most significant energy infrastructure sites. However, these assertions, just a few days later, have not been independently verified and have been directly contradicted by Ukrainian authorities.

At present, the available evidence strongly indicates that an Oreshnik-class missile struck a critical infrastructure site somewhere in Lviv Oblast. Open-source geolocation analysis, as well as some reports attributed to the Russian Ministry of Defense, point toward an industrial area near Lviv, associated with aviation repair infrastructure and drone manufacturing.

The Lviv State Aircraft Repair Plant (LDARZ)

The Lviv State Aircraft Repair Plant (LDARZ) is one of Ukraine’s oldest and most strategically significant aviation maintenance facilities. Established during the Soviet period, the plant has long specialized in the overhaul, modernization, and life-extension of military aircraft, particularly MiG-series fighters and, more recently, F-16 “donations” from the NATO partners. Because of its location in western Ukraine, far from the front lines for much of the conflict, LDARZ has traditionally been viewed as a relatively secure rear-area asset and a key node in sustaining Ukraine’s air force.

Like many major Soviet-era defense enterprises, the plant was designed with wartime survivability in mind. During the Cold War, facilities of this type were often built with hardened construction, redundant utilities, and protected workspaces intended to allow continued operation during air attacks. This legacy has fueled persistent speculation about underground structures beneath or adjacent to the Lviv aircraft plant.

There is no public, official confirmation that extensive “secret bunkers” exist beneath LDARZ in the sense often implied in online discussions. However, it is well documented that Soviet military-industrial sites commonly included underground shelters, reinforced basements, protected command rooms, and utility tunnels. These spaces were typically intended for personnel protection, secure communications, emergency power generation, and limited continuity of operations rather than as vast underground cities or deep strategic bunkers.

Some analysts also note that western Ukraine, including the Lviv region, contains a broader network of Soviet-era civil defense infrastructure. This included fallout shelters, protected storage areas, and command facilities integrated into major industrial plants, transportation hubs, and government buildings. Over time, many of these structures were repurposed, sealed, or fell into disuse, while others were quietly maintained or modernized after Ukraine’s independence.

In the context of the current war, the mere possibility that LDARZ may include hardened or partially underground facilities has contributed to its perceived strategic value as a potential target. Aviation repair plants are not only industrial sites but also logistical enablers, supporting aircraft availability, upgrades, and battle damage repair. Even without deep underground installations, disrupting such a facility can significantly affect air operations.

It is essential to separate confirmed facts from speculation. While it is reasonable to assume that LDARZ retains some hardened, protected infrastructure consistent with Soviet military engineering practices, claims of large, deeply buried bunkers or hidden command complexes beneath the plant remain unverified. No Ukrainian authority has acknowledged the presence of such facilities, and no independent evidence has been presented to substantiate more dramatic assertions.

As with many strategically important sites in Ukraine, information about the precise layout, protection level, and subsurface structures of LDARZ remains limited, shaped as much by wartime secrecy as by the legacy of Cold War-era design.

VIP visit just before the attack

There have been persistent rumors that the British Secretary of Defence visited the site shortly before the strike, which, if accurate, would suggest that the facility hosted far more than drone workshops or routine aircraft maintenance hangars. Such a visit would imply a level of operational or strategic importance directly linked to NATO interests.

From a purely logical standpoint, Lviv’s geographic position makes it highly attractive for this role. Its proximity to the Polish border places it within immediate reach of NATO territory while remaining safely inside Ukraine, making it an ideal location for a forward command-and-control (C2) node. As previously mentioned, the region is known to contain numerous underground facilities in varying states of preservation, including Soviet-era hardened structures. It is entirely plausible that some of these were refurbished and repurposed to serve as modern military command centers.

NATO doctrine emphasizes survivability, redundancy, and secure infrastructure. In that context, an underground facility integrated beneath an industrial complex, such as an aircraft repair plant, would be far more practical and secure than a temporary or lightly protected surface installation. Such an arrangement would also benefit from plausible deniability and physical concealment.

If a senior Western defense official indeed visited the site, it is hard to believe the purpose was ceremonial or symbolic. High-level visits of this nature are typically associated with facilities of operational significance. Russian intelligence would almost certainly be closely monitoring such indicators, and it is reasonable to assume that Moscow was aware that something more substantial was occurring at the location. In that case, the timing of the strike may reflect a deliberate decision to wait until the facility reached a certain level of activity or importance before acting.

What could be there?

At a high, non-technical level, a NATO-style command-and-control facility, particularly one that is forward-located yet unofficial, would be built around information fusion, coordination, and survivability rather than direct combat control. Its primary purpose would be to integrate data from multiple sources, enable rapid decision-making, and maintain secure communications under contested conditions.

The core of such a facility would be its communications and networking architecture. This would include secure, encrypted voice systems for constant coordination, multi-layered data networks compliant with NATO standards, and interfaces allowing interoperability with Ukrainian and legacy systems. Satellite communications terminals would provide redundancy, while fiber-optic and line-of-sight links, especially those crossing into NATO territory, would ensure high reliability. Specialized gateway systems would translate between different data formats and protocols, allowing seamless coordination between NATO partners and Ukrainian command structures. The emphasis would be on redundancy and resilience rather than sheer bandwidth.

Another central function would be information fusion and situational awareness. The facility would host systems that integrate air, ground, and missile-related data into a single common operational picture. This would typically be displayed on large command screens and supported by dedicated servers processing inputs from radar feeds, UAV tracking systems, intelligence summaries, and open-source information. The focus would not be on tactical-level control but on operational coordination and strategic awareness. This is traditionally where NATO’s comparative advantage lies: synthesizing diverse data streams into a coherent picture shared across multiple commands and nations.

Planning and coordination spaces would form a major part of the installation. These would include operations rooms, joint planning cells, and secure briefing areas designed for multinational collaboration. Liaison officers representing different services and partner nations would work side by side, ensuring that air operations, logistics, intelligence, and support functions are synchronized. Such spaces are essential for aligning national capabilities without formally integrating command authority.

Cybersecurity and information protection would also be a critical component. Dedicated teams would monitor network integrity, defend against cyber intrusion, and ensure secure authentication of data and users. Electronic-warfare coordination would generally be analytical rather than operational, focusing on threat assessment and deconfliction rather than direct emitter control. Maintaining data integrity and protecting sensitive communications would be as important as physical security.

The facility’s physical infrastructure would be designed for survivability. This would likely include hardened, blast-resistant compartments, EMP-protected rooms, independent power generation, and advanced air filtration systems capable of operating in sealed conditions. Server rooms would be decentralized to avoid single points of failure, and emergency escape or isolation routes would be incorporated. Modernized Soviet-era underground structures are particularly well-suited for this role, as they were originally designed with similar survivability principles in mind.

In terms of personnel, a NATO command-and-control center of this type would be relatively small. A single operational shift might include several dozen core operations staff, supported by intelligence analysts, communications and IT specialists, cybersecurity personnel, liaison officers, and a small command group. Altogether, a single shift would typically involve on the order of 100 to 200 people. To sustain round-the-clock operations, total on-site staffing would usually range from 250 to 400 personnel, with the possibility of temporary increases during periods of heightened activity. NATO doctrine favors compact, highly trained teams that generate disproportionate operational impact.

It is equally important to understand what such a facility would not be. It would not directly control missile launches, conduct hands-on drone piloting, or house large troop formations. Highly sensitive national intelligence assets and direct weapons control are usually kept geographically separated and distributed across multiple sites, often outside the conflict zone, to reduce risk and maintain political boundaries.

From a theoretical standpoint, a city like Lviv fits this conceptual model well. Its proximity to NATO borders allows rapid connectivity and coordination while remaining within Ukrainian territory. The presence of legacy hardened infrastructure, combined with industrial facilities that provide cover and plausible deniability, makes it suitable for a coordination and integration hub rather than a frontline headquarters.

In essence, such a command-and-control center would be information-heavy, personnel-light, deeply redundant, and designed to be both operationally critical and politically discreet.

All of this makes it a very attractive target for the Oreshnik attack.

Thoughts about the second target - Stryi gas storage

Underground gas storage facilities in Ukraine were not created as artificial caverns excavated for storage, but rather by converting depleted natural gas and gas-condensate fields that had been developed during the Soviet period, primarily between the 1950s and 1980s. Once commercial production declined, these fields were repurposed for storage by sealing and reinforcing existing wells, drilling additional injection and withdrawal wells, and installing surface compression and control infrastructure. This approach was chosen because the geology had already been proven to trap gas safely, the reservoir’s properties were well understood, and the cost was far lower than creating purpose-built underground chambers, so the exact location is known to Russia, as well as all supporting infrastructure.

The stored gas resides in deep geological reservoirs, typically at depths ranging from about 400 m to more than 1,200 m, with some facilities reaching close to 2 km below the surface, particularly in western Ukraine. The reservoir rocks are usually porous sandstones or carbonates capable of holding large volumes of gas, while thick overlying layers of clay, shale, marl, or dense limestone act as cap rock, preventing upward migration. These sealing layers can be tens or even hundreds of meters thick and provide the primary natural protection of the storage. To maintain pressure and ensure stable operation, a significant portion of the gas volume is kept permanently underground as cushion gas and is never withdrawn.

Access to the reservoir is provided through a dense network of steel-cased, cemented wells that serve both injection and withdrawal functions. These wells are engineered to withstand high pressures and are equipped with safety valves and monitoring systems. Large storage sites may include hundreds of such wells spread over a wide area, along with additional observation wells used to monitor pressure, temperature, and any signs of leakage or abnormal behavior within the reservoir.

Although the gas itself is stored deep underground, the operation of a storage facility depends heavily on surface infrastructure, including compressor stations, gas treatment units, metering and valve systems, control centers, power supply installations, and pipeline connections. These elements are generally located above ground or at shallow depths and are therefore far more vulnerable than underground reservoirs. If critical surface installations, such as compressors or manifolds, are damaged or destroyed, the gas may remain trapped underground. It cannot be injected or withdrawn, effectively rendering the facility unusable despite the reservoir’s integrity.

The conversion of depleted fields into storage facilities followed a gradual process that began with the original discovery and exploitation of the gas field, continued through depletion to uneconomic levels, and culminated in geological reassessment and adaptation for storage use. Over time, additional wells and surface installations were added to expand capacity and improve operational flexibility. Facilities such as the Bilche-Volytsko-Uherske complex in the Stryi area became some of the largest underground gas storage sites in Europe through this evolutionary approach. The capacity is estimated to be 17 billion cubic meters.

Because the stored gas is dispersed throughout a vast volume of porous rock and protected by deep geological layers, direct destruction of the underground storage itself is extremely difficult with conventional weapons. There is no single cavern or tank to rupture, and damage to the surface does not automatically release the gas. However, a facility can be rendered inoperable for long periods if wells are damaged, casings collapse, cement seals fail, deep piping is severed, or the reservoir pressure regime is destabilized. In such cases, restoring functionality may require extensive re-drilling and reconstruction, potentially taking years or becoming economically unfeasible even though the gas remains underground.

Oreshnik on the target

Oreshnik-class weapons are designed to defeat hardened, medium-depth underground facilities. If the strikes were indeed directed at concealed subsurface structures beneath the Lviv State Aircraft Repair Plant, those facilities have likely been rendered nonfunctional or destroyed. Such systems are specifically intended to penetrate reinforced overburden and transfer the majority of their energy deep below the surface, making survival of underground infrastructure at those depths improbable.

On the other hand, Underground gas storage facilities are not designed to explode, and under normal operating conditions, an actual underground explosion is extremely unlikely. However, understanding why they usually do not explode and under what rare circumstances dangerous events can occur requires examining how these facilities are built, how gas behaves underground, and what actually causes explosions. Oreshnik’s attack is intended not to explode the storage itself, but rather to neutralize any extraction, rendering the storage useless for a considerable time.

In depleted fields and aquifers, gas is stored in porous rock formations thousands of meters below the surface, sealed by an impermeable cap rock that originally held gas for millions of years. The gas is not stored in a hollow cavity filled with air; instead, it occupies microscopic pores in rock, displacing water or residual hydrocarbons. This geological structure is one of the main reasons such facilities are inherently stable.

For an explosion to occur, three elements must come together simultaneously: a flammable gas–air mixture, sufficient oxygen, and an ignition source. Deep underground gas storage typically lacks at least two of these elements. First, there is essentially no free oxygen in the reservoir. Second, the gas is under high pressure and confined within rock pores rather than mixed with air in open space. Without oxygen, combustion and therefore explosion are physically impossible.

That said, underground gas storage facilities can experience dangerous events, but these are typically fires, blowouts, or surface-level explosions, not deep subsurface detonations. The most realistic risk scenarios involve the above-ground and near-surface infrastructure (up to 50-60 m), not the storage reservoir itself.

One possible scenario is a well integrity failure. Gas is injected and withdrawn through steel-cased wells that pass from the surface down to the reservoir. If casing, cement, or valves fail due to corrosion, poor maintenance, mechanical damage, or sabotage, gas can migrate upward uncontrollably. If that escaping gas reaches the surface or shallow underground spaces where oxygen is present, it can ignite. In such cases, the explosion or fire occurs near the wellhead or surface installations, not deep underground.

Another scenario involves surface facilities, such as compressor stations, pipeline manifolds, and pressure-regulation equipment. These components handle large volumes of gas under high pressure and are exposed to air. Damage from accidents, poor maintenance, or external attack can release gas into the atmosphere. If ignited, this can cause large fires or explosions that may appear dramatic and destructive, even though the underground reservoir remains intact. Previous Russian attacks destroyed most of the surface gas-handling equipment.

In rare cases, gas can migrate laterally through faults or abandoned wells and accumulate in confined underground spaces closer to the surface, such as basements, tunnels, or utility corridors. If an ignition source is present, an explosion can occur there. Again, this is not an explosion of the storage reservoir itself but of escaped gas that has mixed with air.

Salt cavern storage behaves somewhat differently. These facilities store gas in large hollow caverns carved into salt formations. Even here, explosions are unlikely underground because the caverns are filled almost entirely with gas and lack oxygen. The main risk remains at the surface or in the access wells. A catastrophic cavern collapse is possible under extreme conditions, but it would result in ground subsidence or gas release rather than a conventional explosion.

There is also a common misconception that high pressure alone can cause an explosion. Pressure by itself does not create explosions. It can cause violent mechanical failures, such as ruptures or blowouts, but combustion still requires oxygen and an ignition source. A sudden release of high-pressure gas may produce a shock-like effect or loud noise, but without ignition, it is not an explosion in the chemical sense.

Even in military or strike scenarios, conventional weapons typically cannot cause an underground gas reservoir to explode directly. What they can do is destroy wells, pipelines, compressors, power supply, and control systems, leading to gas leakage, pressure loss, and long-term facility shutdown. Fires may burn for days or weeks if gas continues to escape and ignite at the surface, but the bulk of the gas remains trapped underground.

In summary, underground gas storage can only “explode” in a very indirect sense. The deep storage formation itself cannot explode because it lacks oxygen and free volume. Dangerous events occur when gas escapes into oxygen-rich environments due to well failure, surface damage, or infrastructure destruction. These events are serious and can be highly destructive, but they are fundamentally engineering failures or surface-level accidents, not detonations of the underground storage itself.

Conclusion

Russia has carried out another series of strikes aimed at underground facilities (with ballistic missiles) and energy-related infrastructure with drones. If aviation repair facilities, NATO & Ukrainian C2 centers, or drone manufacturing sites were among the targets, the impact would be significant, as such installations play a critical role in sustaining aircraft readiness and unmanned systems production. Damage to these facilities would therefore represent a severe degradation of Ukraine’s long-term military and industrial capacity.

In the event of an attack on a potential gas storage facility, should underground gas infrastructure be the primary focus, the strategic consequences would be even broader. The loss or long-term disablement of as much as half of Ukraine’s underground gas storage capacity would place the country in a highly precarious position, particularly during the winter heating season, when gas demand peaks and system flexibility is essential. Underground storage is not merely a reserve; it is a stabilizing mechanism that allows operators to manage daily and seasonal fluctuations in supply and demand.

Ukraine’s ability to offset such losses through external assistance is inherently limited. Allied gas reserves and pipeline capacities are finite, and competition for available volumes on the European market intensifies during periods of high seasonal demand. Any substantial reduction in accessible storage would likely lead to sharp price increases, not only in Ukraine but also in neighboring markets, which are indirectly affected by supply stress and transit constraints.

Liquefied natural gas is often presented as an alternative, but in practice, it offers only limited relief. LNG imports require access to specialized terminals, regasification facilities, secure transport corridors, and long-term contractual arrangements. Ukraine has no direct access to LNG terminals, and reliance on transshipment through neighboring countries introduces logistical bottlenecks, constrained throughput, and higher costs. As a result, LNG can supplement supply at the margins but cannot quickly or fully replace significant volumes of lost underground storage capacity.

The strategic logic behind these strikes seems less focused on immediate battlefield outcomes and more on applying sustained systemic pressure. By damaging underground storage reservoirs, associated wells, compressor stations, and surface access infrastructure, the attacker reduces Ukraine’s ability to buffer supply disruptions, maintain network pressure, and endure prolonged periods of high demand. Even when gas remains physically trapped deep underground, damage to access and control systems can render these reserves effectively unusable for months or even years.

In this broader context, energy infrastructure emerges as a central element of strategic leverage. Energy insecurity during winter has direct consequences for civilian resilience, industrial production, and overall state stability. The situation highlights how modern conflicts increasingly extend beyond the battlefield, with critical infrastructure becoming a primary target in efforts to shape long-term political, economic, and strategic outcomes.

[i] Edited by Piquet (EditPiquet@gmail.com)

If you like the article (and many more articles regarding military subjects will come), you can buy me a coffee:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/mmihajloviW

Introduction

In early January 2026, a rapid and highly coordinated U.S. military operation unfolded inside Venezuelan airspace, ending with the capture of President Nicolás Maduro in Caracas. The action was carried out over a very short time window and reportedly involved a large and diverse force that included stealth aircraft, bombers, electronic warfare platforms, surveillance and reconnaissance assets, combat helicopters, and unmanned systems. Despite Venezuela possessing what is often described as a layered air-defense network, ranging from long- and medium-range missile systems to short-range launchers, man-portable air-defense weapons, anti-aircraft guns, and radar installations, there was no visible or effective attempt to contest the operation or shield the capital and the president from the incursion.

The absence of meaningful resistance immediately triggered intense debate in international media and analytical circles. Some commentary quickly fell into familiar patterns, portraying the event as proof of the inherent inferiority of Soviet- and Russian-designed air-defense systems and reinforcing a narrative of overwhelming Western technological dominance. At the other end of the spectrum were more measured assessments, which emphasized that air-defense performance depends not only on hardware but on readiness, doctrine, training, integration, and the specific conditions under which systems are employed.

It is also essential to view these events through a broader geopolitical lens. The Caribbean has long been regarded by Washington as its immediate strategic neighborhood and de facto sphere of influence. Historically and practically, the United States has shown little tolerance for losing control in this region, regardless of justification. Whether framed as counter-narcotics operations, protection of natural resources, regional stability, or other pretexts, the underlying objective remains the same: maintaining dominance in what is seen as America’s front yard.

Western mass media coverage of Russian-designed air-defense systems often displays a striking double standard that borders on outright charlatanism, particularly when the same systems are evaluated differently depending on who operates them. When these systems are used by U.S. allies, most notably Ukraine, they are frequently described as “effective,” “resilient,” or “cleverly employed.” When operated by U.S. opponents or politically unfriendly states, the very same systems are routinely portrayed as obsolete, unreliable, or fundamentally flawed. This contradiction is not rooted in technical reality but in narrative framing, selective reporting, and political alignment.

Paper vs Reality

To understand why Venezuela’s air defenses failed to play a decisive role, it is first necessary to distinguish between what the country possessed on paper and what it could realistically bring to bear in combat at the moment of crisis. Venezuela fields one of the most capable air-defense inventories in South America. In practical terms, however, the number of these systems relative to the country’s size provides insufficient density for comprehensive territorial air defense. Venezuela covers approximately 916,000 square kilometers, while the effective engagement footprint of even long-range surface-to-air missile systems is limited and fragmented by terrain, radar horizon, and the need for mutual overlap. When assessed by realistic detection ranges, radar coverage gaps, and engagement envelopes, Venezuela’s air-defense assets can protect only a small number of high-value targets such as major air bases, critical infrastructure nodes, and selected political and command centers, rather than providing continuous, layered coverage of national airspace. This structural limitation sharply constrains defensive flexibility and effectively dictates a point-defense posture, a reality that U.S. operational planners would well understand and deliberately exploit.

Let’s compare the air-defense capabilities of Ukraine and Venezuela in context. Venezuela’s land area is roughly 1.5 times that of Ukraine’s, posing a significant challenge for any integrated air-defense network built on a limited stock of systems. Ukraine in February 2022 possessed a much larger and more densely distributed air-defense inventory, including several hundred medium- and long-range surface-to-air missile launchers drawn from its Soviet-era stock and supplemented over time by Western systems and munitions. This created a multi‑tiered architecture with overlapping engagement zones and a widely dispersed radar footprint, supported by layered early‑warning coverage and integrated command and control, continually refined with the help of NATO and Western intelligence and material support. By contrast, Venezuela’s inventory, while including capable elements such as long‑range S‑300VM and medium-range Buk systems, as well as short‑range units and man‑portable air-defense missiles, is far smaller in absolute numbers and therefore effective primarily in localized sectors rather than across the country’s entire airspace. Ukraine’s defense posture also benefits from an extensive network of specialized facilities for maintenance, overhaul, logistics integration, and crew training, as well as an industrial base capable of producing or repairing components and keeping systems operational under sustained use. Venezuela, in contrast, reportedly maintains only a few centers with comparable capabilities, severely limiting its ability to sustain high readiness, modernize systems, or conduct large‑scale training across its entire air‑defense park. Put simply, these are two very different strategic and military situations, and comparing a successful U.S. operation against Venezuela with an “unsuccessful” Russian air campaign against Ukraine without accounting for scale, density, sustainment infrastructure, and allied integration is not feasible in operational terms.

Over the past two decades, Venezuela invested in air defense equipment, primarily sourced from Russia, with additional contributions from China and Iran. Its inventory has included long-range surface-to-air missile systems intended to deter high-altitude incursions, medium-range systems designed to engage aircraft and missiles at intermediate distances, and short-range systems meant to protect key sites against low-flying threats. In addition, Venezuela has fielded a large number of anti-aircraft guns and shoulder-fired missiles, often showcased during military parades and exercises as symbols of national sovereignty and deterrence.

An earlier article by the author addressed the potential for a U.S. attack and can be accessed here:

This article analyzes Venezuela’s air-defense assets and evaluates several potential scenarios; it is therefore recommended reading in conjunction with this article.

The Air Defense Complexity

Viewed in isolation, a theoretically layered defense structure capable of detecting and engaging aerial threats across different ranges and altitudes. Long-range systems are meant to keep hostile aircraft at a distance, medium-range systems to disrupt penetration attempts, and short-range assets to provide point defense around critical facilities and leadership targets. However, a defense network that appears comprehensive on paper does not automatically translate into an effective combat system.

In practice, the Venezuelan air defense apparatus appears to suffer from significant structural weaknesses. Key elements of the detection and command network were reportedly degraded well before the operation began. Radar coverage was uneven and, in some areas, unreliable, undermining the ability to maintain a continuous and accurate picture of the airspace. Without dependable early warning and centralized coordination, missile batteries and gun units operate in isolation, reacting late, or not at all, to fast-moving events. In such conditions, even advanced weapons can be rendered ineffective simply because they are not cued in time or lack clear engagement authority.

Training and readiness further compounded these problems. Modern surface-to-air missile systems are complex and demanding, requiring frequent exercises, disciplined crews, and well-rehearsed procedures to function effectively under stress. Engaging multiple threats approaching from different directions, at different altitudes, and at different speeds—especially in the presence of electronic interference—is one of the most challenging tasks in modern warfare. There is little evidence that Venezuelan air-defense units had recently trained at a realistic tempo for such scenarios, raising serious doubts about their ability to respond decisively to a sudden, coordinated attack.

The U.S. operation's design also played a decisive role. Rather than testing Venezuela’s defenses head-on, the operation appears to have focused on neutralizing them at the outset. Electronic warfare assets were used to disrupt radar emissions, communications, and command links, depriving defenders of situational awareness. In parallel, precision strikes targeted key nodes of the air-defense network, including radars, command centers, and air bases. This approach effectively severed the connections between sensors, decision-makers, and shooters, leaving individual units unable to act in a coordinated manner.

Stealth aircraft further complicated the defender’s task. While stealth does not make an aircraft invisible, it significantly reduces detection range and tracking accuracy, particularly for older radar systems not designed to counter such threats. When combined with electronic attack and rapid maneuver, this sharply lowers the probability that defenders can generate a timely and reliable firing solution.

Even where local units may have attempted to respond, they faced technical limitations inherent to their systems. Short-range missiles and anti-aircraft guns can be effective against certain targets, but their performance depends heavily on accurate cueing and favorable engagement geometry. Against fast jets, helicopters using terrain masking, or aircraft equipped with modern countermeasures, their effectiveness drops sharply without radar guidance and coordinated control.

Beyond technical factors, doctrine and organizational culture also shaped the outcome. Venezuela’s air-defense posture appears to have emphasized deterrence through visible ownership of advanced systems rather than sustained operational readiness. Public messaging often highlighted the number of weapons in service, but numbers alone do not create an integrated defense capable of withstanding a high-intensity, multi-domain operation. Such an approach may discourage minor incursions or unauthorized flights, but it offers limited protection against a determined and well-prepared adversary.

Political dynamics within the military further complicate the picture. Centralized control, politicized command structures, and uneven morale can all inhibit rapid decision-making in a crisis. When loyalty is prioritized over professional competence, units may hesitate, misinterpret orders, or focus on self-preservation rather than taking decisive action, especially in fast-moving, uncertain situations.

Ultimately, the events in Venezuela illustrate a broader truth about air defense: it is not a collection of isolated weapons, but a complex system that depends on detection, communication, training, logistics, and doctrine working together seamlessly. Weakness in any one of these areas can undermine the entire structure. In this case, multiple shortcomings appear to have converged, leaving a defense network that looked formidable in theory but proved ineffective in practice.

Seen from this perspective, the lack of visible resistance was not simply a demonstration of technological superiority or a condemnation of any particular weapons family. It was the result of a complex interaction between equipment, readiness, organization, and the manner in which the operation was executed. Advanced systems, regardless of origin, require sustained investment, integration, and skilled personnel to perform as intended. When those conditions are absent, even impressive arsenals can fail at the moment they are most needed.

The Air Defense “Trinity”

Where, then, does air defense fit into this environment of pressure and instability? The answer is that it does exist and it is present, but it is subject to the same stresses affecting the broader state and society. To understand its performance, the reader must recognize that air defense rests on a fundamental trinity: equipment, tactics, and people. If any one of these elements fails, the entire system fails with it. Effective air defense has little to do with the country of manufacture stamped on the hardware. While equipment quality certainly matters, functionality matters far more.

Complex air-defense systems require constant maintenance, periodic overhauls, and a steady flow of spare parts to remain operational. A country under long-term sanctions and severe economic constraints simply cannot sustain this level of investment. As sanctions persist, more systems inevitably fall out of service, with uncertain timelines for repair or return to operational status. This reality applies universally: even the most advanced equipment in the world will fail if it is not properly maintained, regardless of who produced it.

The second pillar of the trinity is tactics. On paper, Venezuelan air-defense doctrine follows Soviet and Russian principles, which are neither outdated nor inherently flawed. The problem lies not in doctrine itself, but in its execution. Effective tactics demand continuous training, frequent exercises, and repeated rehearsal of combat scenarios, including live or simulated engagements. Crews must internalize procedures through repetition until responses become automatic under stress. However, this level of training is impossible if the equipment used for exercises is unavailable, unreliable, or nonfunctional, once again circling back to the issue of maintenance and readiness.

The final and most critical element is personnel. Air-defense systems do not operate themselves. Without well-trained, motivated, and confident crews, even the most sophisticated weapons are rendered inert. In the Venezuelan case, this human factor was likely the most vulnerable link in the chain and almost certainly one of the primary considerations for U.S. planners. Political pressures, morale issues, uneven training standards, and questions of loyalty all undermine combat effectiveness. When people are uncertain, undertrained, or disengaged, no amount of hardware can compensate.

Viewed through this lens, the shortcomings of Venezuelan air defense cannot be explained solely by technology. They are the result of sustained pressure across all three pillars of the air-defense trinity. Equipment degradation, inadequate training, and human factors combined to create a system that existed in form, but not in function, precisely the type of vulnerability a well-prepared adversary is designed to exploit.

“Money can open doors no drill bit ever could” - the personnel

To further develop the air-defense trinity, the third element - the people, which must be examined through the broader condition of Venezuelan society. Venezuela is experiencing a deep and prolonged national crisis. Inflation remains extreme, access to basic goods is inconsistent, and essential services are unreliable. These conditions do not affect only the civilian population; they also directly and severely impact ordinary military personnel. Air-defense crews are no exception.

Beyond the external threat of military aggression, the personnel tasked with operating air-defense systems face daily challenges of basic survival. This reality applies not to senior generals, who often enjoy insulation from hardship through privilege and political connections, but to junior officers, non-commissioned officers, and enlisted personnel. These are the individuals who operate radars, maintain launchers, crew command posts, and man firing positions. Prolonged economic hardship inevitably erodes morale, discipline, and readiness, particularly when the contrast between the living conditions of rank-and-file servicemen and the political-military elite becomes increasingly visible.

A divided society produces divided loyalties. Lower-ranking personnel, struggling to support families and meet basic needs, may reasonably question whether personal sacrifice is justified when the state itself appears unable—or unwilling—to provide for them. While a sense of duty and patriotism does exist and should not be dismissed, these factors alone cannot fully offset sustained material deprivation. This human dimension is not incidental; it is precisely the type of vulnerability that serious adversaries analyze and seek to exploit.

This is where intelligence operations intersect decisively with military planning. Identifying key personnel within combat units, whether commanders, technicians, operators, or support staff, and assessing their vulnerabilities is a standard component of modern warfare. From an intelligence perspective, every individual matters. A commanding officer can influence outcomes through orders, but a technician can disable a system just as effectively by failing to maintain it, misconfiguring it, or ensuring it is unavailable at a critical moment.

Senior officers are particularly valuable targets. Gaining leverage over a unit commander can result in stand-down orders at the decisive moment, eliminating resistance without firing a shot. To reinforce such outcomes and reduce uncertainty, lower-ranking personnel may be independently approached to ensure redundancy: systems can be rendered inoperable for several crucial hours through deliberate inaction, technical “failures,” or procedural delays. Air-defense systems are complex by nature, and they require no extraordinary effort for a small number of insiders to disrupt their functionality at precisely the wrong time.

Such actions do not require a broad conspiracy. Recruiting several individuals across different units, each acting independently and unaware of the full plan, is sufficient to degrade the system during the narrow window required for an operation. This window needs only to be long enough to allow airspace penetration, helicopter landings, and the extraction of a high-value target.

In the Venezuelan case, it is a reasonable assessment that major air-defense assets were neutralized from within the system itself, either through deliberate sabotage, passive non-compliance, technical neglect, or direct orders to stand down. As a contingency, the United States deployed stealth aircraft and electronic warfare platforms to suppress or destroy remaining threats if resistance emerged. However, the apparent lack of engagement suggests that these kinetic and electronic measures served primarily as insurance rather than the primary means of suppression.

In effect, financial leverage and intelligence preparation may have proven more effective than electronic jamming or precision strikes. A dollar is more powerful than the specialized EW pod. The operation demonstrated a high level of integration between the US intelligence and military planning, combining internal destabilization with overwhelming external capability to create favorable conditions for success.

Conclusion

Venezuelan air defense did not fail solely because of the overwhelming power of U.S. military assets; it failed because key elements of its network were compromised, fragmented, and rendered largely nonfunctional during the critical hours of the operation - a breakdown that very likely reflected deeper issues within the top echelons of command and the wider defense structure.

Just to be thorough, ensure sufficient security, and avoid repeating past mistakes, the U.S. also targeted several military bases and key power distribution sites.

This outcome highlights a central lesson of modern air defense: systems do not collapse only under physical attack; they can be neutralized through human, organizational, and systemic factors just as effectively, and in many cases more so. In this operation, the decisive battlefield was not just the airspace over Caracas, but the social, economic, and operational terrain within the defending force itself. The limited and disjointed response of Venezuela’s air‑defense network - despite the presence of multiple long‑range and medium‑range systems - suggests that degraded readiness, fragmented integration, insufficient training, and possible command hesitancy or constraints played a critical role in preventing an effective reaction. At the outset of the assault, U.S. forces employed extensive electronic warfare and suppression measures that disrupted radar and command links, further disorienting defenders and limiting their ability to detect, track, and engage incoming aircraft. The absence of coordinated resistance during those decisive hours reflected deeper weaknesses in cohesion, morale, and operational command that undermined the air‑defense network's ability to operate as a unified, resilient system.

[i] Edited by Piquet (EditPiquet@gmail.com)

If you like the article (and many more articles regarding military subjects will come), you can buy me a coffee:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/mmihajloviW

In today’s fast-paced world, every bold move carries the potential for brilliance or disaster. Whether in business, politics, or personal decisions, the difference between a masterful strategy and “s…

Read more

A weapon system on its own

The Poseidon, designated 2M39 in Russian service and known to NATO as Kanyon, is among the most enigmatic and controversial strategic systems developed in recent years. It resists conventional classification: neither a conventional torpedo nor a crewed submarine, it represents a novel class of autonomous, nuclear-powered underwater vehicle designed to carry a nuclear warhead.

This autonomous, nuclear-powered underwater vehicle, formerly designated Status-6, has been described in open sources as capable of carrying a very large thermonuclear warhead (some reports even cite yields as high as 100 megatons)1 and of transiting intercontinental distances at depths that would place it beyond the reach of most conventional antisubmarine weapons, arguably leaving only exceptionally large-yield nuclear depth charges as a theoretical counter. Open reporting also suggests it can adopt multiple mission modes: a high-speed transit phase at depth, which offers rapid repositioning but is more readily detectable by advanced acoustic sensors, and a prolonged low-speed, low-observability cruise that exploits nuclear endurance to remain submerged for effectively indefinite periods before conducting a final approach to a target.

As with many novel Russian weapons, most technical details remain classified; nevertheless, a synthesis of open-source analysis and official Russian statements permits a broad—albeit uncertain—reconstruction of Poseidon’s design philosophy, capabilities, and potential strategic effects.

The system’s existence has been publicly acknowledged by Russian officials and illustrated in state imagery since 2015, with subsequent references appearing in speeches by President Vladimir Putin. Official portrayals consistently show a large, torpedo-like unmanned vehicle propelled by a compact nuclear powerplant. Independent Western analysts and think tanks, including the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, the Hertie School, and GlobalSecurity.org, generally assess that the platform is powered by a compact liquid-metal-cooled fast reactor (most plausibly lead–bismuth), measures roughly 18-24 meters in length with a diameter near two meters, and is intended to operate at depths on the order of one kilometer or more. Open estimates for warhead yield typically cluster around two megatons, although some Russian statements and more sensational sources have suggested far larger figures; taken at face value, those Russian claims imply yields on the order of 100 megatons - roughly fifty times the commonly cited Western estimate - underscoring the large and unresolved discrepancy between official Russian messaging and independent technical appraisals.

To illustrate the size of Poseidon, the following picture helps:

The Reactor

Let’s now dive into the design: the rationale for nuclear propulsion in a torpedo-sized system is straightforward. A platform designed to cross oceans autonomously, remain submerged for long durations, and maintain high speed cannot rely on chemical fuel or battery power. Only a nuclear reactor provides the energy density required to sustain such endurance and performance. Among reactor options, liquid-metal-cooled fast reactors are the most plausible because of their compactness and high power density. Russia has extensive historical experience with this technology, particularly in the Project 705 & 705K Alfa-class submarines, which used lead–bismuth–cooled VT-1 reactors (see the illustration below). These reactors can achieve high thermal power in small volumes and operate without bulky high-pressure systems, making them suitable for integration into a limited-diameter hull. Although pressurized water reactors are technically simpler and widely used in naval propulsion (submarines, aircraft carriers, and icebreakers), their volume, shielding requirements, and mechanical complexity make them less ideal for such a compact, high-speed vehicle. Liquid-metal reactors are not without drawbacks, as they require careful temperature management to avoid coolant solidification and create radiological hazards through polonium formation, but their advantages in power density likely outweigh these issues for a weaponized, non-recoverable platform.

Assuming a reactor output in the range of several to a few tens of megawatts, Poseidon’s claimed speed envelope becomes theoretically plausible. Hydrodynamic drag increases rapidly with speed, so propelling a large underwater body beyond fifty knots demands immense power. Achieving 100 knots would require advanced, cavitation-resistant designs and a propulsion system of extraordinary efficiency. The operational depth of about one kilometer is within Russia’s known capabilities, as shown by deep-diving submarines and titanium-hulled submersibles already in service. However, it implies a robust and pressure-resistant hull structure.

The well-known and the utterly unknown converge in the story of Poseidon’s propulsion 2,3,4,5,6. To understand where it came from, one must first examine the history of small liquid-metal nuclear propulsion in the Soviet Union and Russia, a field that combined extraordinary ambition, advanced engineering, and high-risk experimentation. Beginning in the late 1950s, Soviet scientists and engineers pursued compact reactors cooled with liquid metals, aiming to produce energy-dense, high-power systems for applications where conventional reactors could not fit—primarily submarines, specialized naval vessels, and later, experimental space systems.

Liquid metals such as sodium, sodium–potassium alloys, and lead–bismuth eutectic offered unique advantages: high thermal conductivity, low vapor pressure, and the ability to operate at very high temperatures without pressurization. These properties enabled smaller cores capable of producing significant power, essential for high-speed submarines or autonomous underwater vehicles, and for space reactors requiring long-term, reliable electricity. The development of such reactors was not confined to a single laboratory; it involved a network of Soviet research institutes and design bureaus, including the Kurchatov Institute, the Institute for Physics and Power Engineering (IPPE) in Obninsk, OKBM Afrikantov in Nizhniy Novgorod, Gidropress, and the Luch and Krasnaya Zvezda organizations responsible for thermionic conversion and reactor assembly.

One of the most striking applications of this technology was in the Project 705 “Alfa” submarines. These boats required extremely high speeds in small hulls, and engineers met this demand with lead-bismuth-cooled reactors such as the BM-40A and OK-550. The liquid-metal coolant allowed cores to deliver immense power without the size and weight penalties of conventional systems. Yet these advantages came with severe challenges: lead–bismuth solidifies at relatively modest temperatures, so a loss of heat could freeze the reactor, and handling the radioactive coolant and highly enriched fuel required specialized shore infrastructure. These operational difficulties limited the number of vessels that could benefit from this technology. Still, the lessons learned provided critical experience in coolant chemistry, materials science, and reactor maintenance under extreme conditions.

To illustrate the complexity, the following is an example of one liquid metal piping from the Project 705 submarine:

In parallel, Soviet engineers explored liquid-metal reactors for space applications, producing the TOPAZ series of thermionic power reactors. These reactors used liquid metal, often sodium–potassium alloys, to remove heat from the fuel while directly converting thermal energy to electricity through thermionic elements integrated into the core. The reactors were compact, robust, and capable of providing continuous electrical power for years, making them ideal for satellites and other long-duration space missions. TOPAZ reactors were later acquired by Western researchers after the collapse of the Soviet Union, offering a rare glimpse into advanced Soviet nuclear space technology.

The broader development of sodium-cooled fast reactors for civilian power, such as the BN series, including BN-350, BN-600, and BN-800, demonstrates the Soviet mastery of liquid-metal technology beyond niche applications. While these reactors were much larger than those used in submarines or spacecraft, they shared many technological principles, particularly the use of liquid metal to manage heat transfer in a fast-neutron spectrum. They contributed to plutonium breeding, electricity generation, and the accumulation of extensive operational experience, underpinning Russia’s continuing work on fast reactors and closed fuel cycles.

The technical evolution of these small liquid-metal reactors reflected careful adaptation to each coolant's properties. Sodium offered excellent heat transfer but was highly reactive with air and water, requiring careful control. Sodium–potassium alloys remained liquid at room temperature, simplifying some operational challenges in compact reactors. The eutectic lead–bismuth mixture, although dense and potentially corrosive, has a high boiling point and low neutron activation products, making it ideal for high-performance submerged vessels and autonomous underwater systems. Each choice dictated specialized materials, chemistry management, and operational procedures, shaping the capabilities and limitations of the final designs.

Understanding Poseidon’s propulsion is impossible without this context. It is the culmination of decades of experimentation with compact liquid-metal reactors, first honed for high-speed submarines and later refined in experimental and space-based reactors. The Soviet and Russian expertise in this field has created a vast knowledge base in coolant chemistry, thermionic conversion, and high-power-density reactor cores that underpins the design of autonomous nuclear-propelled systems capable of extraordinary range and power. The Poseidon story, both its public revelations and its technical mysteries, is inseparable from the long, intricate history of small liquid-metal nuclear propulsion in Russia, where innovation often outpaced safety, secrecy shaped the flow of information, and the extraordinary became operational reality.

Propulsion

In addition to its onboard nuclear reactor, propulsion is crucial for guiding the Poseidon to its intended target. Although detailed technical information is limited, a few publicly available photos, especially those showing the rear section, albeit partially obscured, along with conceptual sketches, suggest that Poseidon likely uses a pump-jet propulsion system. This type of propulsion is known for being quiet, efficient, and highly suitable for long-range underwater travel. Its low acoustic signature and enclosed design make it ideal for a strategic weapon intended to move undetected across vast ocean distances.

Instead of using traditional propellers, pump-jet systems pull water in through an intake, push it through a spinning rotor, and then force it out the back to create thrust. The entire mechanism is enclosed in a tube, making it safer and more streamlined.

One of the most significant advantages of pump-jet propulsion is its quiet operation. Because the moving parts are inside a casing, it doesn’t make as much noise as regular propellers. This is important for missions that require stealth, such as military or wildlife observation. It also helps reduce cavitation, which occurs when bubbles form and collapse around the propeller, causing noise and damage.

Pump-jets are also good at handling debris and rough underwater environments. Since the blades are protected, they’re less likely to get tangled or damaged. Some designs even allow the vehicle to move in any direction, which helps with maneuvering in tight spaces.

There are many new developments in this area. Some pump-jets are being made with 3D printing, which makes them cheaper and easier to customize. Others use special shapes and fluid-flow tricks to improve performance at low speeds. Some high-end models can dive deep underwater and still work efficiently, while newer designs are eliminating traditional shafts to make the system simpler and more reliable.

Of course, pump-jets aren’t perfect. They can be less efficient than propellers at very low speeds, and designing them requires extensive testing and fine-tuning. But engineers are working on ways to improve them, including using artificial intelligence to control their motion and exploring nature-inspired designs to make them even quieter and more efficient.

Challenge for the Sonar Operators

Sonar7 is the primary tool used to find submarines. There are two main types: active sonar, which sends out sound pulses and listens for echoes, and passive sonar, which listens for sounds in the water. Passive sonar is especially important for detecting quiet submarines, such as those using pump-jets.

Pump-jets are quieter because they reduce cavitation, the formation of bubbles that collapse and make noise. They also shield the moving parts within a duct, helping muffle the sound. However, they’re not entirely silent. Sonar operators are trained to listen for subtle acoustic signatures, such as the faint hum of machinery, vibrations from the pump-jet’s rotor and stator, or even the sound of water flowing through the duct.

Detection becomes a game of patience and skill. Operators use advanced sonar arrays and software to filter out background noise and focus on specific frequencies. They analyze patterns, compare them to known submarine profiles, and use techniques like target motion analysis to estimate the location and movement of a contact. In some cases, they rely on multi-static sonar, in which one system sends a signal and others listen for the return, increasing the chances of detecting a quiet submarine.

Despite the challenges, pump-jet submarines or autonomous underwater vehicles can still be tracked, especially if they operate in noisy environments, use older equipment, or have their propulsion systems start to wear down and produce more sound. For example, even the advanced Russian Borei-class submarines, which use pump-jets, have been detected due to aging hydraulic pumps that became noisier over time.

As Poseidon moves faster, potentially exceeding 100 km/h, it generates more noise from water flow, turbulence, and mechanical vibrations. This makes it easier for sonar operators to pick up its acoustic signature, especially if they’re using sensitive arrays designed to detect subtle underwater sounds.

But here’s the catch: even if Poseidon becomes more detectable at high speeds, intercepting it is another story. At such a velocity, it can cover vast distances quickly, reducing the time available for response. Traditional anti-submarine weapons and interceptors may struggle to match its speed or predict its path in time to neutralize the threat.

In essence, Poseidon trades some stealth for speed, but at such extreme velocities, it may not need to hide. Its ability to outrun most underwater defenses could make it nearly unstoppable once launched.

Warhead - the Tsunami-maker (or not)?

The warhead estimates are extreme—from generally clustering around two megatons, suggesting a large thermonuclear device packaged to withstand deep-sea pressures and long transit times, to a gigantic 100-megaton warhead, which is also feasible. Speculation about “salted” or radiologically enhanced versions, such as cobalt-based warheads designed to maximize contamination, persists in public discourse. Still, there is no reliable evidence supporting their existence at the time this article was published. From an engineering standpoint, very high yields would increase warhead size and mass beyond what a torpedo-sized body could efficiently accommodate. Hence, the two-megaton to ten-megaton range remains the credible estimate for now. Such a yield is more than sufficient to devastate any port or coastal city if detonated nearby.

Understanding the effects of a Poseidon detonation requires recalling the physics of underwater nuclear explosions. When a nuclear device explodes underwater, the expanding fireball creates an immense pressure wave through the surrounding water, known as a hydraulic shock, capable of crushing ships and underwater structures within a considerable radius. The explosion also generates a massive bubble of hot gases that oscillates, sometimes breaching the surface and ejecting a towering column of water. At shallow depths, this interaction forms a “base surge,” a cloud of radioactive mist that can heavily contaminate surrounding areas. Historical tests, such as the 1946 Baker shot at Bikini Atoll, demonstrated that even relatively low-yield underwater explosions can render ships and nearby waters dangerously radioactive for extended periods. In deep-water detonations, the shockwave and thermal energy remain more confined, causing less surface disturbance but still creating catastrophic conditions for marine life and infrastructure within kilometers.

Public claims that a Poseidon detonation could generate a “radioactive tsunami” capable of inundating entire coastlines across oceans are scientifically unsupported. Tsunamis arise primarily from the displacement of large volumes of water, typically by tectonic or landslide events that deform the seafloor over vast areas. A nuclear explosion, even at megaton scale, releases immense energy but couples it into short, high-frequency waves that dissipate rapidly rather than forming the long-wavelength motions required for ocean-spanning tsunamis. At most, a nearshore or shallow-water detonation could produce powerful local waves and flooding within tens of kilometers of the site, especially if it destabilized seabed sediments or triggered an underwater landslide. However, the global “continent-destroying tsunami” motif belongs more to political rhetoric than hydrodynamic reality.

The damage to a coastal city from a Poseidon strike would depend strongly on depth and distance. A deep-water detonation several hundred meters offshore would annihilate ships and marine installations nearby, create a massive plume of contaminated seawater, and leave severe radiological pollution in local currents and sediments. The water–air interface would mute the direct blast effects on land, though low-lying coastal facilities could still experience flooding and contamination. If the explosion occurred in shallow water, near a harbor or estuary, the destructive potential would rise dramatically. The blast would excavate the seabed, hurl millions of tons of water and radioactive spray onto the coast, and flood port districts with contaminated slurry. Ports, industrial zones, and densely populated waterfronts would suffer catastrophic damage. At the same time, aerosolized fission products and activated seawater could deposit dangerous levels of radiation across nearby areas for months and years. Even so, the primary inland hazard would stem from radioactive contamination and flooding, not from the kind of overpressure damage typical of atmospheric nuclear detonations.

The environmental consequences of such an event would be devastating. Marine life in the detonation zone would be destroyed instantly, and residual radionuclides could persist in sediments and food chains for decades. Fisheries and coastal economies would be crippled by contamination, and recovery of port infrastructure might take decades.

Some technical thoughts on when Poseidon goes boom…

What happens on the receiving end when Poseidon goes boom near the coastline can be simulated with software packages such as ANSYS for a serious, professional analysis, or even with an AI to a very broad degree, which can run different scenarios based on specific parameters.

Underwater shock from hypothetical megaton-class detonations using a standard empirical scaling relation commonly used in underwater-explosion engineering. The relation estimates the peak pressure in the water as a function of explosive yield and radial distance. In simple form, the equation used is:

Pₚₑₐₖ = 52.4×10⁶ · (W^{1/3} / R)^{1.13}, [Pa] ,

where W is the TNT-equivalent mass in kilograms and R is the distance from the explosion in meters. This formula is an engineering empirical fit (a Cole-type scaling) that produces reasonable first-order estimates of the short, intense pressure pulse a large underwater blast would create; it is not a substitute for a full numerical hydrocode simulation that includes depth, seabed geometry, bubble dynamics, or coastal bathymetry.

To get a wider picture of the effect, the formula mentioned above was run for four hypothetical yields that bracket commonly-discussed public estimates for a weapon of the Poseidon class: 0.1 Mt, 1 Mt, 2 Mt, and 10 Mt. Distances were evaluated from 100 m up to 100 km on a log-spaced grid, so the results show how the peak underwater pressure decays with range over two orders of magnitude and more.

The computed outputs are peak underwater pressures in MPa and psi, and grouped the numerical values into practical “damage bands” for intuition: pressures above ~100 MPa are inside the catastrophic range for nearby ships and submerged structures, 10–100 MPa is a severe-damage band, 1–10 MPa is serious (enough to breach small hulls or damage sensitive underwater systems), 0.1–1 MPa is significant, and below ~0.01 MPa the direct shock effects on large vessels or shore installations become small. These bands are approximate engineering heuristics, not precise structural failure thresholds, and are included only to help interpret distances in familiar terms. To present concrete numbers, here are the radii8 (rounded) at which the peak underwater pressure decays to selected thresholds for each yield I modeled. For 0.1 Mt, the radius to 100 MPa is about 260 m, to 10 MPa about 2.0 km, to 1 MPa about 15.4 km, and to 0.1 MPa about 118 km. For 1 Mt, those radii move outward: roughly 564 m to 100 MPa, 4.3 km to 10 MPa, 33.2 km to 1 MPa, and 255 km to 0.1 MPa. For 2 Mt, the comparable radii are about 711 m, 5.5 km, 41.9 km, and 321 km, respectively. For 10 Mt, they are roughly 1.22 km, 9.33 km, 71.6 km, and 549 km, respectively. These distances are the straight-line radial distances through water at which the modeled instantaneous peak shock falls to the stated pressure thresholds; they do not automatically map to “shoreline damage radii” without accounting for depth, geometry, and local bathymetry.

Interpreting what those radii mean in practice requires remembering two important physical facts. First, the pressure pulse in water is highly damaging at short distances because water transmits shock waves extremely effectively; ships and submarines within the inner radii listed above would receive lethal, structure-destroying loads. Second, converting that intense, short-wavelength energy into long-wavelength tsunami waves is inefficient. Large tsunamis that travel across oceans are produced most efficiently by rapid, large-scale vertical displacement of the seafloor (such as major earthquakes or massive submarine landslides), not by even huge explosions. What an underwater megaton-class explosion does do reliably is produce enormous local effects: if the detonation is deep and offshore you get brutally strong underwater shock and bubble dynamics that can crush or disable vessels and heavily contaminate the immediate water column; if the detonation is shallow or close to the shore the same energy couples strongly to the free surface producing violent local water columns, high local runup, violent coastal flooding in the immediate littoral zone, and a dense “base surge” and spray that can deposit activated and fission-derived radioactivity on beaches, ships and port infrastructure. In other words, shallow nearshore bursts are the worst-case scenario for a coastal city because they maximize both hydraulic damage and local radioactive contamination; deep bursts maximize underwater shock and subsurface damage but are less efficient at creating long-range tsunamis unless they trigger a significant submarine slope failure.

The numerical scaling is very useful for assessing the spatial extent of the short, powerful hydraulic shock, and it shows that multi-megaton yields push the serious-damage band (∼1 MPa) out to tens of kilometers in many cases. However, the scaling omits several phenomena that strongly affect actual coastal outcomes: the depth of the burst and how the expanding gas bubble interacts with the sea surface or the seabed (for example, a bubble striking the surface amplifies air blast and water columns), local bathymetry and coastal geometry (bays, shelves and estuaries can focus or amplify waves), bubble oscillation and the creation of a base surge that carries contamination inland in aerosol form, and the complex oceanographic transport of dissolved and particulate radionuclides. It also omits the distinction between short-wavelength wave energy (which explosions readily generate) and long-wavelength tsunami modes. Historical underwater nuclear tests such as Operation Crossroads Baker (23 Kt in shallow water) demonstrate the practical combination of strong local destructive power and intense radioactive contamination, but did not generate ocean-spanning tsunamis; modern analytical literature concurs that even megaton-class explosions are not efficient tsunami generators on a basin scale unless they trigger a massive submarine landslide.

The following are screenshots of the Excel spreadsheet results:

An Example - London, UK

Let us now clarify the previous text, which may be too technical for some readers, with a concrete example: London, UK. Assume that the largest warhead is used. A 100-megaton underwater nuclear detonation near London would be a catastrophic, city-devastating event, causing immediate mass fatalities in the blast zone, severe structural damage over a far wider area from underwater shock and hydrodynamic effects, extensive radioactive contamination of the sea and shoreline, and profound long-term social, economic, and environmental consequences. While the precise pattern of destruction would depend on variables such as exact location (distance from shore, detonation depth, local seabed topography), tidal conditions, and weather, the following broad effects would hold across all plausible scenarios.

If the device detonated in the Thames Estuary or just a few kilometers offshore, the first effect would be an immense underwater shockwave. Because water is nearly incompressible, a large portion of the weapon’s energy would propagate as a violent pressure pulse through the water column. Close to ground zero, this would obliterate ships, shatter piers and coastal defenses, and severely damage submerged infrastructure. Onshore, the shockwave coupling into the seabed would induce strong ground shaking, compromising building foundations, tunnels, and buried utilities.

At the detonation point, a colossal column of water, tens to hundreds of meters high, would erupt skyward before collapsing back in a roiling plume of spray. This collapse could generate a rapidly advancing surge or series of large waves directed toward the coast. Whether these evolve into an actual tsunami capable of flattening the city depends on technical factors like yield, depth, and seafloor geometry. While oceanographers dispute claims of continent-scale tsunamis from single explosions, a very large shallow-water burst near shore would likely produce waves powerful enough to inundate low-lying areas of the estuary, sweep away riverside structures, and violently flood parts of London closest to the Thames, particularly its docks and waterfront districts, transport corridors, and riverine infrastructure.

Thermal effects from an underwater burst are significantly muted compared to an airburst, as water absorbs most of the initial thermal pulse. Nevertheless, secondary fires would likely erupt from ruptured gas lines, electrical arcing, and building collapses, potentially igniting widespread conflagrations across the damaged urban area. The explosion would also produce a massive “base surge”, a dense, fast-moving cloud of radioactive mist composed of pulverized seawater and particulate debris, which could be driven inland by wind, coating streets, buildings, and people with contamination.

Radioactive dispersal from an underwater detonation differs markedly from that of an airburst. Much of the fallout becomes entrained in water, rendering the surrounding sea and any aerosolized spray highly radioactive. Fine droplets and contaminated sediments can be carried inland, depositing localized but intense radioactive hotspots, especially near the shoreline. Unlike the fine, windborne fallout from high-altitude bursts, which can travel globally, a near-shore underwater explosion concentrates contamination in the marine environment and immediate coastal zone, yet that concentration is severe enough to render ports, beaches, and riverbanks hazardous for decades. Long-term bioaccumulation in marine life and sediments would pose additional public health and ecological risks.

The human toll would be overwhelming. In the immediate aftermath, those in the blast and inundation zones would face unsurvivable conditions: extreme overpressures, drowning, traumatic injuries from collapsing structures, and acute, lethal radiation exposure. Emergency response would collapse—hospitals, power grids, water systems, and communications in the hardest-hit areas would likely be destroyed or incapacitated. Blocked or obliterated access routes would cripple evacuation and rescue operations. In the following days and weeks, thousands more would suffer from radiation sickness, infections, lack of clean water, and the breakdown of medical care. The psychological trauma, mass displacement, and loss of essential civic functions would trigger nationwide and global ripple effects.

Environmental and economic consequences would be extreme and enduring. The Thames Estuary and adjacent coastal ecosystems would be heavily contaminated; critical maritime infrastructure such as ports, docks, and shipping lanes could remain unusable for years or decades. Decontaminating radioactive seawater, removing contaminated sediments, and rebuilding destroyed infrastructure would require unprecedented resources and time, costing an astronomical, though uncertain, sum. Given London’s role as a global financial and logistical hub, the disruption to international trade, finance, and supply chains would be profound. Politically and militarily, such an attack would provoke an immediate and severe international crisis with far-reaching geopolitical ramifications.

It is crucial to acknowledge uncertainty and avoid sensationalism. A 100 Mt yield is extraordinary, double that of the largest nuclear test ever conducted (the Soviet Tsar Bomba, app. 50 Mt), and experts remain skeptical of exaggerated claims, such as continent-spanning tsunamis from a single device. Slight variations in depth, location relative to the estuary mouth, or local bathymetry can dramatically alter wave behavior, focusing or dissipating energy along different stretches of coast. Yet even accounting for these uncertainties, a near-shore detonation of this magnitude would constitute an unparalleled disaster for London and the surrounding region.

The Poseidon carrier

Positioning Poseidon close to a target necessitates a dedicated underwater carrier. Although its nuclear propulsion eliminates practical range constraints and technically allows launch from Russian territorial waters, employing a submarine-based launcher affords the operational flexibility to deploy and launch the system from nearly any location.

In the Russian Navy, there are two distinct platforms designated as autonomous nuclear undersea vehicle carriers. These are submarines Belgorod and Khabarovsk. The development of these two submarines reflects a deliberate Russian effort to create undersea platforms that are not simply conventional attack (hunter-killer SSN) or ballistic-missile submarines (SSBN) but rather purpose-built carriers for long-endurance autonomous systems and special-mission payloads. Belgorod, the first of these platforms to be publicly acknowledged in Western sources, began life as a Project 949A (Oscar-II) hull before being heavily reworked into Project 09852; the conversion produced a huge submarine with internal volume allocated to deployable vehicles, hangars, and specialized mission systems rather than a pure loadout of cruise missiles. Publicly available technical descriptions place Belgorod’s submerged displacement in the tens of thousands of tons and its length in the high-170s to mid-180s—numbers that make it among the largest operational submarines in the world and align with its role as a “mother ship” for unmanned systems and large payloads.

Open reporting indicates Belgorod was modified to carry multiple Poseidon vehicles—commonly cited figures are up to six—installed in external or internal launch bays sized for large torpedoes or autonomous vehicles. This connection between Belgorod and Poseidon is the principal basis for labeling Belgorod a strategic as well as a special-mission asset: if Poseidon is fielded with a nuclear warhead and long endurance, then the hosting submarine becomes part of Russia’s strategic deterrent architecture, not merely an experimental platform. That said, open sources emphasize that many operational details, such as internal launch mechanisms, command-and-control links, and the actual warhead and propulsion characteristics of Poseidon, remain officially opaque.9

Khabarovsk is the follow-on design intended from the outset to be a dedicated Poseidon carrier. Projected in open sources as Project 09851 (sometimes reported as 08951), Khabarovsk represents a different design philosophy: instead of converting a large existing hull, the navy sought a purpose-built class with specific bays and systems for serial carriage of multiple large autonomous torpedoes. Imagery and reporting in 2024–2025 indicate that Khabarovsk has been launched and is proceeding through outfitting and trials; the vessel is described as smaller than Belgorod but optimized to carry more Poseidon units in a production series, thereby moving the capability from a single testbed to an operational class. Open analysts caution that construction and commissioning schedules, and the actual Poseidon numbers fitted to each boat, can change with program priorities and technical hurdles.

Technically, the combination of a large carrier submarine and a nuclear-powered underwater vehicle presents several distinctive engineering and operational challenges and opportunities. From a systems perspective, the carrier must provide physical launch capability (a bay, cradle, or vertical/horizontal ejector sized for a vehicle the size of a massive torpedo), onboard handling systems, environmental control for long-endurance payloads, data and communications links for mission tasking and telemetry, and maintenance and recovery facilities where relevant. Belgorod’s conversion work and internal images suggest space and handling systems large enough to support these needs; a purpose-built Khabarovsk can be expected to integrate such systems more tightly, reducing the need for field modifications and improving sortie rate. Critics and independent analysts also point out survivability trade-offs: larger hulls with mission bay apertures and external fairings may exhibit acoustic and hydrodynamic signatures different from those of attack or ballistic missile submarines, potentially affecting detectability and transit profiles.

Operational concepts for employment fall into several broad but overlapping categories: strategic deterrence, area denial and coastal-targeting, and long-endurance reconnaissance or strike missions using autonomous systems. If Poseidon is indeed a nuclear-armed, long-range, nuclear-powered vehicle, then deployment options range from forward positioning within Russian territorial waters to covert transit and deployment from patrol areas in the Arctic, North Atlantic, or Pacific approaches. Belgorod’s size and sensor/communications fit suggest it can operate as a forward staging platform, carrying a small number of Poseidon vehicles to areas beyond Russia’s littorals where they can be released toward targets. Khabarovsk, as a serial Poseidon carrier, would allow more distributed, redundant deployments across fleets and theaters. In practice, operational commanders would weigh the risk of exposing the carrier against the value of forward basing: keeping the carrier in safer home waters reduces transit risk but lengthens the torpedo’s required undersea transit; forward deployment shortens it but raises the chance of detection and loss. 10

A concrete operational routine could therefore look like this in plausible terms informed by open reporting and naval practice: the carrier receives mission tasking and vehicle loadout in port, sails on a long transit under stealth to a designated patrol area, establishes a low-profile surveillance posture while exchanging encrypted tasking and targeting data with higher command and perhaps space or over-the-horizon sensors, and then, under favorable conditions, releases one or more autonomous vehicles to proceed to designated waypoints or target areas. Communications architecture is critical in that sequence; the vehicles must be sufficiently autonomous to complete missions when comms are limited, and the carrier must retain the ability to abort, recover, or re-task assets if required. Open sources indicate Belgorod has been used extensively in trials with unmanned underwater vehicles and that Russia has experimented with surface support ships for Poseidon work, suggesting a mixed fleet approach to testing and, potentially, operations.11

Strategic and operational implications are manifold and deserve careful caveats. From a deterrence standpoint, weapons that can loiter or approach coastal targets from undersea approaches potentially complicate adversary defenses and raise the political threshold for conflict. However, Poseidon’s alleged capabilities, such as endurance, speed, depth, and warhead yield, have been variably reported, sometimes with sensational figures; open intelligence and independent technical analysis vary in confidence about the precise destructive mechanisms (for example, the feasibility of a naval detonated yield producing a tsunami of strategic scale is debated by oceanographers and weapons scientists). Public statements by Russian officials announcing tests or capabilities tend to be politically salient and should be cross-checked with technical analysis; independent outlets and technical observers have documented tests and trials, but cannot independently verify every performance claim made by national leaders. The most responsible analytical posture is to accept that the systems exist and are being integrated, while treating specific performance claims, especially catastrophic tsunami scenarios, with careful skepticism unless independently corroborated.

On force posture and command and control, integrating autonomous nuclear vehicles with strategic command systems creates complex authorization and safety challenges. Any credible deployment doctrine would have to address secure release authority, fail-safe measures, environmental monitoring to reduce fratricide and unintended impacts, and maintenance of communication with assets that may be designed to operate submerged for long periods. Open sources do not and cannot reveal classified command procedures, but observers note that Russia’s long history of special-mission submarines operated by civilian-run research directorates (for example, its Main Directorate for Deep-Sea Research) implies a separation between conventional fleet command and the organizations that might task strategic autonomous systems. That separation raises both procedural ambiguity and potential escalation risks if operational control is diffused across military and civilian research entities.

Because much of the technical truth about Poseidon’s propulsion, guidance fidelity, and warhead characteristics is withheld from public view, prudent analysis emphasizes scenario planning over definitive claims. One scenario with moderately conservative assumptions is that Belgorod and Khabarovsk will be used primarily as strategic backups and testbeds for autonomous underwater weapons—deterrent signaling tools that increase uncertainty for regional adversaries, but not as large numbers of first-line strike assets. An alternative, more aggressive scenario is that Khabarovsk-class boats are produced in modest numbers and assigned to fleet areas to create multiple dispersed launch nodes for autonomous strategic payloads. Which scenario unfolds depends on technical maturation, budgetary choices, crew training, and geopolitical signaling objectives. Open reporting from 2024–2025 suggests Russia is at least moving from testbed to serial buildout, but the scale and tempo of that shift remain subject to programmatic and diplomatic variables.12

From a policy and stability perspective, the emergence of submarines purpose-built for autonomous nuclear systems raises questions for arms control, surveillance and antisubmarine warfare, and crisis management. Existing arms control instruments were not written with underwater autonomous nuclear vehicles in mind, and the opaque nature of special-mission conversion work complicates transparency measures. For navies and defense planners in other countries, the operational priority will be improving undersea detection, tracking, and attribution capabilities; for policymakers, the task will be considering whether new confidence-building measures or technical verification regimes are needed to reduce the risk of miscalculation in crises involving novel submarine-launched autonomous systems.

Summary

In summary, the Poseidon system represents a technically feasible but strategically extreme extension of known nuclear and naval technologies. It most likely uses a compact liquid-metal-cooled fast reactor to achieve long-range, high-speed operation at great depths, carries a warhead of 2-100 Mt, and could inflict catastrophic local damage and contamination on any coastal target. Yet the notion that it could raise ocean-wide radioactive tsunamis is unsupported by physical science. Its true significance may lie less in its physics than in its symbolism: a weapon designed to project the image of ultimate deterrence by threatening entire coastal societies, even if the practical mechanics of such annihilation are more limited than popular imagination suggests.

Politically, the deployment of Poseidon adds a new dimension to strategic deterrence. Its autonomous nature and perceived “doomsday” capability suggest a weapon intended more for psychological and geopolitical signaling than for practical battlefield use. Its mere existence challenges traditional arms control frameworks and complicates stability calculations by introducing a new underwater axis of nuclear deterrence.

Despite the growing public literature, many details remain unknowable. The reactor’s design, actual performance, warhead configuration, and even deployment status are tightly held secrets. Modeling the hydrodynamics of a multi-megaton underwater detonation is inherently uncertain, as no full-scale tests have ever been conducted at such yields or depths. Extrapolations from smaller historical tests provide useful guidance but cannot capture all nonlinear effects of deep-water bubble dynamics or coastal interactions. Moreover, the strategic intent behind Poseidon, whether as a second-strike deterrent, a terror weapon, or an anti-access denial system, remains speculative and politically sensitive.

Share Black Mountain Analysis

If you like the article (and many more articles regarding military subjects will come), you can buy me a coffee:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/mmihajloviW

[i] Edited by Piquet (EditPiquet@gmail.com).

“They have produced something new.”

On 26 October, Russian President Vladimir Putin was briefed on a test of the nuclear-powered, purportedly unlimited-range cruise missile known as Burevestnik (Буревестник “Storm petrel“). Designated 9M730 in the GRAU index and identified by NATO as SSC-X-9 Skyfall, Russian authorities have presented the system as capable of defeating contemporary air- and missile-defense architectures and of delivering a nuclear payload across intercontinental distances.

Western analysts and media responded to the Burevestnik tests with notable alarm and skepticism. Jeffrey Lewis, a nuclear-nonproliferation scholar at Middlebury College, described the system provocatively as a “little flying Chernobyl,” calling its emergence “a bad development” for the United States and arguing that the weapon would be “destabilizing and difficult to address within arms-control frameworks.” The New York Times characterized President Putin’s announcement as “a stark signal to the West” following the collapse of a planned summit with former U.S. President Donald Trump. Norwegian military intelligence publicly confirmed that the tests occurred in the Novaya Zemlya archipelago in the Arctic Ocean; Vice Admiral Nils Andreas Stensenes, head of Norway’s intelligence service, stated that Norway “can confirm that Russia conducted a new test launch of the Burevestnik long-range cruise missile on Novaya Zemlya.”

Some commentaries amplified worst-case scenarios. Military Watch Magazine asserted that Burevestnik could “lurk in the sky for years” before striking unpredictably, and some accounts suggested it might be capable, in principle, of circumglobal transit. Former U.S. Army officer Stanislav Krapivnik argued that a deployed capability of this kind would complicate—and substantially raise the cost of—continental missile-defense architectures such as the U.S. Golden Dome concept, which he claimed would need far denser coverage to compensate for proliferated approach vectors. Such assertions vary widely in technical plausibility and should be treated with caution: public discussions mix verified reporting, expert inference, and speculative extrapolation, and independent technical corroboration of many of the more dramatic claims is lacking.

Development of the program reportedly began in December 2001, with flight testing initiated around 2016–2017. The name Burevestnik (“Storm Petrel”) was formally adopted in March 2018 following a public vote hosted on the Ministry of Defense website. According to official statements, the most recent test occurred on 21 October 2025.

Although described in official statements as a nuclear-powered cruise missile, the Burevestnik’s precise technical parameters remain undisclosed. Limited official footage and a small number of public images provide only a general impression of its external configuration; consequently, most assessments draw on informed inference from visual material and contextual data. The system, therefore, remains the subject of considerable conjecture, with state media, independent analysts, and various commentators on social networks advancing competing reconstructions of its design and capabilities.

Most of the missile’s tactical and technical characteristics remain classified and will likely remain so for the foreseeable future. Nevertheless, open reporting and analytical commentary permit the development of a provisional technical profile. Burevestnik is commonly described as an experimental, subsonic or near-sonic cruise missile powered by a compact onboard nuclear reactor rather than by conventional hydrocarbon or solid propellants. It is reported to operate at low altitude, to exhibit extended endurance and global-range potential—speculative estimates have suggested operational radii exceeding 20,000 km—and to possess in-flight trajectory flexibility. Open-source outlets such as Voennoe Obozrenie have published unverified figures placing speeds at 850–1,300 km/h and altitudes of approximately 25-100 meters.

Russian official statements and imagery assert that the missile’s exterior dimensions are broadly comparable to those of the Kh‑101 cruise missile and that it incorporates a compact nuclear powerplant, with a claimed range that is orders of magnitude greater than that of the Kh‑101. Official footage depicts ground launches from an inclined transport‑and‑launch container using rocket boosters.

Observers and independent commentators offer more detailed — and not always consistent — estimates. Pavel Ivanov of Military‑Industrial Courier described the missile as “one and a half to two times larger in size than the Kh‑101,” noting a high‑mounted wing configuration (as opposed to the Kh‑101’s low‑mounted wings) and “distinctive protrusions” visible in video footage that he interprets as housings related to air‑heating by a reactor. Ivanov further estimated that the Burevestnik’s mass is several times, and possibly an order of magnitude, greater than that of the Kh‑101.

Nezavisimaya Gazeta reported that the missile uses a solid‑fuel booster and a nuclear air‑breathing sustainer engine, and offered nominal dimensions of approximately 12 m at launch and 9 m in cruise configuration, with an elliptical frontal cross section on the order of 1.0 × 1.5 m. All such figures remain unverified and should be treated as provisional: they derive from media reporting, visual scaling of released footage, and expert judgment rather than from independently released technical specifications.

The novelty claim and historical precedents

The principal novelty claimed for Burevestnik is its nuclear propulsion; however, nuclear propulsion for atmospheric flight is not without precedent. Long-range subsonic and strategic cruise concepts date to the early Cold War and include programs such as the U.S. SM-62 Snark. Those projects combined extended endurance with autonomous navigation but achieved only coarse accuracy by contemporary standards. They illustrate the long-standing technical challenge of reconciling strategic range with acceptable precision, and they underscore the historical importance of celestial, terrain-referenced, and other correction techniques in improving guidance performance.

During the late 1940s through the 1960s, the United States also investigated nuclear-propelled cruise concepts—most prominently Project Pluto and the associated SLAM (Supersonic Low Altitude Missile) design—which sought to employ nuclear reactors or reactor-heated propulsion to enable essentially unlimited endurance. Although reactor and propulsion testing were carried out, those programs were canceled in the 1960s owing to extreme technical complexity, environmental and safety concerns, and the rapid maturation of intercontinental ballistic missile technology that diminished the strategic utility of nuclear-powered cruise systems.

Available accounts suggest that the Burevestnik powerplant is conceptually closer to a reactor-heated uniflow turbine or an open-cycle gas-turbine architecture than to closed-cycle designs; however, public reporting is fragmentary and program details remain classified. Independent technical estimates that compare the system to conventional cruise-missile benchmarks place the reactor’s non-thermal useful power in the hundreds of kilowatts—within the projected envelope of contemporary compact reactor concepts—but these figures are necessarily speculative in the absence of verified program data.

The Soviet Union also developed its own concept of the rocket and aviation nuclear engine (NRE). The classical operating principle of a nuclear missile engine or how it is called in Russian “Ядерный ракетный двигатель (ЯРД))” is straightforward: nuclear fuel heats the reactor core to the maximum temperature that the structural materials will safely permit, and a heat exchanger transfers that thermal energy to a working fluid. Once heated, the working fluid expands and is expelled through a nozzle into the surrounding medium, producing thrust. Candidate working fluids include low-molecular-weight substances such as hydrogen and helium, as well as water vapor and other light gases. NRE concepts exist with both solid and gas‑phase reactor cores. In the gas‑phase (or “open‑core”) variant, the achievable exhaust velocity of the working fluid may exceed that of contemporary liquid‑propellant rocket engines by an order of magnitude for a comparable thrust level, but realizing such performance incurs extreme engineering difficulties. Solid‑core NREs are technically less challenging to implement and nevertheless deliver specific impulses several times greater than those of conventional chemical rockets; for these reasons, historical and contemporary research has concentrated primarily on solid‑core designs.

Operational implications and doctrinal effects

Unlike conventional cruise missiles, whose range is constrained by fuel load, a nuclear-propelled propulsion system would be principally limited by the operational lifetime and survivability of the reactor and its associated systems. In practical terms, this implies greatly extended loiter times, the ability to traverse considerable distances without refueling, and the capacity to change routing or to patrol until favorable conditions for attack materialize. From a doctrinal perspective, these attributes could allow approach vectors that exploit gaps in surveillance or early-warning coverage—including polar or southern approaches—and would complicate the tasking of cueing networks and interceptor systems.

Defenders of this assessment emphasize three interrelated effects that could make interception more difficult. First, prolonged endurance and unpredictable routing undermine early-warning and cueing networks that assume predictable launch points and trajectories. Second, a low-altitude flight profile reduces detectability by some sensor classes and increases the cost and complexity of continuous tracking. Third, in-flight maneuverability reduces the applicability of interceptor solutions optimized for ballistic or otherwise predictable flight paths. Analysts such as Felix Lemmers have argued that Burevestnik, if realized as described, would combine attributes usually associated with strategic long-range systems and low-observable strike platforms, producing a hybrid threat that challenges existing taxonomies. Other specialists, including Dennis Gormley, have noted that the combination of endurance and maneuverability would impose substantial economic and technical burdens on any state attempting to field a comprehensive, reliable missile-defense network.

Evidentiary record, critiques, and vulnerabilities

Public reporting indicates a mixed experimental record. By early 2019, some foreign sources reported numerous test events of varying success; following the October 2025 test, Russian General Valery Gerasimov reported that the missile had traversed roughly 14,000 km in about fifteen hours and executed required vertical and horizontal maneuvers. Russian authorities announced preparatory steps to establish infrastructure for deployment while acknowledging that further development remained necessary before operationalization. Norwegian intelligence subsequently identified the test area in the Novaya Zemlya archipelago. Western media widely framed the test as a geopolitical signal.

Technical and operational challenges temper optimistic appraisals of battlefield effect. The presence of an onboard reactor may create detectable signatures—radiation anomalies that space-based or airborne sensors could detect—thus producing a novel class of cueing data for adversary surveillance. Subsonic speeds and extended transit times increase the temporal window in which a detected vehicle can be engaged; airborne radar platforms, interceptors, or other assets could locate and destroy a missile in flight if detection occurs with sufficient lead time. Safe recovery, handling, and peacetime basing of a reactor-equipped vehicle also introduce significant logistical, safety, and legal complications. In the absence of reliable recovery procedures, non-combat losses would pose proliferation, environmental, and political risks.

Technical architecture and engineering challenges

Open imagery and factory footage indicate storage in polygonal transport-and-launch containers with lifting end caps and suggest ground-based launches assisted by solid-fuel boosters. Test articles filmed in workshop footage are often painted red—characteristic of prototypes to aid visual inspection—and flight footage captured from escorting aircraft has been circulated in multiple releases:

The project’s most novel element appears to be an air-breathing gas-turbine/jet architecture integrated with a compact nuclear reactor. Thermal energy from the reactor would plausibly be transferred via heat exchangers to an engine working fluid or directly to intake air; the resulting heated flow would then be exhausted through a nozzle. Such an arrangement could resemble a reactor-augmented turbojet (an open-cycle configuration) or a closed/intermediate cycle that uses a primary coolant loop to transfer heat to a conventional turbine. No verified schematic of the powerplant has been published; among the publicly discussed possibilities, an air-breathing reactor-heated cycle is most consistent with the reported subsonic flight regime.

Because the missile is intended for very long flights, its guidance suite must integrate multiple modalities: satellite navigation (GLONASS in the Russian context), inertial navigation, and terrain-referenced navigation for midcourse correction. For strikes against preselected fixed targets, this layered approach obviates the need for an autonomous terminal seeker that searches for targets; instead, the weapon can rely on stored route data and periodic position corrections to maintain acceptable accuracy over prolonged sorties. Robust mission management for multi-day flights also implies secure datalinks for mission updates and re-tasking or, alternatively, sophisticated preprogrammed decision logic to handle contingencies in radio-silent environments.

From an engineering standpoint, several propulsion topologies present trade-offs. Open-cycle designs, in which intake air passes through the reactor core, are thermodynamically simple and can offer high thermal efficiency but would produce radioactive exhaust. Closed-cycle designs limit radioactive emissions but add complexity, mass, and reliability challenges. Material selection for high-temperature fuel elements and heat-exchanger components is critical; refractory ceramics and advanced composites have historically been proposed to enable compact, high-temperature reactor cores.

Navigation and mission management over oceanic stretches depend primarily on satellite positioning and redundant inertial and astro-inertial systems to mitigate jamming or signal loss. On approach to land, terrain-referenced navigation and preloaded three-dimensional corridor models permit periodic correction points, enabling position updates while maintaining radio silence between corrections. Such layered navigation reduces detectability and improves terminal accuracy for strikes against predetermined fixed targets.

The Reactor

On 3 March 2021, TASS, citing a military‑diplomatic source, reported that tests had been completed on a small‑sized nuclear powerplant that could be applied to both cruise‑missile and underwater‑vehicle programs. The announcement has been widely cited in open‑source commentary as evidence of progress on compact reactor modules, but the report itself provides no technical specifications and does not identify the reactor architecture tested.

In an independent, open‑source estimate, Jeff Terry (physics professor, Illinois Institute of Technology) analogized the powerplant to the Tomahawk cruise missile and calculated a plausible, useful (non‑thermal) power of about 766 kW. Terry noted that this magnitude of shaft or propulsive power falls within the broad envelope of what modern compact reactor concepts could, in principle, deliver; however, his figure is an inference based on analogy and scaling rather than a measurement of any publicly disclosed system.

At present, the reactor type used in the program is uncertain; nonetheless, informed assumptions can be made based on contemporary developments in compact reactor technology. The most immediate hypothesis invokes a liquid-metal-cooled architecture. It is worth noting that liquid-metal cooling is not an experimental novelty in the Russian–Soviet tradition: earlier Soviet work explored liquid-metal reactors for submarine propulsion (for example, programs associated with the Project 705 (705K) series), and those historical efforts provide a plausible technical lineage for current compact-reactor thinking. Taking a liquid-metal concept as a working baseline, therefore, permits a focused discussion of likely design trade-offs and system constraints without presuming access to classified programmatic details. Importantly, this is an exercise in conceptual inference rather than in technical specification.

The prospect of powering a small cruise missile with a micro nuclear reactor hinges on exploiting the exceptional energy density of nuclear fuel to decouple vehicle endurance from the mass of chemical propellant. In conceptual terms, a reactor-based powerplant replaces the finite energy stored in fuel tanks with a compact source of thermal power whose operational duration is governed by fuel burnup, materials lifetime, and systems survivability rather than by an on-board hydrocarbon load. This change in the primary limiting parameter transforms mission concepts: endurance extends from hours to days or longer, routing may be dynamically altered during flight, and the operational envelope can incorporate prolonged loitering and wide-area patrol. These doctrinal possibilities, however, are tightly constrained by a nexus of engineering, detection, safety, legal, and logistical factors that together determine practicability.

From an architectural perspective, reactor-driven propulsion concepts for atmospheric platforms fall into broad families distinguished by how thermal energy is extracted and converted to useful propulsive work. Open-cycle approaches transfer reactor heat directly to the intake air stream and expel that air as thrust; these arrangements maximize thermodynamic simplicity and specific energy conversion but risk dispersing radioactive products if the working fluid contacts reactor internals. Closed-cycle or intermediate-cycle arrangements instead use a primary coolant loop contained within the reactor to transport heat to a secondary working fluid or to a power conversion system; such schemes reduce or eliminate direct radioactive contamination of the exhaust but add mass, complexity, and potential failure modes in heat-transfer interfaces. In either case, the core issues are the same: achieving a sufficiently compact core and associated heat-exchange hardware that provide the required thermal power density while surviving launch loads, vibration, thermal transients, and the radiation environment, and doing so within a mass and volume budget compatible with the intended airframe and launcher.

Liquid-metal cooling is often proposed as an enabling technology for compact reactors because certain liquid metals combine high thermal conductivity, low vapor pressure at elevated temperatures, and favorable heat capacity per unit volume. In contrast to water-based systems that require high pressure to achieve high-temperature operation, liquid-metal coolants can operate at comparatively low system pressure while effectively transporting heat from the core to heat exchangers. This permits smaller pressure vessels, reduces the need for heavy structural reinforcement, and supports higher operating temperatures, thereby improving thermodynamic conversion efficiency. From an engineering standpoint, liquid-metal coolants offer attractive trade-offs for applications that require compactness and high heat-flux handling.

Nevertheless, liquid-metal coolants introduce distinct materials and systems demands. Many candidate liquid metals are chemically reactive with air or water. They can corrode or embrittle common structural alloys, driving the need for specialized claddings, compatible piping, and rigorous sealing—factors that increase technical complexity and manufacturing cost. Liquid-metal systems also pose unique chemical and radiological contamination challenges if the coolant circulates through regions that become activated by neutron flux; managing activated coolant, preventing leaks during handling, and ensuring remote maintenance capability become nontrivial design drivers. Furthermore, the thermal expansion characteristics and freezing points of some liquid metals impose operational constraints for ground handling and staging prior to launch; systems must be tolerant of thermal transients and provide safe cooldown paths without exposing personnel or the environment to contamination. These attributes complicate any effort to adapt civilian microreactor concepts—designed for inspectable, serviceable installations—to the extreme mass, stealth, and robustness requirements associated with airborne weapon systems.

Heat-to-thrust or heat-to-electricity conversion is another critical trade-off axis. Directly using reactor-heated air for propulsion can yield higher system simplicity and energy density, but increases the difficulty of controlling radiological emissions. Alternatively, converting reactor heat to shaft power via a closed Brayton or Stirling-like architecture, and then driving a turbine or propulsor, reduces exhaust contamination but requires massy turbomachinery, bearings, and high-temperature seals that must be qualified for shock, vibration, and wide temperature excursions. The added mass of such conversion systems reduces the net endurance advantage and imposes greater structural and aerodynamic demands on the airframe. In addition, controls and instrumentation that regulate reactor power, control flow rates, and respond to transient conditions must be exceptionally robust; failure modes in these subsystems can lead to catastrophic outcomes and therefore necessitate conservative design margins and redundant safety functionality that further increase mass and complexity.

Operational survivability and detectability form an intertwined set of constraints. Reactor operation produces physical signatures beyond conventional thermal and radar cross-section considerations. Neutron and gamma emissions, activation of surrounding structures, and, for open-cycle designs, isotopic particulates entrained in exhaust flows create unique observables that can be sensed by suitably equipped spaceborne, airborne, or maritime sensors. Passive radiological monitoring, combined with multispectral thermal and radio-frequency surveillance, can therefore be leveraged by defenders as an additional cueing channel. While low-altitude, terrain-following flight profiles reduce detectability against certain radar geometries, they increase exposure to ground-based electro-optical and infrared sensors and to increasingly networked, persistent airborne sensor networks. Moreover, slower subsonic transit velocities—likely for weight-limited, reactor-powered small vehicles—lengthen the temporal window in which engaged sensors can task interceptors or use distributed sensor fusion to localize a contact. Thus, endurance does not equate to invulnerability; instead, it shifts the sensor–shooter balance and the economic burden between both attacker and defender.

Safety, environmental, and logistical factors exert powerful constraints both during peacetime testing and in operational deployment. The airborne carriage of a radioactively fueled core elevates the consequences of non-combat losses. The potential for radiological release in crash scenarios or for the dispersal of activated coolant in the event of structural failure creates transboundary environmental liabilities with acute diplomatic and legal implications. Ground infrastructure for assembly, fueling, storage, and maintenance of reactor-equipped vehicles would require specialized facilities, tightly controlled personnel access, and emergency response capabilities that go well beyond the logistical footprint of conventional missile programs. International norms and treaties, as well as national regulatory frameworks designed around stationary reactor installations, present additional hurdles; routine flight testing that risks atmospheric release of radioactivity would likely provoke significant international condemnation and legal responses.

Material science and component qualification are central technical bottlenecks. Fuel forms, cladding materials, and heat-exchanger surfaces must tolerate high temperatures, neutron flux, and mechanical stress over mission-relevant lifetimes. Refractory alloys and ceramic composites have been investigated in other compact-reactor contexts because of their ability to maintain structural integrity at high temperature, but these materials introduce manufacturing and joining challenges, and their behavior under rapid thermal cycling and ballistic mechanical loads is not trivial to predict. Similarly, seals, valves, and bearings that operate in proximity to the core must resist radiation-induced degradation, and the need for maintenance-free operation over relatively long intervals imposes stringent reliability requirements that tend to penalize mass and complexity when redundancy is introduced.

From a systems-integration viewpoint, thermal management must be reconciled with airframe aerothermodynamics, structural stiffness, and mass distribution. Concentrated heat sources alter local material creep rates and can create thermal gradients that drive distortion; the design must therefore account for thermo-mechanical coupling in the vehicle’s structural and control surfaces. The integration of shielding presents another design compromise: sufficient shielding reduces dose to sensitive electronics and personnel during handling but adds mass that reduces payload and endurance. Passive shielding materials also change the vehicle’s center of gravity and inertial properties, affecting flight control law design and launcher compatibility.

On the defensive and policy side, the existence—even as a demonstration—of reactor-powered propulsion for small vehicles would drive investment in tailored detection and attribution capabilities. Spaceborne instruments that combine spectral radiometry with gamma and neutron sensing, airborne platforms with deployable radiological monitors, and maritime patrol assets with integrated multisensory suites would form a layered detection architecture. Attribution becomes a practical and legal mechanism: detection of a radiological signature over international waters can be used by states to mount diplomatic protests, impose sanctions, or pre-emptively alter force posture. Thus, the purported operational advantages of reactor propulsion must be weighed against the heightened political visibility and legal exposure they entail.

Finally, the cost–benefit calculus is dominated by the interdependence of the above issues. Engineering solutions that mitigate one class of vulnerabilities typically exacerbate other constraints. Reducing radiological signature through closed-cycle designs and heavier shielding increases mass and reduces endurance margins. Improving reliability via redundant control systems and hardened components increases production and sustainment costs. Mitigating environmental risk through elaborate containment and recovery procedures imposes logistical burdens that reduce the operational agility of the force fielding such systems. These trade-offs have been evident in historical programs that explored airborne nuclear propulsion and remain salient today.

In conclusion, while the physics underlying the use of micro nuclear reactors and liquid-metal cooling for compact airborne applications is well understood at a theoretical level, translating that understanding into a practical, safe, and politically tolerable capability faces substantial, interconnected obstacles. Liquid-metal cooling offers measurable thermodynamic and packaging advantages for compact reactors but brings attendant materials, contamination, and handling challenges. Conversion of reactor heat into propulsive power without unacceptable environmental release or prohibitive mass penalties remains the central engineering dilemma. Even if technical hurdles were overcome, detectability, international legal constraints, logistical complexity, and the high costs of robust, safe deployment would make such systems strategically niche rather than transformative. Any continued discussion of these concepts must therefore remain focused on policy, detection, verification, and risk-mitigation research rather than on operational design or construction details.

Political, environmental, and normative considerations

The program raises complex environmental and diplomatic questions. Extended test flights and potential operational use would involve transits over large oceanic areas; prolonged operation of an open-cycle reactor in international airspace would generate radiological and diplomatic concerns. The development and production of reactor-based propulsion substantially increase acquisition and lifecycle costs relative to conventional cruise missiles. Although the principal technical advantage remains endurance and routing flexibility, these gains come with increased complexity, safety burdens, and potential ecological liabilities.

From an operational-political perspective, demonstrations of an operable nuclear-powered missile serve signaling and deterrent purposes: they reinforce claims of strategic parity and complicate adversary planning. Nevertheless, analysts, including Konstantin Sivkov, characterize reactor-powered cruise missiles as niche systems that would complement rather than replace established delivery platforms. They would introduce new command-and-control, basing, and maintenance burdens and would necessitate reconsideration of arms-control, legal, and environmental regimes in the event of accidents or misidentification.

Conclusion

Publicly available evidence supports the conclusion that a nuclear-powered cruise-missile concept exists and that flight and reactor-module testing have been undertaken. Yet significant obstacles remain before the concept can be translated into a fully operational, reliably deployable weapon. Key technical challenges include reactor miniaturization and thermal management, qualification of high-temperature structural and fuel materials, development of reliable closed-loop or low-emission propulsion architectures, and robust navigation and guidance for long-endurance missions. Equally salient are ecological, legal, and diplomatic constraints associated with prolonged reactor operation in atmospheric flight.

The trade-offs are substantial: a reactor-driven cruise missile potentially offers endurance and routing flexibility beyond the reach of fuel-limited systems, but at the cost of greater complexity, expense, and environmental and political risk. Until such challenges are resolved and independently verifiable performance data are published, claims of operational invulnerability should be treated with caution.

In any case, the Burevestnik story in this article is just the beginning… The next is the Poseidon…

[i] Edited by Piquet (EditPiquet@gmail.com)

If you like the article (and many more articles regarding military subjects will come), you can buy me a coffee:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/mmihajloviW

I have already addressed Russian glide bombs in one of my previous articles:

Besides that analysis, I also examined some of the effects these heavy glide-converted bombs have had against underground and hardened targets; relevant sources and incident reports are linked below:

How the bomb “travels” to its target

A glide-converted aerial bomb equipped with a “universal correction module”—commonly referred to in open-source reporting as a UMPK-style kit—executes a flight profile that is neither purely ballistic nor a sustained powered cruise. Instead, it follows a hybrid, energy-managed glide trajectory shaped by onboard navigation, aerodynamic control surfaces, and mission programming. Understanding this trajectory requires analyzing it in distinct phases: the release (or separation) phase, the transition into controlled glide, the mid-course glide segment where altitude and heading are actively managed to meet waypoints, and the terminal phase, during which the weapon converts its remaining potential and kinetic energy into a precise impact geometry. Each phase entails unique aerodynamic behaviors and operational trade-offs, and the specific trajectory selected by mission planners reflects a calculated balance among range, survivability, accuracy, and aircraft exposure.

Immediately following release, the bomb follows a brief, passive ballistic arc dictated by the aircraft’s velocity, azimuth, and altitude at the moment of separation, as well as by gravity and aerodynamic drag. In modern UMPK-type systems, this unguided phase is intentionally short. Within seconds of release, the kit deploys lift-generating wings and control surfaces—typically tail fins or canards—transforming the bomb from a free-falling mass into a lifting body. The wings convert a portion of the bomb’s kinetic and potential energy into aerodynamic lift, establishing a glide ratio that defines its range and descent characteristics. Because retrofit kits are often fitted to heavy Soviet-era bombs such as the FAB-500 or FAB-1500, the wing area is relatively small in proportion to the weapon’s mass, resulting in modest lift-to-drag ratios—typically between 3:1 and 6:1. Consequently, the trajectory remains a steadily descending glide rather than the steep, parabolic arc of a conventional unguided bomb, but it is far less efficient than that of a purpose-built cruise missile.

Once stabilized in controlled flight, the onboard navigation and autopilot systems assume command of the trajectory. Most UMPK variants employ an inertial navigation system (INS) augmented by satellite-based positioning (GLONASS, GPS, or hybrid PNT solutions) to follow a preprogrammed sequence of waypoints and maintain a desired approach azimuth and terminal impact geometry. The autopilot modulates bank, pitch, and differential control surface deflections to execute turns—often using bank-to-turn logic—steering the weapon along its planned route. To enhance survivability, many operational profiles emphasize low-altitude, terrain-following flight, keeping the glide path tens of meters above ground level to remain below radar horizons and exploit ground clutter for masking. In such profiles, the descent is shallow relative to the distance covered, enabling the weapon to traverse significant ranges while minimizing detectability. Conversely, higher release altitudes permit shallower glide slopes, extending standoff range to 40–70 kilometers or more, depending on the specific kit and bomb combination; whereas low-altitude releases sacrifice range for reduced exposure time and enhanced surprise.

Mission planners can select from several trajectory modes tailored to tactical objectives. The most straightforward is a direct shallow glide: released from medium or high altitude, the weapon deploys its wings, stabilizes, and descends gradually to the target, maximizing range for a given configuration. A second common approach is a terrain-hugging corridor, in which the aircraft releases the weapon at the edge of the defended airspace or over friendly terrain, and the glide bomb navigates a route that threads valleys and follows natural features to remain concealed. This mode prioritizes survivability over range and is particularly useful when aircraft must avoid heavily defended sectors or when operational surprise is paramount. A third option is a lofted or high-arc release, in which the bomb is either released during an upward aircraft maneuver or from very high altitude, allowing it to climb briefly relative to the local airflow before initiating a long, descending glide. This profile increases both standoff distance and terminal dive angle, enhancing penetration against hardened or deeply buried targets. While lofted trajectories demand greater initial energy and more robust flight control, they can produce steeper impact angles, improving warhead effectiveness and reducing vulnerability to certain SHORAD and point-defense systems.

During the mid-course glide phase, modern kits continuously compare intended and actual position, issuing corrective commands to minimize cross-track error. They also compensate for environmental perturbations such as wind shear, gusting, and minor aerodynamic asymmetries. In contested electromagnetic environments, more advanced variants incorporate anti-jamming receivers and rely on inertial dead reckoning to maintain course fidelity when satellite signals are degraded or denied. Although some next-generation glide bombs may integrate terminal seekers—such as infrared or electro-optical scene-matching systems—for refined impact-point accuracy, the vast majority of current UMPK-style munitions depend primarily on GNSS/INS waypoint navigation with closed-loop autopilot corrections.

Terminal behavior is carefully programmed to match the target type and desired effect. Against area or soft targets, a shallow final approach may suffice, simplifying guidance requirements. For hardened or point targets, however, planners often program a pull-up followed by a steep terminal dive: the weapon briefly climbs or levels off to gain maneuvering margin before executing a controlled, high-angle descent that concentrates kinetic energy and enhances penetration or blast concentration. In some cases, a “pop-up” maneuver is employed—where the glide path rises momentarily in the final seconds—to present an infrared or optical seeker with a less cluttered background for target acquisition before diving. This tactic is especially valuable when terminal homing is used and surface clutter might otherwise degrade seeker performance.

All these flight modes are fundamentally constrained by energy economics. A glide bomb possesses only the kinetic and potential energy imparted at release; it cannot replenish energy mid-flight. Consequently, excessive cross-range maneuvers, sharp turns, or prolonged loitering rapidly deplete energy reserves, reducing terminal speed and potentially compromising accuracy, penetration, or warhead arming reliability. Mission planning, therefore, minimizes aggressive banking and limits the number and magnitude of course corrections to preserve sufficient energy for the intended terminal maneuver. In practice, this results in relatively smooth, efficient flight paths with limited high-G maneuvers—unless the kit features unusually large control surfaces or sophisticated energy-management algorithms.

Environmental conditions significantly influence trajectory performance. Tailwinds extend range and flatten the glide slope, while headwinds shorten range and steepen descent. Crosswinds induce lateral drift that must be continuously corrected. Atmospheric density affects lift generation and control authority, and turbulence can momentarily disrupt guidance stability. Terrain elevation changes and ground clutter further complicate low-altitude routing, while electromagnetic interference—particularly GNSS jamming—degrades positional accuracy, forcing reliance on inertial estimates that accumulate drift over time. Defenders exploit these dependencies: electronic warfare degrades navigation fidelity, while dense air-defense networks compel attackers to adopt release geometries that trade range for aircraft survivability.

From a defensive standpoint, each trajectory mode presents distinct detection and engagement challenges. High-loft or high-altitude releases are easier to detect early, as the weapon may briefly rise above the radar horizon, but they expose the launch aircraft to longer-range threats. Low-altitude, terrain-following profiles, by contrast, compress the detection window, often rendering the weapon visible to ground-based radars only at short ranges—making early interception extremely difficult. Lofted terminal dives, while harder to execute, increase the likelihood of detection by optical or infrared sensors in the final seconds due to higher vertical velocity and a more exposed thermal signature during the steep descent.

Some advanced UMPK variants reportedly support limited in-flight retargeting via datalink, enabling dynamic updates to waypoints or terminal behavior after release. This capability transforms the glide bomb from a preprogrammed munition into a semi-adaptive weapon that can be redirected to engage time-sensitive targets, avoid newly detected defenses, or coordinate with other glide bombs in salvo attacks designed to saturate air-defense systems. In the absence of datalink, however, the trajectory remains entirely preplanned, with flexibility limited to the choice of release point, heading, and initial flight parameters.

The new players enter the game

The open-source reporting and statements from Ukrainian intelligence indicate that Russia has developed and combat-tested a new class of long-range, powered glide bombs that incorporate small jet or rocket motors to extend their stand-off reach. Ukrainian officials and multiple media outlets report operational use and a claimed operational radius of 150–200 km, though some public reporting cites shorter figures in the 100–150 km range; these numbers should be treated as preliminary estimates pending independent forensic corroboration.

Photographs and imagery shared in pro-Russian channels and subsequently reported in open sources show winged FAB-series ordnance fitted with a propulsion unit and a unified planning/correction module, supporting the plausibility of a turbojet/rocket-assisted glide configuration rather than a purely unpowered glide kit. The addition of even a small, sustained thrust source to a planning kit materially increases range compared with unpowered variants by offsetting drag and reducing the required release altitude or speed, making reported ranges in the 100–200 km band technically plausible for heavier FAB-class bombs.

Available reporting indicates the guidance architecture appears to retain the same basic suite (INS/GNSS with a planning/correction module and, where available, terminal homing options), while Ukrainian and analyst commentary specifically notes likely improvements in anti-jamming resilience and navigation hardening to increase mission success in contested EW environments; these improvements are consistent with observed doctrinal responses to GNSS denial. That said, GNSS jamming and spoofing remain an exploitable vulnerability unless fully mitigated by robust INS, alternative terminal sensors, or multi-mode navigation.

Key uncertainties remain: source provenance is mixed (official Ukrainian intelligence briefings, regional media, defense blogs, and social media), specific engine type and endurance are unconfirmed in public reporting, and multiple variants (jet-assisted, rocket-boosted, differing guidance suites) have been described, meaning performance and susceptibility to countermeasures will vary across the family. Consequently, the single upper-end figure of “200 km” should be treated as an unconfirmed maximum reported by some Ukrainian sources rather than a settled technical specification.

How Ukrainian air defense can counter gliding bombs

For months, analysts and officials have circulated confident claims about new capabilities that will “change the tide.” The language is theatrical: grand names, models, press photos, and rehearsed talking points that promise decisive effects. Yet the operational truth is stubbornly mundane. On a battlefield defined by attrition, cost curves, and supply chains, what matters is not the slogan but the steady arithmetic of ammunition, sensors, maintenance, and human crews. Retrofit glide kits are not miracle weapons: they are inexpensive multipliers, pragmatic engineering that turns dormant inventories into a higher-tempo source of precision fires. Their effect is consequential precisely because they are simple, cheap, and numerous — not because they embody some single revolutionary secret. Meanwhile, defenders do not fail for lack of ideas; they fail when production, logistics, and operational endurance fall short of the demands placed upon them.

Glide-converted bombs pose a distinctive sensor challenge. As discussed in the previous chapter, because they can be released tens of kilometers from their target, they spend much of their flight below the radar horizon, appearing only intermittently as small, clutter-prone contacts until they are deep within defended airspace. This creates a “time-compressed” threat: detection does not equate to ample engagement time but rather to a narrow, high-stakes decision window. The immediate implication is not merely a need for more interceptors, but for earlier detection, more reliable cueing, and higher-confidence classification at low elevation angles.

The most effective first line of defense lies in sensor diversity and fusion. No single sensor modality can reliably detect all glide threats early enough to guarantee interception. Instead, the defensive imperative is to integrate complementary systems so that the limitations of one are offset by the strengths of another. Long-range surveillance radars with enhanced low-elevation coverage remain foundational for early warning where line-of-sight geometry permits, but they must be augmented by assets that extend the effective detection horizon and discriminate low-signature targets from ground or sea clutter. Airborne early warning platforms elevate the radar horizon, while passive radio-frequency and electro-optical/infrared (EO/IR) sensors offer alternative cueing channels that do not emit detectable signals. In certain environments, ground-based acoustic and seismic arrays can provide corroborating data on approaching munitions. A fused architecture that ingests sparse, noisy inputs and synthesizes them into coherent, actionable tracks significantly increases the likelihood that a glide bomb will be identified as a threat before reaching its terminal phase. NATO and allied innovation initiatives have increasingly emphasized algorithmic fusion, machine-learning–enabled pattern recognition, and distributed sensor networks to address this challenge.

Passive sensing warrants particular attention because glide munitions are explicitly designed to minimize active emissions and thermal output. Wide-area EO/IR imagers, mid-wave infrared surveillance systems, and emerging computer-vision algorithms can detect subtle contrast and motion cues that radar may miss in heavy clutter. Directional acoustic and infrasound arrays, meanwhile, can detect the distinctive acoustic signature of a high-aspect glide profile, especially when the munition passes through valleys or urban corridors. When paired with rapid geolocation processing, these passive detections can provide bearing and trajectory estimates that narrow the search area for active sensors. Crucially, passive systems are less vulnerable to certain countermeasures and do not reveal their own location, making them harder to target. Investment in distributed passive networks—and in the software that can correlate disparate passive inputs into credible threat tracks—represents a high-leverage defensive priority. Recent NATO innovation challenges and allied experimentation programs have explicitly prioritized passive-plus-AI approaches for this reason.

Electronic warfare constitutes a second critical axis of defense. Most documented glide-conversion kits depend heavily on satellite navigation—GLONASS, GPS, or hybrid positioning, navigation, and timing (PNT) solutions—for terminal guidance. Consequently, robust electronic countermeasures offer a potent, non-kinetic means of degrading their effectiveness. Localized GNSS jamming, coordinated electronic warfare, and spoofing mitigation can significantly degrade the accuracy of massed glide-bomb attacks, forcing adversaries to expend more munitions to achieve the same effect. However, jamming alone is insufficient. Producers have iteratively hardened newer UMPK variants with anti-jam antennas and multi-constellation PNT strategies that reduce single-point vulnerabilities. Moreover, wide-area jamming can disrupt civilian communications, navigation, and critical infrastructure, raising political and legal concerns. The optimal posture, therefore, blends targeted, scalable jamming with other measures: hardened point defenses for high-value assets, tactical adaptations that compel adversaries into less favorable approach geometries, and investment in precision EW assets rather than blanket GNSS denial. Operational experience and open-source analysis consistently show that glide-bomb effectiveness declines markedly where electronic warfare is well-integrated with other defenses, but remains high where such measures are absent or poorly coordinated.

Layered kinetic defense remains indispensable. Even the most robust sensor and electronic warfare architecture will not neutralize every glide threat, necessitating reliable interceptor capabilities. The role of kinetic layers in this context is not to achieve perfect attrition but to shape the engagement geometry. Short-range air-defense (SHORAD) systems—including mobile missile launchers, gun-missile hybrids, and rapid-fire point-defense artillery—are highly effective at denying low-altitude ingress corridors when properly cued. Medium- and long-range interceptors provide area coverage and centralized coordination but must be allocated judiciously to preserve limited stocks for high-probability, high-value engagements. This demands doctrines that prioritize critical assets, embrace a “shoot-look-shoot” rhythm for ambiguous or low-signature tracks, and enable rapid reallocation of interceptors based on fused track confidence. The proliferation of inexpensive glide munitions has shifted the cost-imposition calculus: defenders must either field more interceptors or accept higher penetration rates. International assistance has helped Ukraine address this gap by supplying additional interceptor stocks and mobile point-defense systems, but sustained effectiveness depends on efficient use and replenishment.

Even when intercepts fail, non-kinetic measures can significantly mitigate damage. Glide bombs are most effective against concentrated, high-value targets; conversely, dispersion, redundancy, and hardening reduce their strategic payoff. Simple, low-cost actions—such as camouflaging critical infrastructure, constructing hardened revetments, creating underground maintenance bays, and establishing redundant logistics routes—diminish the number of lucrative targets available to precision glide attacks. Active deception, including decoy emplacements and radar or thermal simulators, further complicates adversary targeting and reduces first-strike success rates. These measures alter the strategic calculus: by lowering the marginal utility of each glide bomb, they compel attackers to increase expenditure or accept diminishing returns.

Intelligence and targeting denial represent strategic levers often underemphasized in tactical discussions. Glide-bomb effectiveness hinges on accurate pre-strike intelligence—the precise location of logistics hubs, troop concentrations, or infrastructure nodes. Strengthening operational security (OPSEC), enforcing strict emission control to deny reconnaissance cues, and conducting active counter-reconnaissance (including strikes against adversary ISR platforms and air bases) raise the cost and reduce the tempo of glide-armed operations. Analysts at RAND and other institutions have stressed that degrading or denying basing and sortie-generation capacity—through long-range fires, loitering munitions, or persistent harassment—may be the most effective long-term method of reducing glide-bomb attrition. While politically and operationally sensitive, such actions remain a core component of a comprehensive defense strategy: reducing the number and proximity of launch platforms directly limits the density and depth of glide threats.

Doctrine and training must also evolve. Glide threats demand new operator expectations: heightened vigilance at low elevation angles, refined contact triage for faint or transient radar returns, and accelerated decision cycles that blend human judgment with automated cueing. Practical adaptations include simulated radar-scope training, exposure to synthetic multi-sensor scenarios, and drills focused on shoot-look-shoot engagements under degraded GNSS conditions. Commanders must balance the risks of false positives and fratricide with the danger of delayed responses; overly conservative intercept policies may result in late engagements, while permissive rules may exhaust scarce interceptor stocks and escalate political consequences. The solution lies in a layered doctrine that delegates rapid engagement authority for time-sensitive, low-altitude threats while retaining centralized deconfliction for broader theatre operations. Allied training programs and innovation initiatives are already advancing such doctrinal refinements and developing operator-facing decision aids.

Sustained defense also depends on resilient logistics and supply-chain planning. The attritional nature of glide-bomb campaigns means defenders require not only larger interceptor inventories but also reliable replenishment pipelines, rapid repair capabilities, and survivable command-and-control nodes. Procurement strategies should therefore favor mobile, repairable systems and distributed stockpiles over fixed, centralized depots. International assistance that delivers interceptors, guided munitions, and replacement missiles has an outsized impact—but recipients must complement these deliveries with robust reload procedures, munition-handling safety protocols, and local sustainment capacity to convert hardware into enduring capability. Successful defensive operations to date demonstrate that external support, when paired with disciplined logistics, significantly improves interception rates and reduces enemy strike effectiveness.

Finally, continued investment in emerging technologies offers promising pathways. Two areas stand out. First, advanced algorithms and AI-enabled sensor fusion can transform low-confidence cues into high-fidelity tracks, effectively extending detection ranges without requiring prohibitively expensive new hardware. Allied trials have shown that machine learning can successfully integrate EO/IR, acoustic, and sparse radar data into actionable alerts. Second, low-cost, mobile SHORAD and point-defense systems with integrated passive sensors can create “hardened bubbles” around critical infrastructure, markedly reducing strike success at a fraction of the cost of area-defense missiles. These technological avenues carry strategic implications: fostering domestic production of affordable interceptors and AI-driven fusion capabilities reduces dependence on single-source foreign suppliers, enhancing long-term resilience.

Of course, limits and trade-offs persist. Complete protection against massed glide-bomb attacks is economically and technically infeasible. Defenders must prioritize which assets warrant high-confidence protection, apply non-kinetic mitigations elsewhere, and accept calculated risks in certain corridors. Overly broad electronic warfare measures can disrupt civilian systems, making localized, precisely coordinated jamming—and clear diplomatic signaling—preferable to theatre-wide GNSS denial. Interceptor doctrines that consume munitions too liberally undermine long-term sustainability. And while effective defenses force attackers to expend more glide bombs, the sheer abundance of these low-cost weapons ensures persistent pressure that cannot be eliminated overnight. Open-source analysis and battlefield experience converge on a clear conclusion: no single measure is decisive. Success depends on breadth—on the integrated, synchronized application of sensors, electronic warfare, kinetic layers, logistics, and doctrine.

World class “experts” from Forbes suggested1:

“In the case of glide bombs, the chief requirement is to protect positions close to the front line, so assets can be more concentrated. These will include radar or other sensors to detect the incoming bombs, a control system to identify threats and the closest defenders, and some from of effector. These might be small, low-cost guided missiles similar to the laser-guided Vampire missile system supplied by the U.S., computer-controlled anti-aircraft guns like the German Skynex or a novel form of high-speed interceptor drone like Wild Hornets’ new Sting interceptor. Any of these might incorporate the sort of AI that NATO proposes to give a high hit rate.

As the NATO document points out, scalability is key. Every single glide bomb that can be intercepted will save lives. But knocking down a significant fraction of them will rob Russia of a vital offensive capability and change the shape of the conflict as Russia has become dependent on the firepower they provide to make advances.

A successful intercept system would make a big difference to Ukraine. It would also have wider effects. The U.S. Air Force, for example, relies heavily on JDAM guided bombs. If these suddenly became ineffective, America’s capacity to wage war would be severely impacted.”

Kyiv Post is even “better”2:

“The Ukrainians were able to create an electronic warfare system that made Russian guided bombs extremely inaccurate, and therefore ineffective despite their great power,” a March 23 analysis said. “After the deployment of the electronic warfare system, the accuracy of bombing first began to decline, and then, realizing the ineffectiveness of this method of destruction and the impossibility of achieving the set goal, the enemy stopped bombing rear facilities altogether.”

NATO launched competition3:

The winning team, Alta Ares, proposed an Artificial Intelligence-enabled solution to counter glide bomb threats through early detection, rapid identification, and decision support. Originally developed for intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance missions in Ukraine, the system uses proprietary computer vision and machine learning algorithms to analyze visual and acoustic data and other tools in identifying real-time threats. It supports two key warfighting functions: alerting troops in target zones early enough to take cover or deploy jamming systems, and enabling preemptive strikes through Artificial Intelligence-driven analysis of adversary targets. The system is platform-agnostic, lightweight, and compatible with NATO standards, integrating easily into existing sensor networks and interfaces while operating without internet access.4

Conclusion

In summary, a glide bomb fitted with a universal correction module follows a hybrid, energy-constrained trajectory that transitions rapidly from an initial ballistic arc into a controlled, waypoint-guided glide. The interplay of release conditions, aerodynamic design, guidance robustness, and mission programming determines whether the weapon prioritizes maximum range, low-altitude stealth, steep terminal penetration, or adaptive retargeting. Environmental factors, electronic countermeasures, and defensive postures further shape the realized flight path and the probability of successful impact. A thorough understanding of these dynamics is essential not only for offensive planners seeking to maximize strike effectiveness but also for defenders tasked with optimizing sensor placement, electronic warfare employment, and interceptor doctrine. Ultimately, the physics of unpowered flight and the operational trade-offs inherent in glide weapon employment remain the central determinants of the system’s practical behavior on the modern battlefield.

Operationally, when sustained ranges of ~100 km or more become routine, employment patterns change: aircraft can release these weapons from positions well beyond many immediate-area air-defense engagement zones, forcing defenders to extend surveillance and interception coverage or accept deeper strikes on logistics and infrastructure. Detection and launch attribution, therefore, grow in importance; successful defense against small, low-flying, potentially maneuvering powered glide weapons will likely require layered sensors, improved launch-detection fusion (radar, SIGINT, EO/IR), hardening and dispersal of critical targets, and a reconsideration of interceptor and point-defense posture.

For immediate analytic and defensive priorities, corroborate recent strike trajectories and launch points through flight-path analysis, pursue forensic recovery of debris to identify propulsion and guidance hardware, run engagement-window models for representative release altitudes/speeds across the 100/150/200 km bands, and review EW and terminal-guidance mitigations (improved INS, imaging or seekers, and adaptive jamming) to reduce reliance on GNSS. Treat current public reports as credible indicators of an operational trend toward powered glide munitions, but maintain caution about exact performance claims until multiple independent technical sources or forensic evidence confirm the precise capabilities and production status.

Ukraine’s response, together with NATO allies—who have largely driven development and support—must be systemic rather than singular. Early detection is best achieved through a deliberately diversified sensor fabric: long-range radars optimized for low-elevation coverage, airborne platforms that extend the radar horizon, distributed passive EO/IR and acoustic networks, and robust fusion algorithms. These must be complemented by targeted, scalable electronic warfare that degrades satellite-guided accuracy while avoiding unacceptable collateral damage to civilians or infrastructure. Kinetic defenses should prioritize low-altitude denial and point protection, reinforced by dispersion, hardening, and deception to blunt the payoff of any successful penetration. Doctrine and logistics must evolve to support rapid decision-making, efficient interceptor use, and sustainable replenishment, while strategic efforts should—where feasible—deny the adversary basing and sortie generation.

Taken together, these technical, operational, and organizational measures offer the best prospect of imposing unsustainable costs on a glide-bomb campaign. The challenge is formidable: there is no silver bullet—only a layered, integrated set of measures that, in concert, can erode the asymmetric advantage that inexpensive precision glide munitions confer on an attacker. That said, planning and strategy on paper are not equivalent to outcomes in the field. As the conflict continues, Russian glide-converted bombs have inflicted significant damage on Ukrainian forces and infrastructure, and—absent sustained, effective mitigation—the military and humanitarian costs for Ukraine are likely to increase. While programs, pledges, and policy statements circulate in allied capitals, civilians and service members continue to bear the immediate burden on the ground. Translating strategy into operational effect and prioritizing measures to reduce civilian harm should therefore be urgent priorities, and the conflict will go on till the last Ukrainian….

If you like the article (and much more articles regarding military subjects will come) you can buy me a coffee:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/mmihajloviW

[i] Edited by Piquet (PiquetEdit@gmail.com)

In recent months, Ukrainian officials and sympathetic commentators have floated the possibility of Kiev acquiring U.S.-made BGM-109 Tomahawk cruise missiles. The suggestion, circulated in political speeches, media soundbites, and social media campaigns, is meant to signal resolve and project the image of Ukraine entering the exclusive club of long-range precision-strike powers. Yet, for anyone with more than a cursory understanding of modern weapons integration, the idea is little more than a fantasy. Far from a credible option, it is a case study in how political actors and warmongering pundits co-opt the language of advanced weaponry for marketing purposes rather than serious military planning.

What is striking is how quickly this reality is brushed aside in public discourse. For warmongering commentators and lobbyists, invoking the “Tomahawk” has marketing value. It conjures images of shock-and-awe campaigns and technological supremacy, while diverting attention from the more mundane but realistic systems that Ukraine actually operates. In this sense, the Tomahawk serves not as a practical option but as a symbol—a shorthand for escalation, resolve, and the promise of game-changing capability. The fact that it is logistically and operationally impossible for Ukraine to use it does not matter; what matters is the narrative power of the name.

At its core, then, the “Tomahawk for Ukraine” story is not about military reality. It is about theater. It appeals to audiences with a shallow grasp of defense technology and reassures them with the idea that another “silver bullet” system is on the way. For those who understand how the Tomahawk actually works—its dependence on U.S. launch platforms, secure networks, cryptographic keys, and classified mission planning tools—the notion is laughable. It belongs more to the realm of marketing slogans and political posturing than to serious operational planning.

Some Hypothetical Scenarios

Ground Launched Cruise Missile Platform

Enthusiasm in some circles for ground‑launching options is not entirely misplaced. Decades ago, the United States developed and actually produced ground‑based launchers for Tomahawk‑class effects; the technical groundwork and institutional precedent therefore exist, even if the practical, political, and logistical barriers to resurrecting that capability remain high.

The Ground-Launched Cruise Missile (GLCM) program originated from a Cold War imperative to address a perceived NATO vulnerability in Europe. In the late 1970s, the Soviet Union deployed the SS-20 intermediate-range ballistic missile, a mobile, accurate system that could strike Western Europe with little warning. NATO’s 1979 “dual-track” decision responded by pressing for arms control while preparing to deploy new U.S. missile systems to restore deterrent balance. One of those choices was a land-based version of the Tomahawk cruise missile: a road-mobile, survivable precision weapon intended to complicate Soviet targeting and reassure European allies.

Technically, the GLCM adapted the naval Tomahawk’s low-altitude, terrain-following cruise profile for ground launch. Missiles were housed in sealed canisters and carried on transporter-erector-launcher (TEL) vehicles, typically with multiple missiles per vehicle to improve mobility and dispersal. Guidance relied on TERCOM, permitting long, low-level penetration routes to reduce radar exposure. The system was designed to be survivable in a high-threat European battlefield by dispersing, hiding, and using deceptive basing to complicate an adversary’s targeting. In concert with Pershing II ballistic missiles, GLCMs were intended to restore credible NATO options for a limited nuclear response in theater without immediately escalating to a strategic exchange.

Deployments began in the early 1980s across NATO Europe. The United States stationed GLCMs and supporting units in several allied countries as part of its planned counterbalance to the SS-20. The presence of the missiles sparked large anti-nuclear protests and intense political debate across Europe. Yet, allied governments argued the deployments were necessary to maintain deterrence and to strengthen NATO bargaining leverage in arms control talks.

The program’s strategic and political utility became evident even as controversy swirled around it. The missiles increased the bargaining power of negotiators in talks with Moscow because both sides recognized the operational implications of having mobile, survivable intermediate-range systems in the theatre. That leverage helped create the conditions for negotiation that culminated in the 1987 Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces (INF) Treaty between the United States and the Soviet Union. The INF Treaty was historic: for the first time, the superpowers agreed to eliminate an entire class of missiles—those with ranges between roughly 500 km and 5,500 km—and to permit intrusive on-site verification.

Because the GLCM fell squarely within the treaty’s scope, its future was effectively decided at the negotiating table. Under the INF terms, all U.S. ground-launched cruise missiles of the prohibited range were to be removed and destroyed, and corresponding Soviet systems were to be eliminated as well. The United States complied: the deployed GLCM force was withdrawn and the missiles and associated infrastructure dismantled. By the early 1990s, the GLCM had vanished from European bases, a casualty not of technical failure but of a diplomatic bargain that traded deployed capability for legally binding reductions in risk and tension.

In retrospect, the GLCM’s lifecycle illustrates how weapons can be instruments of policy as much as tools of war. It was developed to fill an urgent deterrence gap, deployed in politically charged circumstances, and then sacrificed as part of a broader deal that arguably produced a more stable European security environment. The program’s cancellation underscored the reality that the ultimate fate of even sophisticated military systems often depends on geopolitics and diplomacy as much as on engineering or battlefield utility.

By the early 1990s, all GLCM missiles and their launchers had been dismantled, with thorough inspections to ensure that nothing was hidden or left behind.

Some parts of the program survive today, but only as museum pieces. A few demilitarized missiles and launch vehicles are on display at places such as the National Museum of the U.S. Air Force and the Pima Air & Space Museum. These are completely inert and cannot be fired—they exist only to show history and educate the public.

Because the treaty required strict verification and destruction, it is extremely unlikely that any operational GLCM missiles or launchers still exist. Stories or speculation about “hidden” launchers are therefore just myths; there is no stockpile that could be brought back into service.

The missiles and launchers were removed and destroyed decades ago, and any remaining artifacts are now just for display. All of the program’s official documentation, technical drawings, manuals, and related records were carefully handled according to U.S. military and national security procedures. Sensitive technical information—anything that could be used to rebuild the missiles or their launchers—was classified and retained under strict control within the Department of Defense and the National Archives.

Some non-sensitive or historical materials have been declassified over time and are now available for research by historians or museum collections. This includes photographs, program overviews, and general descriptions of how the missiles and launchers worked. However, the detailed technical schematics, software, guidance algorithms, and launch procedures remain classified to prevent misuse or proliferation.

The GLCM project’s records were mostly destroyed, secured, or classified after the program ended. Only carefully controlled historical or educational materials are publicly accessible today.

Even if Ukraine wanted to revive the old GLCM program with the help of the warmongering faction of the US government, it wouldn’t be possible. The detailed technical documents, schematics, software, and procedures are still classified or destroyed, so there’s no “instruction manual” available. Any attempt to rebuild the program from scratch would require billions of dollars, decades of work, and extensive testing—essentially starting over as a new weapons development program. Neither Ukraine nor its allies could simply pick up where the Cold War program left off.

Naval launchers on a ground-based platform - new concept

Technically, a vertical launch cell (the standard Mk-41 VLS used on U.S. warships) is a modular canister that can hold a variety of missiles; conceptually, a similar cell can be mounted in a ground transporter if the launcher, power, and thermal interfaces are addressed. That idea is not just academic: the U.S. Army has developed and tested the Typhon (Mid-Range Capability / SMRF) launcher concept that integrates Mk-style cells into ground vehicles and has demonstrably launched both SM-6 and Tomahawk airframes in trials. The Army has also deployed Typhon batteries overseas for exercises. These experiments show that the basic engineering path exists for adapting naval missile airframes to ground launchers1.

The Mk41 UVP can fire various types of missiles: cruise, anti-aircraft, and anti-submarine. It can include up to eight modules, each with eight launch containers: Mk14 mod. O and 1 for the Tomahawk cruise missile or Mk13 and Mk15 for surface-to-air missiles and anti-submarine missiles; a missile launch system; and other equipment.

The Mk14 containers (0.635 x 0.635 m and 6.7 m long.) are made of corrugated steel. They feature upper and lower membrane covers, a spray valve system at the top for supplying coolant to the warhead when necessary for cooling, electrical connectors for the power supply, electrical cables, a stabilization mechanism, and devices for stabilizing and securing the missile. The upper membrane cover, made of rubber-impregnated fiberglass, provides protection for the cruise missile from the shock wave generated during the launch of an adjacent missile. The lower membrane cover is designed as four petals that open due to the pressure generated within the container when the missile’s engine is activated. An ablative coating on the container’s interior enables up to eight launches without requiring container replacement. The container can withstand internal pressures of up to 274.5 kPa.

The missile launch system includes launch sequence control equipment, a mechanism for opening and closing the UVP armored covers, and a power supply unit.

At the bottom of the UVP is a chamber for escaping gases, which are discharged through a venting duct above the ship’s deck. The chamber and venting duct are covered with an ablative coating made of phenolic fiber tiles reinforced with chloroprene rubber. Armored covers at the top of the UVP provide protection from impact water. On surface ships, Mk41 UVPs are mounted below the upper deck. The total number of modules in them is 8, 12, or 16, but the total number of missiles (ammunition) is 61, 90, or 122, respectively (not 64, 96, or 128), as the volume of three or six container cells is used to accommodate the loading device, which ensures the reloading of missiles at sea.

At the same time, recent service experiments illustrate practical limits. The U.S. Marine Corps tested a light-unit concept (a JLTV-mounted launcher) and later cancelled it after trials showed the maritime Tomahawk architecture does not map well to small, expeditionary platforms. That cancellation highlights the challenges of simply transferring naval launchers to land vehicles without significant trade-offs in logistics, weight, thermal management, and mobility.

The concept behind the USMC Long-Range Fires (LRF) program, based on the JLTV, remains technically and strategically interesting. Recently, there have been scattered reports and informal speculation suggesting that elements of the LRF concept might be revived in some form to support Ukraine’s long-range strike capability. However, available information is extremely limited, and no verifiable evidence currently supports the notion that the United States or its allies have reactivated or adapted the program for export or combat use. For now, such claims remain speculative rather than factual.

At the systems level the problem can be separated into three linked domains: the mechanical and physical challenge of mounting a naval vertical-launch cell on a land vehicle or at a fixed site while ensuring safe handling and environmental control; the electrical, thermal and electronic interface issues such as power, cooling, timing and data/control links; and the systems-of-systems concerns of mission planning, command-and-control (C2), cryptography and long-term sustainment. Each domain brings distinct engineering requirements, test regimes, and logistical burdens. Converting a naval launch cell into a reliable, safe ground asset is therefore a full systems-engineering, certification, and sustainment effort — not a “plug-and-play” retrofit.

Shipboard vertical launch cells and their canisters are designed around a ship’s structural characteristics and its particular shock, vibration, and mounting environment. Ground platforms and fixed sites impose very different load spectra, transport dynamics, and survivability expectations; a ground launcher must therefore meet its own structural standards for mobility, transport, and battlefield survivability. Relevant technical considerations include dynamic load paths during transport (road, rail, or off-road), structural containment for blast and shock, secure mechanical locking and canister handling, and protective measures for both the crew and bystanders. Any viable design must also account for ordnance handling under worst-case environmental scenarios, accessibility for maintenance, and safety in vehicle crash or rollover events when the launch system is vehicle-mounted.

Naval launchers benefit from ship services: high continuous electrical generation, large shipboard cooling capacity, and integrated environmental control. Ground platforms typically have significantly more constrained power and cooling budgets, as well as different transient characteristics. Key engineering concerns, therefore, include both steady-state and transient power availability, thermal management for avionics and missile canisters (including storage conditioning and pre-launch thermal preparation), humidity and corrosion control, and protection against contamination from dust and debris. Power quality — voltage stability, harmonics, and the ability to support high inrush currents for pre-launch sequences — materially affects generator sizing, power-distribution architecture, and auxiliary systems selection.

A launcher is also an electronic node in a larger fire-control and C2 architecture. Naval launchers integrate with platform combat systems through standardized buses, safety interlocks, and weapon-control protocols; adapting those interfaces to a ground fire-control architecture requires precisely defined interface control documents, latency and resilience analyses for data links, electromagnetic compatibility verification, and deterministic timing for safety interlocks. Software-in-the-loop testing, firmware validation, and regression testing are necessary to ensure correct behavior across edge cases. Cybersecurity and supply-chain assurance are critical: cryptographic modules, authenticated firmware, and tamper detection must meet national standards and be provisioned under secure key-management practices.

Safe ground operation demands comprehensive human-factors engineering, procedural development, interlocks, and formal certification. This covers crew ergonomics, emergency abort and jettison procedures, safe transfer and handling practices, and maintenance ergonomics. Certification must conform to applicable military and civil safety standards and include defined qualification tests (environmental, EMI/EMC, shock/vibration, live-fire safety margins). Regulatory and legal compliance — including range clearance, airspace coordination, and ordnance transport rules — must be integrated from program inception to ensure operational concepts remain lawful and safe.

Sourcing spare parts, propulsion modules, guidance components, test equipment, and qualified technicians is a long-lead issue. Many components become obsolete after retirement; therefore, reuse requires an authorized refurbishment program or an assured supply chain. Depot and test infrastructure — instrumentation, environmental chambers, and diagnostic testers — are specialized and often controlled. Establishing local sustainment demands training pipelines, technical data rights, and long-term procurement contracts, all of which are significant drivers of cost and schedule.

A credible mission capability extends well beyond the launcher itself to mission-planning systems, secure key management, targeting data, and ISR integration. Mission planning and targeting require validated geodata and target-quality imagery, along with documented pre-flight validation and abort procedures. Network resilience, anti-jamming, and anti-spoofing strategies, as well as continuous data-link availability, must be designed and validated. Governance choices — who authorizes a mission, how keys are provisioned, and how retasking is managed — are policy decisions that directly shape technical architectures, for example, whether to design for remote enablement under donor control or for local autonomy.

A rigorous testing and certification regime is essential: hardware acceptance testing, integrated system tests, software qualification, safety-of-flight analyses, and live-fire trials on controlled ranges. Test instrumentation, telemetry architectures, and post-flight forensics capabilities are required to validate performance and safety. Independent verification by accredited test authorities is typically a prerequisite for safety certification and liability mitigation.

Programmatically, turning naval hardware into a fielded ground launcher is a program of record. It requires formal requirements definition, a systems-engineering lifecycle, acquisition funding, contractor engagement, and multi-year timelines for development, qualification, and fielding. Key risks include supply-chain availability, access to classified components, export controls, and political approvals. Economies of scale matter: small production runs are disproportionately expensive per unit, and classified or controlled components complicate industrial planning.

From a technical-risk perspective, alternative approaches often offer a better cost-to-capability tradeoff. Host-and-launch models, where allied naval platforms provide firing capability, avoid many retrofit risks. Co-designed, exportable ground cruise missiles, built from the ground up for land use, eliminate many integration headaches. Modular, open-architecture launcher families that accept multiple certified missile modules simplify certification and export governance. These options reduce retrofit complexity, speed fielding, and make sustainment more tractable.

In abstract terms, converting decommissioned naval launchers into functioning ground systems is technically possible; however, doing so safely, reliably, and lawfully would require a major, multidisciplinary systems engineering program. Adapting Soviet-era airframes to accept Western missiles is one technical challenge; repurposing shipboard launch cells for land use is an entirely different order of difficulty. The latter would require near-complete U.S. involvement — politically, technically, and logistically — and given the strategic implications, could have consequences that ripple far beyond the region.

The Reality

Ukraine cannot realistically operate the BGM-109 Tomahawk cruise missile under any practical military conditions. Even in a hypothetical scenario where the United States provided the missiles (as mentioned previously with the Typhon system), their employment would remain wholly dependent on U.S. military infrastructure, personnel, and systems. This dependency is not merely a matter of policy or diplomatic caution; it is built into the fundamental architecture of the Tomahawk system, its integration requirements, and the operational doctrine that governs its operation. The Tomahawk is not a plug-and-play munition that can be launched from an improvised platform with manually entered coordinates. It is a deeply embedded component of U.S. naval strike warfare, requiring a sophisticated ecosystem of platforms, command systems, data links, cryptographic authentication, and mission planning tools that exist only within the U.S. Navy—and, to a limited degree, the Royal Navy.

The Tomahawk Land Attack Missile (TLAM) is designed for launch exclusively from vertical launch systems (VLS), most notably the Mk 41 VLS on U.S. Navy destroyers and cruisers, or from submarine torpedo tubes and dedicated VLS cells on U.S. and British submarines. These systems are not simple launch containers. They are fully integrated into the ship’s combat architecture, providing power, cooling, data connectivity, and fire control. Initial targeting data, navigation alignment, and launch authorization are all delivered through the ship’s Aegis Combat System or an equivalent submarine fire control suite. Ukraine does not possess any naval vessels equipped with Mk 41 VLS or comparable architecture. Its fleet is limited to small patrol craft, artillery boats such as the Gyurza-M, and a handful of aging Soviet-era vessels, none of which possess the space, power generation, or software integration required for Tomahawk employment. Retrofitting such vessels is not a matter of welding a launch box onto a deck; it would require a complete redesign of combat systems, power distribution, and electronic infrastructure, an engineering task that demands years and immense resources, even for advanced navies.

Even if Ukraine were to acquire a Tomahawk-capable vessel, it would still lack the Tomahawk Weapon Control System (TWCS), the classified suite that governs mission planning, missile initialization, in-flight updates, and monitoring. Mission planning itself involves uploading high-resolution terrain elevation data, satellite imagery, and target coordinates into the missile’s computer. This requires secure U.S. defense networks, such as SIPRNet, and specialized software, like the Tomahawk Integrated Mission Planning System (TIMPS) or its successor, the Joint Mission Planning System (JMPS). These are operated only by trained U.S. personnel with security clearances. Ukrainian forces have no access to these networks, tools, or data. The missile’s terrain-matching and optical scene-correlation systems (TERCOM and DSMAC) rely on continuously updated, classified geospatial databases generated by U.S. intelligence. Without this data, accuracy would degrade severely in contested electronic warfare environments.

Modern variants of the Tomahawk, such as the Block IV Tactical Tomahawk (RGM/UGM-109E), introduce an additional dependency: a two-way satellite data link that enables retargeting, loitering, and battle damage assessment. This link rides on secure U.S. military satellite networks, using cryptographic protocols and NSA-certified Type 1 encryption. Without U.S. cryptographic keys, terminals, and authorization systems, the link is inert. Even with downlinked imagery, Ukraine would have no means to transmit commands or target updates.

The weapon is further safeguarded by multiple electronic and procedural locks, including Permissive Action Links and cryptographic enable codes that must be loaded before launch. These codes originate in U.S. Strategic Command’s command-and-control infrastructure and are distributed only within U.S. key management channels. Without them, a Tomahawk remains inert. The United States retains the ability to withhold or revoke keys, rendering any transferred missile unusable—a standard safeguard for advanced U.S. precision weapons.

Logistical and sustainment requirements are equally prohibitive. Tomahawks must be stored in climate-controlled containers, inspected by certified technicians, and regularly updated with new software and hardware patches. These procedures rely on specialized diagnostic tools and ITAR-restricted equipment unavailable outside U.S. Navy channels. Ukraine lacks the trained personnel, depot-level facilities, or ordnance handling infrastructure to support such a system.

Training represents another insurmountable barrier. U.S. personnel undergo months of specialized instruction in TWCS operation, including simulator work and live-fire certification. The process is inextricably linked to U.S. Navy doctrine, command culture, and classified materials. There is no mechanism for quickly qualifying foreign operators in wartime. Language barriers, doctrinal differences, and the classified nature of training material make any rapid transfer impossible.

Navigation and route-planning further illustrate Ukraine’s limitations. While GPS supports mid-course guidance, Tomahawk relies heavily on TERCOM and DSMAC to ensure accuracy in GPS-denied environments. These modes require extremely detailed terrain and imagery data, which must be updated and validated by U.S. national technical means. Without access to this classified data, route planning becomes simplistic and vulnerable to manipulation. Attempting to fly straight-line profiles would expose missiles to Russian integrated air defenses, such as the S-300, Buk-M2, and S-400, leading to high attrition. Effective route design requires integration with real-time U.S. ISR assets—airborne, space-based, and signals intelligence—that Ukraine does not control.

Launch procedures themselves are deeply institutionalized. A Tomahawk strike on a U.S. destroyer requires coordination among multiple officers, secure authorization codes, and higher command approval. The missile is never launched in isolation, but as part of a larger strike package that includes supporting electronic warfare, ISR, and post-strike assessment. Ukraine’s General Staff, oriented toward land warfare, lacks the doctrine, structure, or ISR support to replicate this.

The submarine variant illustrates the point even more starkly. Submarine launches demand modern boats, highly trained crews, and precise navigation and communications. Ukraine has no submarine fleet; its only vessel, “Zaporizhzhia”, was lost in 2014. Building or training a Tomahawk-capable submarine force would take decades.

By contrast, systems Ukraine has successfully integrated—such as Storm Shadow/SCALP-EG and ATACMS—are designed for air or ground launch from platforms Ukraine already operates. They employ mission planning systems that are adaptable to Ukrainian infrastructure and can be used with minimal training and support. Tomahawk, by design, is not adaptable.

From propulsion to cryptographic enablement, Tomahawk is sustained entirely within U.S. logistical and doctrinal frameworks. Its engine maintenance, warhead integration, software updates, and electronic counter-countermeasures all rely on U.S. defense infrastructure, classified threat libraries, and ISR support. Even post-strike battle damage assessment depends on U.S. overhead assets. Without these, Tomahawk cannot function as intended.

In short, the Tomahawk is not a weapon that can be easily transferred, like the HIMARS or Storm Shadow. It is a system-of-systems that exists only within the U.S. Navy’s strike ecosystem. Ukraine lacks the platforms, networks, mission planning tools, data access, cryptographic systems, training, and logistics to operate independently. Even if provided the missiles, their operation would remain entirely U.S.-controlled, with Ukraine serving at most as a geographic proxy. This is not a matter of willpower but of design: the Tomahawk is inseparable from the institutional and technical infrastructure of U.S. naval combat power.

Conclusion

In this Substack, I previously discussed several cruise-missile options — Storm Shadow/SCALP, Taurus, and the newer JASSM — and there is both technical and material availability to some degree to use the latter two alongside Storm Shadow. Tomahawk is simply out of the question. As the conflict drags on, Ukraine is suffering from steady attrition despite enormous support from NATO allies; if current trends continue, attrition will eventually exhaust Ukrainian resistance. They need to finally accept that Western policy has been mishandled; for some, an earlier negotiated end would be preferable to eventual collapse. No number of cruise missiles, or anything else the collective West can dump there, however loudly demanded by warmongers in the West, will turn the tide.

If you like the article (and much more articles regarding military subjects will come) you can buy me a coffee:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/mmihajloviW

[i] Edited by Piquet (editpiquet@gmail.com)

The U.S. and Venezuela are once again locked in confrontation, raising fears of a new Caribbean crisis. American officials have been blunt about their desire for political change in Caracas. Critics say this is less about democracy and more about Venezuela’s vast oil reserves.

The phrase "intensified counternarcotics campaign," as used in U.S. public statements regarding Venezuela, functions as a formal framing device that masks broader strategic objectives. While ostensibly focused on disrupting drug trafficking networks, the initiative also serves as a mechanism for exerting political pressure and signaling U.S. influence in the region. This approach contrasts sharply with the Russian concept of a “special military operation” in Ukraine. Russian operations are officially justified as measures to protect Russian-speaking populations and to counter perceived threats from NATO expansion and the government in Kiev, which Moscow portrays as ideologically hostile and illegitimate. In contrast, U.S. objectives in the Venezuelan context are less about protecting local populations and more about achieving regime change, gaining control over national resources, and reasserting influence in a region considered part of its strategic sphere of interest. The counternarcotics narrative, while publicly defensible and legally framed, effectively provides a pretext for projecting power and advancing political and economic objectives, including the disruption of smuggling networks and the consolidation of influence over key state assets.

The force buildup

The United States has already squeezed Venezuela with sanctions, partially isolated it diplomatically, and recognized opposition figures as legitimate leaders. Now, military moves in the Caribbean suggest that Washington is keeping more forceful options on the table.

In recent weeks, the United States has carried out its largest naval buildup in the southern Caribbean since the Panama operation of 1989, placing considerable pressure on Venezuela. According to open sources, multiple Arleigh Burke–class destroyers, including the USS Gravely, USS Jason Dunham, and USS Sampson, have been deployed alongside the guided-missile cruiser USS Lake Erie and the fast-attack submarine USS Newport News. Amphibious assault ships such as the USS Iwo Jima, USS Fort Lauderdale, and USS San Antonio are also operating in the area, each carrying elements of a Marine Expeditionary Unit with roughly 2,200 personnel. Reports suggest a total of eight warships and at least one submarine are active in the region, marking a substantial U.S. naval presence.

The situation escalated sharply when the U.S. military conducted an airstrike on September 2 against a boat alleged to be part of the Venezuelan trafficking network, allegedly killing 11 people. The strike represented one of the rare instances of direct U.S. military action in the Western Hemisphere in recent decades. While the administration has argued that the operation falls within the president’s authority to defend national security, critics in Congress have raised questions about legality and the expansion of executive power.

Tensions have risen further after reports of Venezuelan military aircraft flying near U.S. destroyers in international waters, which the Pentagon described as “highly provocative.”

In response, President Trump warned that Venezuelan jets would be shot down if they threatened American ships. Soon afterward, the U.S. bolstered its regional posture by deploying ten F-35 fighters to Puerto Rico, thereby increasing its ability to conduct precision strikes or protect naval forces.

The U.S. Secretary of War, addressing the Marines aboard the USS Iwo Jima, stressed the urgency of their counter-narcotics mission: “It’s not if, it’s when,” conveying that their deployment is imminent—not optional.

On the Venezuelan side, President Nicolás Maduro denounced the deployments as a direct military threat aimed at regime change. In one of his interviews, he mentioned that "85% of the billions of dollars annually from international drug trafficking is in the U.S. banking system”.

As a countermeasure to the US forces’ buildup, President Maduro declared a state of maximum readiness, called for the mobilization of militias, and pledged to defend national sovereignty, even describing the country as prepared to become a “republic in arms.” According to reports, Venezuela has increased troop levels in sensitive coastal areas from 10,000 to 25,000, partly to counter trafficking but also to demonstrate resolve against U.S. pressure.

The buildup thus represents a complex mix of so-called counternarcotics operations, deterrence signaling, and strategic confrontation. For Washington, the deployment serves as both a military posture against organized crime and a political message to Caracas. For Venezuela, it is seen as proof of U.S. intentions to undermine its sovereignty. The open question is whether this naval presence will remain a demonstration of force or evolve into a more sustained campaign with wider regional consequences. In any case, time will tell…

Venezuelan assets

Historically, Venezuela’s military development has been shaped by both external and internal pressures. The country’s extensive petroleum reserves and geographic position in the northern part of South America have made it a focal point for regional geopolitics. Military modernization efforts have aimed to create a credible deterrent capable of responding to potential incursions, as well as to project domestic political authority. The reliance on integrated air-defense systems, forward-positioned air bases, and a network of coastal and riverine installations reflects lessons learned from regional conflicts and global military trends, particularly the emphasis on layered defense and force dispersion to mitigate vulnerabilities.

Geographically, Venezuela presents unique challenges and opportunities for defense planning. The extensive northern coastline requires robust naval and coastal defense assets to monitor maritime approaches, while the interior’s river systems necessitate the maintenance of riverine units capable of operating in difficult terrain. Urban centers, industrial facilities, and energy infrastructure are concentrated in specific regions, which in turn dictates the prioritization of air-defense coverage and rapid reaction forces. The interplay between geographic factors and military deployment underscores the adaptive nature of Venezuela’s defense planning, which aims to balance territorial breadth with operational effectiveness.

Venezuela’s approach to national defense also reflects broader political objectives. The distribution of military installations and the integration of militias serve not only strategic purposes but also reinforce the government's political authority. By positioning key military assets near political and economic centers, the state maintains the capacity to respond to both internal unrest and external pressures. This intertwining of military and political considerations is evident in the maintenance of strategically important airfields near Caracas, the deployment of forces to guard the oil belt in the south, and the presence of militia units across the border regions.

In conclusion, Venezuela’s military infrastructure presents a multifaceted network of installations, forces, and defensive systems that collectively aim to safeguard national sovereignty, protect critical infrastructure, and ensure internal political stability. The integration of air, naval, and ground forces with local militias, combined with a layered air defense network, provides both strategic depth and operational flexibility. While variations in readiness and technological capability pose challenges, the overall structure reflects an enduring effort to maintain credible territorial defense, deterrence, and resilience in the face of regional and domestic challenges. By analyzing the distribution of bases, force composition, and defensive patterns, one gains a comprehensive understanding of Venezuela’s military posture, its strategic priorities, and the interaction between geography, politics, and doctrine in shaping national defense.

Venezuela’s military is far weaker compared to the US military assets. Its navy is small, and its forces are riddled with corruption and politicization.

The country’s armed forces comprise multiple branches, including the Air Force, Navy, Army, National Guard, and local militia units, each with distinct operational responsibilities that reflect historical, geographic, and strategic considerations. The dispersion of military installations across the national territory enables the government to exert control over key regions while maintaining a credible defensive posture in both the interior and along coastal areas. Understanding the distribution and function of these installations provides insight into the broader strategic and doctrinal approaches of the Venezuelan state.

In 2008, the Venezuelan Air Force was officially renamed the Bolivarian Military Aviation of Venezuela (Aviación Militar Bolivariana de Venezuela). The most valuable assets are Russian-made Su-30MK2 jets. There are 21 available, but the question is how many of them are operable at any given time. On paper, there are also 16 US-made F-16 A/B out of which just a handful are operational (as of the time of writing, 3-5). The Venezuelan Air Force maintains a series of strategically placed air bases designed to ensure coverage of the entire national airspace while supporting both defensive and offensive operations in theory. The El Libertador Air Base, situated near Maracay in the central region, serves as the primary hub for Venezuelan military aviation. It hosts command centers, training units, and fighter aircraft, acting as the central node for operational coordination. Its proximity to Caracas is both symbolic and practical, providing rapid access to the capital in the event of internal or external crises. This base is historically significant, reflecting the centralization of Venezuelan air power in the years following the consolidation of military doctrine in the late twentieth century, particularly during periods of heightened domestic political tension.

In addition to central installations, Venezuela has forward-positioned air bases that extend operational reach and allow for rapid deployment to maritime and border regions. La Orchila, an island base located off the northern Caribbean coast, is primarily intended for naval surveillance and serves as a forward operating location for fighter aircraft. Its offshore position allows for coverage over adjacent waters and acts as a strategic buffer, providing redundancy for central air operations while enhancing situational awareness in key maritime approaches. In the northwest, the Punto Fijo Airfield supports operations in the Falcón region and along the western coast, facilitating regional air patrols, logistical movements, and rapid response to potential threats emanating from both domestic and international sources. Similarly, the Barcelona or El Tigre Airfield in the east safeguards critical energy and industrial infrastructure, reflecting the strategic prioritization of the Orinoco Oil Belt and associated refineries. La Carlota Airfield, located in Caracas, primarily serves administrative and political functions. While smaller in scale, its significance lies in its role as a hub for VIP transport, governmental continuity, and occasional limited fighter operations, highlighting the intertwining of military and political considerations in Venezuelan defense planning.

The Navy is tasked with protecting Venezuela’s extensive northern coastline and asserting control over its principal ports and navigable rivers. Puerto Cabello serves as the central naval hub, housing the primary fleet, which comprises patrol vessels, frigates, and logistics ships. This base serves as both a maintenance and training center, ensuring that the fleet remains operationally capable while providing strategic reach along the Caribbean littoral. La Guaira, situated near the capital, complements this by supporting smaller vessels, facilitating coastal surveillance, and serving as a training site for personnel. Western bases, such as the one at Punto Fijo, extend coverage into the Gulf of Venezuela and are geared toward coastal defense and the protection of resource-rich areas. Riverine installations in the Orinoco Basin further demonstrate the Navy’s attention to inland waterways. These outposts, though smaller, play a crucial role in rapid deployment, logistical support, and patrolling areas inaccessible to conventional seagoing vessels. The combination of coastal and riverine assets enables Venezuela to exert influence over both maritime and internal waterways, a necessity given the country's geographic challenges posed by its rivers, wetlands, and coastal features.

The Army and National Guard form the backbone of territorial defense, with brigades, artillery units, and mechanized forces strategically distributed across central, eastern, western, and southern sectors. Central units near Maracay offer rapid response capabilities to threats within the interior and coordinate with air-defense installations. Southern forces, particularly in the Guayana region, focus on safeguarding natural resources, industrial installations, and critical transport corridors. Border units in the west and east monitor international boundaries and contribute to internal security, reflecting ongoing concerns about illegal cross-border activity, including smuggling and the trafficking of contraband. The positioning of Army and National Guard elements also serves a dual purpose: deterring external aggression while maintaining a presence that can be mobilized quickly to support civilian authorities during internal crises, ranging from natural disasters to political unrest.

Complementing the conventional forces are militia units, which provide local defense and augment the capabilities of the regular military. These units are widely dispersed, often stationed near towns, villages, and strategic border regions. Their primary roles include local surveillance, coastal monitoring, and internal security operations. The militia structure allows Venezuela to maintain an expanded defensive footprint without requiring a permanent deployment of regular units in every locality. This decentralized approach enhances flexibility, enabling the armed forces to prioritize strategic points while leveraging local populations for intelligence gathering, rapid response, and deterrence of small-scale incursions.

Air Defense - the First Potential Target

Venezuela’s air-defense architecture is built as a multi-layered network intended to shield critical urban centers, military installations, and strategic economic assets. However, the country’s vast territory makes comprehensive coverage impossible. This geographic limitation creates exploitable gaps in the system, which U.S. forces and, to a lesser extent, regional actors in neighboring states can use to their advantage.

Venezuela’s long-range air defense is anchored by S-300VM (export version Antey 2500), which provides strategic coverage for major cities, air bases, and critical infrastructure, particularly oil refineries and industrial hubs. The country is believed to operate two battalions of these systems.

Supplementing this layer are Buk-M2E medium-range systems, deployed to protect regional approaches and to close the gaps left by the S-300VM network. Venezuela is reported to field three battalions, comprising 12 Buk-M2E launchers with associated equipment and a stock of approximately 250 missiles.

The short-range tier is represented by the S-125M (Pechora-2M) system. Though based on legacy technology, these upgraded systems remain a key component of Venezuela’s layered defense, particularly for shielding secondary targets and reinforcing zones not fully covered by longer-range assets.

For point defense, Venezuela relies heavily on ZU-23-2 autocannons and Igla-S man-portable air defense systems (MANPADS). These weapons provide close-in protection against low-flying aircraft, helicopters, and drones, and are typically positioned around high-value installations such as air bases, command centers, and industrial facilities.

In addition to the modernized Russian and Chinese systems deployed across Venezuela, several legacy air-defense platforms remain in the inventory, though their operational effectiveness is highly questionable. Among these are the Israeli-made Barak-1 SAM and Bofors AAA units, both of which are widely believed to be non-operational.

The Barak-1 system, once intended to provide short-range, point-defense coverage, has suffered from a lack of maintenance and spare parts, compounded by the cessation of direct Israeli support. Similarly, the Bofors AAA, a relic of earlier procurement programs, has likely degraded beyond practical use.

Overall, the operational obsolescence of systems such as the Barak-1 and Bofors AAA underscores the need for either a complete modernization program or a strategic reorientation toward maintaining a smaller but reliable and well-supported defensive architecture. Without such measures, portions of the country remain effectively unprotected, thereby reducing the credibility of Venezuela’s broader air defense strategy.

The integration of permanent bases, forward airfields, riverine outposts, and militia units establishes a comprehensive territorial defense network, enabling Venezuela to exert control across its diverse geographic landscape. The dispersion of forces across central, eastern, western, and southern sectors ensures coverage of strategic points while enabling flexibility in response to localized contingencies. Although variations in operational readiness and technological sophistication exist, the distribution of forces reflects an attempt to balance territorial coverage with the protection of politically and economically vital assets. The presence of both regular and irregular forces, combined with layered air-defense systems, underscores a defensive philosophy that prioritizes the protection of sovereignty, deterrence of external intervention, and preservation of internal stability.

Striking back - What Venezuela can do against the US

Venezuela maintains a multi-layered anti-ship and coastal defense network, combining legacy naval platforms, modern aircraft-launched missiles, and shore-based systems. Central to this network are Peykaap-class fast attack craft, equipped with Nasr anti-ship missiles, an Iranian copy of the Chinese C-704. Each vessel carries two launch tubes, with the missiles employing autonomous terminal guidance that combines TV-homing with millimeter-wave radar. The export variant, the CM-90, has an operational range of approximately 90 kilometers. Combat use of the Nasr-1 has been recorded in regional conflicts, including Hezbollah’s strike on the Beit Lid military base in northern Israel in October 2024.

A shorter-range counterpart, the Khowsar missile (Chinese C-701), shares launch infrastructure with the Nasr-1 and has previously been employed in the 2006 attack on INS Hanit (503). Despite their combat history, neither missile type has been reported in use by Houthi forces in Yemen, highlighting their current regional deployment limitations.

While Nasr-1/CM-90 missiles are theoretically a threat, their effectiveness against modern U.S. Navy vessels is limited. Arleigh Burke-class Aegis destroyers, such as USS Jason Dunham (DDG-109), feature layered defensive systems including the ESSM (Evolved Sea Sparrow Missile) and Phalanx CIWS, capable of countering both medium- and close-range missile threats. Furthermore, naval commanders can often neutralize Peykaaps before they approach launch range, reducing the strategic risk.

Venezuela’s Su-30MK2V Flanker fighters provide a more credible anti-ship capability. Each of these aircraft, part of a batch of 24 delivered by Russia in 2008, can carry Kh-31A (AS-17 Krypton) missiles with a maximum range of 100 kilometers, exceeding the Nasr-1’s reach. These aircraft-based missiles can engage targets far beyond the coastal strip and are likely Venezuela’s primary anti-access weapon in a maritime conflict scenario.

Along the Caribbean littoral, Venezuela’s coastal defense systems integrate radar surveillance, missile batteries, and artillery, creating a defensive belt to safeguard major ports, urban centers, and strategic maritime approaches. The combination of shore-based defenses and mobile missile platforms complicates adversary operations within Venezuelan coastal waters.

Nevertheless, operational limitations remain. Many legacy systems, including Israeli-made Barak-1 missiles and Bofors AAA units, are reportedly non-operational. The air-defense network itself suffers from gaps in coverage, maintenance shortfalls, and limited integration of UAVs and other surveillance assets. These deficiencies, combined with potential internal political fractures and the presence of anti-government elements within the military, reduce the overall effectiveness of Venezuela’s maritime deterrent.

In summary, while Venezuela possesses a layered maritime and anti-ship defense capability with modern missiles and aircraft, its overall readiness is constrained by operational and institutional challenges. Modern U.S. or regional naval forces would likely encounter resistance but could mitigate threats through layered defensive systems and preemptive engagement strategies. Venezuela’s true strength lies in its ability to combine aircraft, Peykaaps, and coastal batteries in coordinated strikes—a capability limited by logistics, training, and internal vulnerabilities.

The US Assessment: Venezuela as a Low-Hanging Fruit

According to strongly critical external assessments such as those from the Miami Strategic Intelligence Institute, Venezuela’s air defense network is in a state of severe degradation. More than 60 percent of the radar fleet is reportedly non-operational, creating wide gaps that drug-trafficking networks exploit with relative impunity. Over half of the JYL-1 and JY-11B radar systems are reportedly out of service due to a lack of spare parts and sustained technical neglect. Combat aviation faces similar constraints, with operational readiness limited across the fleet.

Critics further argue that organized crime has penetrated the Venezuelan military command structure. The so-called Cartel of the Suns is alleged to exert influence over radar operations, manipulating shutdown schedules to facilitate illicit flights. The 2019 crash of aircraft YV3217, which killed the wife and daughter of a senior commander, together with multiple defections from the Air Force, has been cited as evidence of internal fractures, factionalism, and the deep politicization of the air defense apparatus.

External assistance, while present, has been selective and politically oriented. China has reduced direct technical support, supplying spare parts only through civilian intermediaries. Since 2020, Iran has assumed a more active role, providing Mohajer-6 drones, electronic warfare specialists, and surveillance systems. However, these contributions have been confined mainly to reinforcing the defensive perimeter around Caracas and La Orchila, without addressing the broader collapse of national coverage.

The persistence of clandestine flights further illustrates the erosion of institutional control. Aircraft departing Venezuela continue to land on unauthorized runways in Mexico, often with the tacit collaboration or tolerance of local authorities. This has created a Venezuela–Mexico air corridor that functions as a primary cocaine transit route to North America, according to reporting from the DEA, the U.S. State Department, and UNODC.

On the technological front, Venezuela is reported to operate both the Mohajer-2 (locally dubbed Harpy) and Mohajer-6 unmanned systems. These platforms are deployed primarily in Caracas, Maracaibo, and La Orchila. While the Mohajer-6 is technically capable of strike missions, its operational use has been restricted to reconnaissance and internal propaganda purposes. The fleet suffers from low availability, and crucially, it is not integrated into Venezuela’s national air-defense network, leaving regions such as Zulia and Apure exposed.

Taken together, this critical perspective depicts Venezuela’s air-defense apparatus as compromised by political capture, corruption, and criminal penetration. Foreign assistance has reinforced regime enclaves but has not restored nationwide capability. As a result, the country remains vulnerable to airspace violations, narcotics trafficking flows, and potential external military pressure. Analysts from this school of thought assign the system a capability rating of 2/10, concluding that only a comprehensive institutional overhaul and a fundamental strategic redesign could reorient national defense away from regime survival and toward the protection of sovereignty.

The U.S. Naval Strike Capacity

The United States Navy’s long-range land-attack capability rests heavily on the Tomahawk cruise missile, a weapon system that has been in continuous service since the 1980s. While the missile has evolved through multiple blocks, the broader question is no longer about capability per se but about capacity. With a total stockpile in the range of 3,500 serviceable missiles, the United States faces a situation in which its vertical launch system (VLS) tubes may outnumber available weapons. In effect, the Navy is approaching a paradox in which it risks running out of missiles before it runs out of launchers.

Tomahawk Block II was retired years ago, and Block III rounds have been phased out more recently. The active inventory is now composed of Block IV Tactical Tomahawks, produced from 2004 onward, and Block V missiles, which are upgraded Block IVs that have passed through recertification and modernization lines since 2021. Between FY 2004 and FY 2020, the Department of Defense purchased approximately 3,882 Block IV Tomahawks. Combat expenditure since 2004, primarily in campaigns after 2011, accounts for just under 400 launches. Factoring in foreign orders—Raytheon reported delivering its 4,000th missile in 2017, some of which went to the United Kingdom—the likely U.S. stockpile today stands at approximately 3,500 Block IV and Block V rounds. This figure is large but finite, revealing structural constraints that have operational consequences.

The U.S. Navy’s current battle force fields 73 Arleigh Burke–class guided-missile destroyers, a shrinking number of Ticonderoga-class cruisers (13 as of the mid-2020s, with accelerated retirements underway), four converted Ohio-class guided-missile submarines (SSGNs), and nearly 50 nuclear attack submarines, many of which carry VLS tubes. In theory, a cruiser or destroyer could dedicate dozens of its cells to Tomahawks. Submarines bring additional capacity: the four SSGNs alone can carry up to 154 missiles each, while VLS-equipped attack submarines can field about a dozen apiece. If every ship in the fleet were loaded with its maximum Tomahawk allocation, the requirement would approach 4,000 rounds—roughly 500 more than the current estimated stockpile.

In practice, of course, not every ship is operational at the same time, not every VLS cell is allocated to land-attack, and submarines must carry a mixed load of torpedoes, strike weapons, and other payloads. Yet the arithmetic highlights the underlying issue: the Navy’s inventory has been sized not to support multiple reloads or campaign-level attrition, but to fill a single set of magazines across the fleet. That policy decision dates back to the post–Cold War drawdown in the 1990s, when at-sea VLS reloading capability was eliminated. The rationale then was straightforward: if the Navy only procured enough missiles to fill the fleet once, there was no value in sustaining the costly infrastructure to reload ships in theater.

This approach may have been sustainable in an era of permissive operations and limited regional strikes. Still, it is increasingly problematic in a world where high-end conflict against peer adversaries is contemplated. A modern campaign in the Western Pacific, for instance, would consume Tomahawks at a rate far higher than historical averages. A salvo of a few hundred missiles in the opening days of conflict is entirely plausible. Without the ability to regenerate magazines forward, ships would either be forced to cycle back to distant depots or continue operating with depleted strike capacity. The result is that the strike power of the surface fleet could decline sharply within the first weeks of combat.

The production base further complicates the picture. Since 2021, most new “production” has consisted of Block IV recertification into Block V, extending service life and adding new capabilities such as maritime strike. While there have been contracts for new Block V all-up rounds, the scale is modest, designed to sustain a warm production line rather than surge capacity. This raises legitimate questions about whether the United States retains the ability to rapidly manufacture large numbers of new Tomahawks in the event of war. The answer is technically yes—Raytheon has preserved the line—but the industrial base is sized for incremental modernization, not emergency replenishment.

Taken together, these factors suggest a vulnerability in U.S. naval strike doctrine. The fleet possesses more launchers than it can fully arm with Tomahawks, lacks the infrastructure to reload VLS tubes at sea, and relies on a limited production base that is optimized for upgrades rather than expansion. While the missile remains reliable, flexible, and combat-proven, it represents a finite resource that could be quickly drawn down in a major war.

For policymakers and defense planners, the implications are clear. First, magazine depth must be considered a critical element of deterrence. A strike capacity that cannot be regenerated risks encouraging adversaries to assume the United States will exhaust its precision long-range fires early in a campaign. Second, future force planning must address the retirement of the Ohio SSGNs, which provide significant Tomahawk capacity but are scheduled to leave service this decade. The Virginia Block V submarines will restore some of this firepower through the Virginia Payload Module, but at a smaller scale. Third, the Navy must decide whether to reinvest in some form of forward or at-sea reloading capability. Without it, the mismatch between launcher availability and missile supply will persist.

Ultimately, the Tomahawk case underscores a broader truth about modern naval warfare: striking power is not only a function of technology but also of inventory management, logistics, and industrial base resilience. The United States Navy remains unmatched in its ability to project power from the sea; however, its dependence on a finite stock of Tomahawks raises difficult questions about how sustainable that advantage will be in a prolonged, high-intensity conflict.

For all its tough talk, Washington faces limits. Its stockpile of cruise missiles is smaller than many assume, meaning any strike campaign would have to be carefully managed. At-sea resupply has long been abandoned, so the U.S. can’t simply reload warships in the middle of an operation.

US Navy “Combat Load” against Venezuela

Based on publicly available information about U.S. Navy ships and their typical Tomahawk loadouts, we can produce a reasoned estimate of cruise missile availability for the naval forces reportedly positioned near Venezuela. This assessment is entirely open-source and analytical, avoiding operational instructions.

According to the latest reports, the U.S. naval presence in the Caribbean likely comprises a combination of surface combatants, amphibious ships, and possibly one or more fast-attack submarines. Key platforms capable of launching Tomahawks include Arleigh Burke-class destroyers, Ticonderoga-class cruisers, and Ohio-class SSGNs.

Surface Combatants: Arleigh Burke-class destroyers have 90 to 96 vertical launch system (VLS) cells. Ticonderoga-class cruisers have 122 to 128 cells. These cells are multipurpose, but for strike-focused missions, a conservative open-source estimate is that roughly 20–40 Tomahawks per ship would be assigned, reflecting realistic peacetime loadouts and operational allocations for air defense. If the current deployment includes, for example, five destroyers and two cruisers, this yields approximately:

• Destroyers: 5 ships × 30 missiles average = 150 Tomahawks

• Cruisers: 2 ships × 35 missiles average = 70 Tomahawks

Total from surface combatants: roughly 220 Tomahawks.

Submarines: At present, open-source reporting confirms the presence of at least one fast-attack submarine (SSN) in the operational area. While the deployment of an Ohio-class SSGN remains speculative, the possibility cannot be entirely discounted. Given the platform’s inherent clandestine capabilities and extended operational reach, it is plausible that an SSGN could be positioned within striking distance somewhere in the Atlantic, providing the U.S. Navy with a significant covert precision-strike option. The uncertainty surrounding such deployments underscores the strategic ambiguity often leveraged in naval operations to enhance deterrence and operational flexibility, particularly in regions of heightened geopolitical tension.

Ohio-class SSGNs are equipped with 154 missile tubes each and can carry Tomahawks in all tubes. If one SSGN is in the area, it could theoretically carry up to 154 Tomahawks. Fast-attack submarines (SSNs) carry fewer missiles, typically 12–28, but for a conservative estimate, one SSN could contribute approximately 20 missiles.

Total from submarines: 154 + 20 = 174 Tomahawks.

Aggregate Estimate: Combining surface combatants and submarines provides an upper-bound estimate of approximately 394 Tomahawks in the current naval group. This number assumes ships are predominantly loaded for strike missions, which is rarely the case in practice, as VLS cells are shared with air defense and other missile types.

It is also important to note that amphibious ships, while part of the overall naval group, are generally not Tomahawk platforms, so their contribution to this estimate is negligible. Additionally, operational doctrine favors retaining some missiles in reserve to account for attrition or extended operations, so the effective number available for immediate strike would likely be lower.

The Attack

Speculation regarding potential U.S. military options against Venezuela frequently includes references to the use of long-range precision strike capabilities in combination with internal destabilization efforts. In public discourse, some analysts have suggested that Washington could employ a significant portion of its naval-based cruise missile arsenal to target key Venezuelan military installations, including air bases hosting fighter aircraft such as F-16s and Su-30s, as well as advanced air defense systems such as the S-300VM. These scenarios are often linked to the notion of “hybrid” or indirect approaches, drawing comparisons to tactics associated with Israeli operations in the Middle East. In such accounts, non-state actors, opposition elements, or proxy forces, including Colombian groups with drone warfare experience, are theorized as potential instruments for weakening Venezuela’s integrated air-defense network.

Corruption and entrenched anti-government elements create fertile ground for engagement by any first-strike adversary. Within Venezuela, the fifth column, comprising politically disloyal officers, defectors, and actors embedded in military and security institutions, represents a latent vulnerability that cannot be dismissed. Such internal fractures exacerbate the operational deficiencies of the air-defense network, as critical systems, including radars and fighter units, may be sabotaged, neglected, or exploited to facilitate illicit operations. This internal vulnerability exacerbates the regime’s reliance on politically loyal enclaves around Caracas and La Orchila, further limiting adequate coverage nationwide. Consequently, Venezuela’s air-defense posture is not solely defined by technological assets or foreign-supplied systems. Still, it is critically undermined by human factors, making the country particularly susceptible to both internal subversion and external coercion.

Within this line of speculation, drone technology is frequently emphasized as a tool for both sabotage and targeted strikes against political or military leadership, to induce strategic paralysis or leadership decapitation. The subsequent use of conventional cruise missiles is then described as a follow-on mechanism to neutralize launchers, aircraft on the ground, ammunition storage, and even Venezuela’s small but symbolically significant naval capabilities. While these discussions remain hypothetical, they illustrate how narratives of regime change and external intervention often blend conventional strike concepts with irregular and covert elements.

Such scenarios, however, must be evaluated with caution. From a legal and political standpoint, they raise serious concerns under international law regarding sovereignty and the prohibition on the use of force. Strategically, they also carry the risk of rapid escalation, miscalculation, and unintended regional destabilization. For these reasons, although frequently discussed in open-source commentary, the practical feasibility and legitimacy of such approaches remain highly contested.

Conclusion

In reality, the issue has never been about democracy, human rights, or national prosperity for the Venezuelan people. The true motivation lies in controlling the country’s natural resources and projecting strategic influence in the region. Claims of combating drug smuggling or protecting U.S. citizens serve primarily as pretexts, particularly because narratives like a weapons-of-mass-destruction hoax would be ineffective against Venezuela. In fact, a substantial volume of narcotics enters the United States through military bases worldwide, with many covert operations and black-ops initiatives embedded within these frameworks. The primary objective is therefore to remove Maduro and his government by any means necessary and to gain complete control over Venezuela’s vast natural wealth, with little regard for the welfare of its population.

However, any U.S. attempt to force regime change carries significant risks. It could trigger widespread chaos across Latin America, including massive refugee flows, destabilization by armed groups, and potential intervention by great-power rivals. While Venezuela could be militarily overpowered, the political, humanitarian, and regional costs of such an operation would likely be profound and potentially catastrophic.

After Venezuela, the next likely target for external pressure or regime-change efforts would be Cuba, given its longstanding defiance of U.S. policy, strategic alignment with rival powers, and symbolic role as the last bastion of resistance in the Caribbean.

If you like the article (and many more articles regarding military subjects will come), you can buy me a coffee:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/mmihajloviW

[i] Edited by Piquet (EditPiquet@gmail.com)

The latest wunderwaffe is back on the table. And the moment it's mentioned, the warmongering clowns from both sides of the Atlantic begin to salivate. In their minds, the Kerch Bridge is already a smoking ruin, and the victorious Ukrainian army is triumphantly reclaiming all lost territory. It’s the same song and dance, just with a new chorus: “Game-changer,” now on its 15th (or greater) edition.

This so-called miracle weapon—soon to be seen on Ukrainian airfields and likely staged at NATO bases within striking distance of high-value targets—is the AGM-158 in all its variants. But what exactly is this famous missile? And more importantly, is there any real chance that it can alter the course of the war and pull Ukraine back from the brink of collapse?

What is the AGM-158?

The Joint Air-to-Surface Standoff Missile (JASSM) program began production in 1998, with the U.S. Air Force declaring it operational in 2003. The extended-range variant, JASSM-ER, underwent its first test in 2006, and the initial batch was delivered to the U.S. Air Force in March 2014.

Designed for low observability, the JASSM features a stealthy airframe optimized to penetrate advanced air defense systems, including the Russian S-300 family and its successors. The missile's reduced radar cross-section enhances its survivability in contested environments. A major upgrade to the JASSM-ER includes a Weapon Data Link (WDL), enabling in-flight course correction, particularly important for engaging mobile or maritime targets.

In 2018, the Air Force launched development of the AGM-158D, also known as JASSM-XR (Extreme Range), with a projected range of approximately 1,800 km. Deliveries of this variant started in 2024.

The baseline JASSM has a range of 370 kilometers, while the JASSM-ER extends that to approximately 1,000 kilometers. Although visually identical, the two differ internally; the ER variant contains a larger fuel tank and a more efficient turbofan engine, compared to the standard model’s turbojet. The missile’s aerodynamic profile features blended, angular lines reminiscent of the Taurus KEPD 350, though it is more fluid and rounded in appearance. For compact storage, the fins and wings are folded during carriage and deployed after launch using small explosive actuators.

Both JASSM variants are 4.26 meters in length, 0.55 meters in diameter, and 0.45 meters in height, with a wingspan of 2.7 meters when deployed. Their launch weight is approximately 1,023 kilograms. Each missile carries a WDU-42/B warhead weighing around 432 kilograms, designed for penetration and blast-fragmentation effects.

Navigation is handled by an Inertial Navigation System (INS) and GPS, similar to that used in the JDAM and JSOW systems. For terminal guidance, an imaging infrared (IR) seeker is employed. Each missile can store up to eight pre-programmed three-dimensional target models, and the U.S. Air Force rates the system to achieve a Circular Error Probable (CEP) of just three meters.

The JASSM is compatible with a wide range of platforms, including the B-1B Lancer, B-2 Spirit, B-52H Stratofortress, F-15E Strike Eagle, F-16C/D Fighting Falcon, and F/A-18C/D Hornet. The F-35 Joint Strike Fighter may be cleared to carry the missile in the future, but only externally, as the JASSM is too large for the aircraft’s internal weapons bays. Among all platforms, the B-1B is the most heavily armed, capable of carrying up to 24 JASSMs. The B-2 Spirit can carry 16, while the B-52H is equipped to carry 12 on internal rotary launchers. Fighter aircraft typically carry one JASSM under each wing, although in May 2021, an F-15E was configured with five missiles—an unusual loadout that demonstrates operational flexibility.

To date, the U.S. Air Force has acquired several thousand JASSM missiles and plans to purchase up to 12,000 in total. Several allied nations, including Australia, Finland, the Netherlands, and Poland, have either deployed or are in the process of integrating the JASSM into their own arsenals.

In June 2017, the United States deployed more than 10 JASSMs to South Korea for use by U.S. Air Force F-16s stationed in the region. The missile saw its first combat use in April 2018, when 19 JASSM-A variants were launched against Syria’s Barzah Research and Development Center, a facility believed to be involved in chemical weapons production. A year later, in October 2019, JASSM-ER variants were reportedly used in the targeted strike against ISIS leader Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi's hideout, as part of a broader decapitation operation.

Which one for Zelya?

If the plan to equip Ukrainian forces with JASSM missiles materializes, it is highly likely that they will receive the basic variant. However, there is also a possibility that a limited number of extended-range versions could be delivered as well.

The next issue concerns the delivery platform. The current Ukrainian inventory includes around two dozen F-16A aircraft, which were not originally designed to carry the JASSM munition. Beyond that, several of these jets have already been destroyed on the ground, and at least three have been lost during combat missions. Given the age and condition of these aircraft, their availability is highly questionable. In practical terms, Ukraine would likely struggle to field more than two operational pairs at any given time.

The F-16A, being an early Block version, was not originally designed to integrate modern long-range stand-off munitions like the JASSM. However, it can be modified — though doing so is non-trivial and requires a combination of hardware, software, and certification upgrades. These old ones can be utilized in the AD role against drones and cruise missiles.

If there’s a will to upgrade them, the simplified steps required to modify the F-16A to carry the AGM-158 JASSM include:

1. Avionics Upgrade

• Upgrade to a modern Mission Computer (MMC): Early F-16A models utilize outdated computers that are incompatible with JASSM software.

• Must install a version of the Operational Flight Program (OFP) that supports JASSM targeting and guidance, usually found in Block 50/52 and later.

2. MIL-STD-1760 Interface

• The AGM-158 requires a MIL-STD-1760 digital data bus, which allows communication between the missile and the aircraft's avionics.

• Older F-16A pylons (especially on Stations 3 and 7) must be upgraded or replaced with smart pylons that support this interface.

3. Weapon Integration Software

• Aircraft software must include JASSM integration packages, enabling target upload, mission planning, mid-course updates (if equipped with WDL), and missile release protocols.

• May involve firmware updates to:

  • Stores Management System (SMS)

  • Fire Control Computer (FCC)

  • Data Transfer Equipment

4. Pylon and Rack Compatibility

• Install MAU-12C/A ejector racks or equivalent on Stations 3 and 7.

• Must support physical and electrical loads (JASSM weighs over 1,000 kg).

• Include umbilical harnesses for power and data transfer.

5. Flight Certification & Structural Assessment

• A structural evaluation must confirm that the airframe and pylon mount points can accommodate the weight and aerodynamic loads of the JASSM.

• Flight testing (or wind tunnel data from similar models) is required to validate safe carriage and release.

6. Mission Planning System

• Integration with modern Mission Planning Systems (like JMPS) to allow ground crews and pilots to upload JASSM strike data, terrain profiles, and terminal guidance parameters.

Practical Examples

Poland successfully upgraded its F-16C/D Block 52+ fleet to carry JASSM and later JASSM-ER. F-16AM (MLU) aircraft in NATO service (e.g., Netherlands, Norway) have undergone Mid-Life Upgrades that include many of these modifications, making them JASSM-compatible. However, a basic F-16A Block 10/15 without MLU lacks nearly all required systems.

The bottom line is that upgrading Ukrainian F-16A aircraft to carry AGM-158 JASSM would be technically possible only if they undergo:

• Extensive avionics modernization

• MIL-STD-1760 integration

• Pylon/hardware adaptation

• Certification and validation

This is time-consuming and expensive, likely costing millions per airframe. In contrast, it would be faster and more cost-effective for the Western partners to supply newer surplus F-16C Block 40/50 aircraft already capable of carrying JASSM, if political and logistical conditions allow. The financing is not an issue for now, though, especially because the Western taxpayer “sheep” are easy to manipulate at all levels.

The AGM-158 is mounted on the F-16's inboard wing pylons, known as Station 3 (left wing) and Station 7 (right wing). These stations are structurally reinforced and equipped with MIL-STD-1760 smart interfaces to support heavy, precision-guided munitions like the JASSM. Each F-16 typically carries one missile per wing, with a maximum loadout of two JASSMs. These inboard wing hardpoints typically house GBU-24/GBU-31 JDAMs or 600-gallon external fuel tanks. They have a weight capacity of ~3,500 lbs each and are designed for extended-range missions or heavy-strike operations.

Each wing pylon is equipped with a bomb ejector rack and a weapon Remote Interface Unit (RIU). Multiple combinations of ejector racks, launchers, and weapons can be mounted using the MAU-12C/A bomb ejector rack.

Umbilical harnesses are used to interface with various racks or launchers, enabling proper electrical and signal connections. The wing armament pylons attach directly to hardpoints on the lower wing surface, with provisions for making discrete electrical connections at the interface. These electrical connections provide the necessary wiring interface between the aircraft and the pylon-mounted electrical components.

There were two previous articles on BMA addressing the F-16; readers are encouraged to consult those for background information for this discussion.

At this stage, the F-16 faces several critical limitations that significantly constrain its operational utility in Ukraine. The most immediate challenge is runway dependency: the F-16 requires long, smooth, and well-maintained runways, but most Ukrainian airbases are highly vulnerable to Russian missile and drone strikes. This makes dispersal and safe forward basing exceptionally difficult.

Maintenance is another major hurdle. The F-16 is a high-tech platform with complex logistical demands, particularly so for older airframes, which require more frequent servicing and parts support, often from Western sources. Ukraine’s infrastructure is not yet fully prepared to support this level of sustainment without external help.

Perhaps the most urgent issue is pilot availability. Training competent F-16 pilots takes considerable time, and Ukraine currently faces a severe shortage. While training programs are underway, the country will initially operate with a very limited pool of combat-ready crews. To bridge this gap, there is growing speculation—and some credible indicators—that Western “volunteers,” likely including former NATO pilots, are already flying or assisting operations inside Ukraine.

Weapons integration presents another layer of complexity. Advanced munitions such as JASSM, JSOW, and SDB require proper software blocks, secure data links, and platform certification before they can be used effectively. These upgrades are not universally available on older F-16 variants and may require further modification or clearance from the U.S. and allies.

Lastly, survivability remains a major concern. In the absence of airborne early warning systems (AWACS) and robust electronic warfare (EW) support, Ukrainian F-16s will be exposed to Russian long-range SAMs such as the S-300 and S-400. Given Russia’s demonstrated ability to down aircraft deep behind the front lines, survivability without an integrated support architecture is questionable at best—and potentially disastrous at worst.

The stealthiness

The AGM-158 JASSM was specifically designed with stealth characteristics to penetrate dense, modern air defense systems such as the Russian S-300 and S-400 families. While its exact Radar Cross Section (RCS) remains classified (as far as the general public is concerned), a detailed technical analysis of its design features, public disclosures, and comparative industry estimates can help us narrow down its RCS range and explain the engineering behind its low observability. Notably, Russians and Chinese are likely aware of the exact RCS and all other details.

Estimated RCS is 0.001 m² to 0.01 m² (−30 to −20 dBsm), depending on angle and frequency band. This is comparable to a small bird or steel ball in terms of radar signature. The goal of the designers regarding the stealth characteristics was to make the missile detectable only at very short ranges—if at all—by modern radar systems operating in the X- and S-band. This simply means for the modern target acquisition and fire control radars. The following is a still from the frontal RCS simulation:1

Comparison between medium frontal RCS for different cruise missiles:2

Novel internal material treatments incorporate Radar Absorbent Material (RAM) coatings across the airframe. It likely uses a resin-based composite skin, which attenuates radar energy at high frequencies.

Engine integration is the next step, which was achieved by using a shielded engine intake and an S-shaped duct, thereby minimizing radar reflection into the inlet. The exhaust is blended with the body to reduce IR and radar return from the nozzle area.

According to available data (which can be considered very optimistic from the perspective of the “equipment sales guy” mentality), in the X-band (where the majority of fire-control radars operate), JASSM is declared highly stealthy, with an RCS of less than −30 dBsm. For the S-band (search radars), its observability is very low, but more detectable than in X-band.

For the VHF/UHF (long-wave radars or metric radars) JASSM is more susceptible, but due to its small size and low profile, still difficult to track. In the L-band (early warning radars), JASSM exhibits moderate detectability at longer ranges, but still has a lower RCS compared to conventional missiles.

The logical question following the discussion on stealthiness is, how is this applicable to the detection and engagement range capabilities of the Russian S-300/S-400 systems?

According to information circulating in Western media, the S-300PMU2 system's detection range, with its X-band tracking radar, is 20–30 km. S-400 (Nebo-M or 92N6E radar) possibly 40–50 km under optimal conditions, but engagement range would be far less due to late detection.

These are conservative estimates; stealth shaping and terrain masking likely result in even shorter detection ranges in combat.

Discussions around the JASSM often focus by default on its potential to penetrate long-range air defense systems like the S-300 or S-400, but this overlooks a critical point: these strategic systems are not primarily designed to intercept cruise missiles. In reality, the systems tasked with countering threats like the JASSM are the Buk-M2/M3, S-350 Vityaz, and similar medium-range surface-to-air missile systems. However, their detection and interception capabilities often receive far less attention in public discourse.

Moreover, long-range SAM systems are typically protected by short-range point defense systems such as Tor-M2 and Pantsir-S1/S2. These systems are specifically optimized to detect and engage low-flying, low-RCS targets, such as cruise missiles, and feature extremely short reaction times, often just a few seconds from detection to launch. This layered air defense structure, with medium-range interceptors providing area coverage and short-range systems guarding critical assets, poses the most immediate threat to cruise missile strikes, not the S-400 batteries themselves.

JASMM against Russian Air Defense

While public discourse often pits JASSM against S-400, the real interceptors are Buk, S-350, Tor, and Pantsir, and these systems pose a far more immediate threat to cruise missiles in a battlefield like Ukraine.

In very plain language and without diving into the integrated air defense system, in Russian doctrine, S-400, Buk-M3, S-350, Tor, and Pantsir work in layered integration:

• S-400 handles long-range airspace control

• S-350/Buk provides mid-range intercepts

• Tor and Pantsir form the last line of defense, optimized for low-flying threats

When JASSMs or Storm Shadows are employed, their primary vulnerability does not stem from long-range systems like the S-400, but rather from Tor and Pantsir batteries positioned near the target area, as well as Buk-M2/M3 and S-350 systems along the flight path. For this reason, successful cruise missile missions require meticulous terrain masking, carefully planned waypoints to avoid air defense clusters, and ideally, pre-emptive SEAD (Suppression of Enemy Air Defenses) missions or decoy deployments (such as the ADM-160 MALD) to confuse or saturate mid- and short-range air defense systems.

At present, Ukrainian forces lack the capacity to fully execute this level of coordinated strike planning and support. As a result, the key enabler of any cruise missile operation involving JASSM—or similar advanced munitions—is direct U.S. involvement, and to some extent, NATO support. Without these external assets, Ukraine's ability to conduct effective long-range precision strikes is extremely limited. In practical terms, this means that any JASSM strike conducted from Ukrainian territory will almost certainly have U.S. targeting support, planning assistance, and operational oversight behind it. Simply put: Ukrainians may launch the missile, but American expertise will guide the strike.

To improve the odds of intercepting incoming threats, Russian air defense forces employ a layered defense strategy that integrates long-range systems, such as the S-400 and S-300, mid-range platforms like the Buk-M3, and close-range defenses, including the Pantsir-S1 and Tor-M2. These systems are supported by electronic warfare (EW) assets to establish overlapping fields of fire and comprehensive coverage.

Early engagement is a key component, with interceptors like the MiG-31 and Su-35 tasked with neutralizing launch platforms (such as Ukrainian F-16s or Su-24s) before they can fire cruise missiles. Denying the enemy a safe standoff launch distance is central to this approach.

Deception and mobility are also vital. Air defense batteries frequently relocate to avoid detection, using camouflage and minimizing radar emissions ("shoot-and-scoot" tactics) to reduce their exposure to pre-planned JASSM strikes. Radars are often turned off between engagements to avoid being geolocated and targeted.

Finally, electronic warfare plays a significant role. Russian forces use GPS jamming and spoofing to interfere with the missile’s navigation, particularly in scenarios where JASSMs rely on mid-course satellite updates or GPS-based targeting. By disrupting these signals, the guidance accuracy of the missile can be significantly reduced, increasing the chances of interception or mission failure.

How AGM-158 compares with the other NATO “pride”

Stealthniness

The JASSM stands out as the stealthiest of the group. Its angular design, low-profile blended body, RAM coatings, and shielded engine intake give it an extremely low radar cross-section (estimated ~0.001–0.01 m²). It was specifically designed to evade advanced radar systems, such as the S-300 and S-400.

By comparison, Storm Shadow and SCALP have semi-stealthy designs, focusing on low-altitude terrain masking rather than radar deflection. Their larger vertical profiles and intake positions make them more detectable by radar.

The Taurus has slightly better RCS management than Storm Shadow due to subtle shaping and a low IR signature, but it still cannot match JASSM’s stealth in high-frequency radar bands.

Warhead and Target Effects

The JASSM carries a ~450 kg single-stage penetrating and blast-fragmentation warhead (WDU-42/B). It's optimized for general hardened targets, command bunkers, and infrastructure, but is less advanced in multi-stage penetration.

Storm Shadow and SCALP use the BROACH warhead, a two-stage design. It features a precursor charge to create a penetration path, followed by a main warhead that detonates inside the structure. This makes them more effective at destroying buried or hardened targets, such as airfield shelters or command posts.

The Taurus takes it a step further with the MEPHISTO warhead, engineered for deep earth and bunker penetration. It offers precise aim-point control, variable fuzing, and low collateral damage options, making it the most specialized for hardened targets.

Guidance and Navigation

All four missiles utilize INS/GPS guidance with terrain-following capabilities, but differ in the sophistication of their terminal guidance.

• JASSM: Uses Imaging Infrared (IIR) terminal seeker combined with 3D target models stored in memory. Capable of autonomous terminal discrimination, but the target must be pre-loaded.

• Storm Shadow / SCALP: Also use IIR seekers, but are somewhat less flexible—generally pre-programmed and lack detailed post-launch re-targeting capability.

• Taurus: Adds DSMAC-like image recognition, real-time terrain comparison, and automated aim point selection, making it the most autonomous and precise during the terminal phase.

Additionally, future variants of JASSM-ER and JASSM-XR will feature data links (WDL) for in-flight retargeting, which Taurus and Storm Shadow lack.

Range and Performance

• JASSM-A: ~370 km

• JASSM-ER: ~925–1,000 km

• JASSM-XR (in development): ~1,800 km

• Storm Shadow/SCALP: ~250–560 km (range limited by export control regulations)

• Taurus KEPD 350: ~500–600 km

JASSM clearly outclasses the others in range, especially with the ER and XR versions. This gives the U.S. and any JASSM-ER user the ability to launch from well outside the engagement zones of enemy SAMs.

Platform Compatibility

• JASSM: Designed for U.S. and NATO aircraft – F-15E, F-16, B-1B, B-52, B-2, and future F-35 (external). Integration requires MIL-STD-1760 and digital avionics.

• Storm Shadow / SCALP: Integrated on Eurofighter Typhoon, Tornado, Rafale, Mirage 2000, and now Ukrainian Su-24s (adapted).

• Taurus: Compatible with Eurofighter, Tornado, F/A-18, and potentially modifiable for Su-24 or F-16 (if software/hardware allows).

JASSM has broader strategic integration, but Storm Shadow has seen more combat use in Ukraine, due to earlier delivery and easier retrofit to legacy airframes like the Su-24.

Operational Use and Export

• JASSM: Deployed by the U.S., Australia, Poland, Finland, and others. Used in Syria (2018) against chemical weapons facilities. Tight export control limits its distribution.

• Storm Shadow/SCALP: Used by The UK, France, Italy, Saudi Arabia, and Ukraine. Combat-proven in Libya, Iraq, Syria, Yemen, and Ukraine.

• Taurus: Used by Germany, South Korea, and Spain, with discussions ongoing for export to Ukraine. Not yet used in combat.

The new Wunderwaffe in action

Even the mere mention of a potential strike on the Kerch Bridge is enough to set off a wave of excitement among militarist commentators and sensationalist media figures, who elevate the concept to near-mythical proportions. In this context, the JASSM often assumes a status bordering on sacred, treated as if it were more consequential than the Pontiff himself. However, despite the hype, the JASSM is not a silver bullet capable of decisively destroying the bridge’s core structural components. While it could potentially inflict localized damage—perhaps enough to temporarily halt civilian traffic—the likelihood of delivering a strategic knockout is low without a sustained, well-coordinated strike campaign.

Moreover, the strategic relevance of the bridge has declined over time. In the early stages of the war, Russia heavily relied on the Kerch Bridge for military logistics to Crimea. But since then, alternative land routes have been firmly established, reducing Russia’s dependency on the bridge for moving military assets. Therefore, even a successful hit would likely result in more of a morale-boosting spectacle than a militarily decisive event.

Now let’s break down the possible scenario of the attack:

The Kerch Bridge remains one of the most challenging targets in the region—a long, heavily reinforced structure with hardened concrete spans and deep foundations. It is not only structurally resilient but also protected by a dense, multi-layered air defense network, including S-400, Tor-M2, and Pantsir-S1 systems operated by highly experienced Russian crews.

If NATO planners—or, by extension, Ukraine with NATO support—were to consider such a strike, the first step would be determining the launch point. If the AGM-158B JASSM-ER is used, it could theoretically be launched from central or even western Ukraine, offering a standoff range of up to 800 kilometers. That distance makes it attractive not just for Ukrainian F-16s, but also for NATO aircraft operating from Romania or Poland, while remaining well outside the reach of Russian SAMs.

On paper, this looks feasible. The JASSM’s stealth shaping, low-altitude flight profile, and GPS/IR-guided terminal phase give it a solid chance of slipping through portions of Russian radar coverage. However, several operational and technical limitations remain. The missile’s 450 kg warhead, while potent, is not guaranteed to destroy major structural elements of the bridge unless the impact occurs at a precisely calculated weak point—and even then, multiple simultaneous hits would likely be required to achieve a functional kill.

This means the only realistic path to success involves saturation tactics: a combination of decoys (such as ADM-160 MALD) and UAVs launched to overwhelm and confuse enemy air defenses, thereby clearing a path for the cruise missiles. Assuming a Ukrainian F-16 formation of six aircraft, each armed with two JASSMs, they could launch 12 missiles in total. That kind of firepower might suffice against a mid-tier target, such as a Syrian command center—but this is Kerch, one of the most heavily defended sites in Russian-controlled territory.

Realistically, out of 12 JASSMs launched, perhaps one might reach the vicinity of the bridge, and even then, it's unlikely to cause significant structural damage beyond superficial blast effects. The strike would serve more as symbolism or propaganda, rather than a militarily decisive blow.

What follows is predictable: once the launch site is identified—either inside Ukraine or in a NATO state—retaliatory strikes using Russian drones and cruise missiles would almost certainly follow, targeting airbases and logistics nodes. Given Ukraine’s limited F-16 inventory, degraded airfields, and vulnerability to long-range precision strikes, such an operation would likely be one-off in nature. At most, Ukraine might be able to scramble one or two pairs of fighters for such a mission, making the cost-to-benefit ratio extremely unfavorable.

The second scenario involves neutralizing an S-400 battery.

The AGM-158 JASSM can theoretically disable key components of the S-400 air defense system, particularly if used in mass strikes or as part of a broader SEAD (Suppression of Enemy Air Defenses) campaign. While the missile is not intended to defeat the entire S-400 system on its own, it can surgically destroy vulnerable elements—especially radars and command posts—effectively blinding or paralyzing the battery to enable follow-on strikes.

The first and most critical step is to identify the exact location of the S-400 unit. This task would fall to NATO ELINT (Electronic Intelligence) assets. JASSM requires precise GPS coordinates, and ideally, a 3D model of the target radar to optimize the missile’s infrared terminal guidance. Targeting data would be gathered using satellite imagery (IMINT), signals intelligence (SIGINT), and drone reconnaissance.

Mission planning would likely take place at a NATO command facility—possibly in Wiesbaden, Germany. Flight routes would be carefully designed to avoid known radar coverage arcs and SAM deployments such as Buk-M3, S-350, or Tor-M2. The missiles would follow low-altitude terrain-masking paths, pre-programmed into their flight computers. Each missile also stores target imagery and 3D infrared profiles, allowing for accurate terminal homing via its IIR (Imaging Infrared) seeker.

Ukrainian F-16s would launch the JASSMs from well beyond the S-400’s engagement range. The timing of the launch would be carefully coordinated, likely synchronized with other offensive actions, such as drone swarms or decoy waves, to catch the battery off guard. The optimal moment might be shortly after the S-400 has already engaged incoming targets and is in a brief post-engagement reset period, where radar and fire-control systems are recalibrating.

Once airborne, JASSMs fly autonomously at altitudes of 30–50 meters, using a combination of inertial navigation and GPS to follow a predefined flight path. If equipped with a data link (JASSM-ER upgrade), the missiles can receive mid-course updates, allowing route or target corrections in real-time—an essential feature when engaging mobile or camouflaged air defense systems.

As the missiles approach the defended zone, they must penetrate multi-layered air defenses. In this phase, decoys and drones are critical—they will absorb the bulk of the defensive fire, allowing some of the real missiles to slip through. The chances of JASSM survival significantly increase in a massed, coordinated strike.

In the final 5–7 km, the IIR seeker activates, scanning for and matching infrared signatures of high-value targets—such as the 92N6E fire-control radar, command posts, or transporter erector launchers (TELs)—against stored models. The missile then performs terminal maneuvers to ensure precision impact.

Upon detonation, the JASSM’s ~450 kg WDU-42/B blast-fragmentation warhead delivers a lethal effect. A direct hit on the 92N6E radar or the 54K6E command post would almost certainly render the battery non-functional. Even the destruction of a single radar or launcher would disrupt the engagement process, blind the system, and force a temporary operational shutdown.

Conclusion

The AGM-158 JASSM is a sophisticated cruise missile with significant capabilities; however, its impact in the Ukrainian theater will be limited by several operational, technical, and strategic constraints.

JASSM offers key advantages, including a long standoff range of up to 925 kilometers for the extended-range version, and a stealthy, low-observable design that enables it to fly at low altitudes while evading radar detection. It is guided by a combination of GPS, inertial navigation, and a terminal imaging infrared seeker, making it ideal for precision strikes on fixed targets such as air defense radars, command centers, logistics depots, or infrastructure nodes.

However, there are significant limitations to how Ukraine can effectively utilize JASSM. First and foremost, Ukrainian aircraft, especially the F-16A/B variants, do not natively support JASSM. Software integration, aircraft modification, and extensive pilot training are necessary before deployment, and even then, assistance from NATO partners would be essential. Moreover, Ukraine lacks the independent surveillance and targeting infrastructure to support long-range precision strikes. JASSM requires high-quality intelligence, including GPS coordinates and radar or thermal signatures of the targets, which Ukraine cannot generate on its own. NATO assets such as satellites, ELINT/SIGINT platforms, and ISR drones would be crucial in planning any effective strike.

Even if Ukraine gains limited operational use of JASSM, Russian air defenses remain a formidable obstacle. Their layered systems, including S-400, Buk-M3, Pantsir-S1, and Tor-M2, are designed to protect high-value areas and are supported by electronic warfare assets capable of jamming or spoofing GPS signals. These systems are not invulnerable, but they are optimized to intercept cruise missiles, such as JASSM, particularly when used in small numbers or without decoys and SEAD (Suppression of Enemy Air Defenses) support.

Strategically, JASSM will not change the course of the war. It cannot destroy mobile units, shift front lines, or decisively degrade Russian operational capabilities. At best, it will allow Ukraine to strike some high-value, fixed targets behind the front lines—possibly disrupting logistics or temporarily blinding air defenses. Its main value will be in psychological and symbolic operations, such as damaging the Kerch Bridge or hitting command posts deep in Russian-occupied territory. But even such attacks would require complex coordination, flawless planning, and substantial NATO support. Any high-profile success would likely trigger swift retaliation, especially if Russia believes NATO territory or personnel were involved.

In summary, JASSM adds an important long-range strike option to Ukraine’s arsenal, but its overall impact will be limited. It won’t be a game-changer unless it is paired with real-time intelligence, proper aircraft integration, a stockpile of missiles, and a coordinated strategy involving drones, decoys, and electronic warfare. For now, it is a tactical tool with symbolic weight—but not a weapon that will fundamentally alter the war’s trajectory.

[i] Edited by Piquet (EditPiquet@gmail.com)

References:

1. M. Mihajlovic, Defending Putin's Empire: Russia's Air Defence System, Pen & Sword

2. M. Mihajlovic, Rockets and Missiles Over Ukraine: The Changing Face of Battle, Frontline Books

3. https://threadreaderapp.com/thread/1668593667987345408.html

4. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GXJaqJ3Dej8

5. Cui, Z.-D., Zhang, Z.-L., Yuan, L., Zhan, Z.-X., Design of Underground Structures

6. Е. Г. Борисов, В. И. Евдокимов, Высокоточное оружие и борьба с ним

7. Miropolsky, F.P., Sarkisian, R.S., Vishniakov, O.L. et al. (1996). Aircraft Warheads and Their Investigation. Moscow: Zhukovsky Academy etc.)

8. https://www.mbda-deutschland.de/wp-content/uploads/2018/03/Taurus-e-18.pdf

9. https://taurus-systems.de/wp-content/uploads/2016/10/TAURUS_KEPD_350E-EN-Aug2014.pdf

10. https://topwar.ru/218616-taurus-kepd-350-javno-nedoocenennyj-protivnik.html

11. https://dzen.ru/a/ZHMMlqkq6DA5qmDx

12. https://vk.com/wall-76992071_238015

13. Сухаревський О. І., Довідник характеристик розсіювання повітряних та наземних радіолокаційних об’єктів

If you like the article (and many more articles regarding military subjects will come), you can buy me a coffee:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/mmihajloviW

As circumstances unfolded, the B-2A drew its first blood in the bombing of a small European country, a display meant to project the power and "invincibility" of U.S. and NATO military might.

More than a quarter of a century later, even the most committed supporters of NATO's ongoing interventions have come to recognize that the entire operation was built on a foundation of misinformation, lies that became routine among the political class. The military, in turn, was left with little choice but to follow orders and carry out the will of those in power.

As a result, powerful bombers were unleashed in a punitive campaign against an opponent whose air defense systems were significantly behind the times. For war hawks and admirers of the military might that “Uncle Sam” could project, it was a perfect opportunity to showcase that power.

This article will explore what happened, and why, even before the end of hostilities, these mighty aircraft abruptly ceased operations, despite the fact that numerous targets remained and the skies over Yugoslavia were reportedly just as dangerous as they were on the first day of the aggression, as noted by some Western media outlets.

“First Blood”

For those interested in the development of the B-2 and its combat engagement related to Iran, these topics have already been addressed in this Substack. According to U.S. sources, which were widely cited:

…” Exactly 51 pilots flew the B-2 in combat. Most of them flew one mission; a handful flew two, and one pilot flew three times. The B-2 mission-capable rate during [Operation] Allied Force, not counting low-observable maintenance, averaged about 75 percent. When such maintenance is included, the figure is about 60 percent. However, not a single B-2 mission started late, and only one airplane had to abort its mission for an in-flight mechanical problem. Each B-2 could—and, in some cases, did—attack 16 targets in 16 different locations per mission. Pilots reported they were apparently never detected…”

It all sounds quite remarkable, almost like a used car salesman trying to convince you to pay far more than what the vehicle is actually worth.

What readers will rarely hear from Western sources is the other side of the story. Few mention that, in Yugoslavia, there were individuals who had studied the B-2 and F-117 extensively, using not only all publicly available information but also other, more sensitive sources. In addition to open-source intelligence, classified materials and detailed calculations were reportedly analyzed. The science of electromagnetic scattering was not a discipline exclusive to Lockheed Martin or Northrop; expertise existed elsewhere as well.

The claim that the B-2 was never detected is, quite simply, a myth. In fact, it can be viewed as a typical example of the kind of overconfidence and misinformation often found within both the civilian and military branches of the U.S. government, to put it politely.

Handmade calculations, based on equations and manually drawn diagrams, were just one of the sources used in the analysis. The bottom line, according to those findings, was that the B-2 had a larger radar cross-section (RCS) than the F-117. This assessment was later supported by several other sources, including acknowledgments from U.S. defense-related publications.

Estimates performed by the author in 1998 and early 1999 indicated that the B-2 could be detected by metric-band radar across all flight regimes at distances exceeding 25 km, as well as being locked on by fire control radars operating in centimetric bands. At the time, Serbia’s air defense systems were generations behind the best that the U.S. and NATO had to offer. There were no illusions about achieving air superiority or inflicting significant damage. The overriding priority was survival—preserving both personnel and equipment wherever possible.

The B-2 bombers flew all the way from Whiteman Air Force Base, delivered their ordnance over Yugoslavia, and returned home, a pattern repeated throughout April and early May of 1999. However, on May 21, all combat operations involving the B-2 abruptly ceased.

For anyone reviewing the news from that period, it's clear that many viable targets still remained across Yugoslavia, targets that, by all standards, would have justified the deployment of such a sophisticated platform. One U.S. general even remarked that the skies over Yugoslavia were as dangerous on the last day of the war as they were on the first.

So, the question remains: why did the B-2s suddenly withdraw from combat? What changed on or around May 20 that led to their early exit, despite the continued strategic value they could have offered?

“Something big was in the air” - through the eyes of the air defense combat shift

Somewhere in the plains of northwestern Serbia, a missile battalion lay in wait at its combat position. By that time, the battalion had already recorded two confirmed kills and one unconfirmed, the latter believed to be a hit on an F-117 that managed to limp back to its base in Germany. This 3rd Battalion was a seasoned combat unit, one of the few remaining in active air defense. Despite enduring multiple attacks, it had not lost a single member or piece of equipment, except for one induction field phone that was accidentally left behind at a former combat position.

Lieutenant Colonel Aničić and his crew began their afternoon shift at 16:00 on 19 May 1999. That same day, Russian envoy Viktor Chernomyrdin was visiting Belgrade for high-level talks with President Slobodan Milošević regarding the ongoing conflict. All signs pointed to a relatively quiet night.

At around 22:30, Chernomyrdin departed. Shortly after, at 22:50, the radar crew was placed on Readiness Level 2, indicating a lowered state of alert and no immediate threat. Due to the heat inside the UNK (missile guidance station) cabin, the crew removed their flak jackets and helmets.

Still, it struck the shift commander as odd. Just the day before, the unit had operated at Readiness Level 1, the highest state of alert, in anticipation of a NATO strike. The sudden downgrade in alert level, despite no meaningful change in threat assessment, seemed suspicious.

In the days leading up to the event, the battalion faced considerable difficulty preparing combat positions due to heavy rain and deep mud. That night, the unit remained on Readiness Level 2—an unusual state given the overall threat level. The combat crew took advantage of the lower alert to rest briefly.

Suddenly, at 23:00, the brigade command post issued a sharp order: shift to Readiness Level 1. The crew immediately sprang into action, taking up their positions and preparing for engagement. Lieutenant Colonel Aničić ordered the P-18 surveillance radar activated.

Moments later, the VIKO display lit up—multiple targets appeared at just 10 to 12 kilometers, alarmingly close. A large-scale attack was clearly underway.

However, the fire control radar was not yet fully operational. The aging technology required a warm-up period before becoming combat-ready. Due to this delay, the battalion was unable to engage the first wave of targets, known as the "first ring." The second ring, located approximately 25 kilometers out, became the focus.

As the targets appeared on screen, the radar operators and commanders quickly recognized familiar patterns. By this point in the war, they had developed an instinct for interpreting radar signatures: they knew what a real aircraft looked like, how a towed decoy behaved, and how a radar decoy registered on the radar. But this time, a new kind of blip appeared, triangular, unlike anything they had seen before.

The operators carefully studied the radar returns. By this stage in the war, they had become adept at identifying patterns, knowing how a real aircraft appeared on screen, how a towed decoy looked, and how a radar decoy behaved. But now, a new and unfamiliar blip appeared. It was triangular…

Let’s now step back and explain those famous blips on the radar screen:

One thing was certain: the crew were veterans, highly skilled at distinguishing what was in the air simply by analyzing the size and parameters of radar blips. It is important to note that the P-18 VIKO radar used an analog display, similar to an oscilloscope screen, where raw radar data appeared directly. In other words, the size of a blip generally corresponded to the physical size of the target.

The venerable P-18 radar, as used by the Yugoslav forces, lacked advanced filtering capabilities, meaning operators relied heavily on their experience and intuition to interpret the signals accurately.

One of the few significant drawbacks of the interim and later generations of surface-to-air missile systems compared to second-generation systems—such as the S-75 (SA-2), S-125 (SA-3), 2K11 (SA-4), and 2K12 (SA-6)—is the loss of raw, real-time radar data display. These newer systems prioritize processed radar intelligence (RADINT) information over the direct, unfiltered radar data traditionally shown to operators.

Simply put, operators of systems like Osa-AKM (SA-8), Tor (SA-15), Buk (SA-11), and S-300 (SA-10) cannot distinguish aircraft types, such as an An-2, An-26, or An-124, by simply looking at the radar indicator, as operators of the P-18M (surveillance and tracking) or SNR-125 (fire control and missile guidance) system could.

The SNR-125 radar display presents raw data, where the size of the marker corresponds to the size of the reflected signal. For example, a smaller marker might represent an An-2, while a larger marker indicates a bigger aircraft.

For example:

• An S-sized marker would represent a small aircraft, such as the An-2.

• An L-sized marker would correspond to a medium-sized plane such as the An-24.

• An XXL-sized marker would indicate a very large aircraft, like the An-224.

That said, while the crew cannot identify the exact type of aircraft based solely on the size of the radar blip, they can still obtain reasonably reliable information to differentiate between fighters, bombers, or decoys. However, this task is not as simple as it may sound, since other factors, such as speed, altitude, and flight trajectory, must also be taken into account.

In short, an operator with six or more years of hands-on experience with the system can, with a certain degree of probability, make an informed assessment about what type of object is in the air, but not with 100% certainty.

Identification becomes significantly more difficult when stealth aircraft are airborne, especially when considering the various forms of electronic jamming that may be deployed against the radar system.

To the radar operators, any blip on the screen represents a potential target until proven otherwise.

Inside the UNK cabin, tension spiked.

“Azimuth 180… Search!” Aničić commanded, initiating a radar sweep along the 180-degree axis.

A new target appeared—17 to 18 kilometers away, closing fast.

“High voltage – Up!”

“Antenna!”

The target was now at 15–16 km.

Within seconds, missile guidance officer Janković located the target. With subtle adjustments to the azimuth and elevation wheels, the blip was locked in the crosshairs. The target began maneuvering—it had likely detected the radar emission and realized it was being painted by fire control radar.

A single click pushed forward toward the radar station, passing control to the manual tracking operators, who acquired the target on their F1 and F2 scopes.

Seconds later, Aničić gave the order:
“Destroy target with two missiles! Three-point guidance!”

A loud hiss, the ignition of booster motors—then launch. The first missile roared off the rail. Five seconds later, the second missile followed.

Janković called out parameters: altitude, speed… The first missile, Tanja, had acquired the target. The second, Ivana, also locked on. Guidance was nominal on both channels. The distance to the target: 14 km. It was textbook execution.

Suddenly, the F1 tracking operator shouted:
“What the f—?! What the f— is this?!”

The blip on the screen was enormous—it took up nearly the entire display.

The first missile exploded near the target, followed by the second at 13 km, azimuth 180 degrees. A bright explosion lit the sky.

“Target hit—both missiles!” the operator confirmed.

“Take the high down! Equivalent!” Aničić ordered.

Meanwhile, the next shift, waiting outside the UNK, knocked on the van door. It was just after midnight. With a full engagement in progress, no shift change could occur—a dangerous scenario, as a single well-placed bomb or missile could wipe out both combat crews.

From outside, the second shift witnessed the entire engagement visually: the missile launches and the distant explosion. Nearby Praga anti-aircraft guns also fired their heat-seeking missiles that were mounted on the improvised launcher.

News from brigade HQ followed: helicopters were in the air. Everyone knew—something big had happened. Otherwise, helicopters wouldn’t be airborne in the middle of an engagement.

Aircraft swarmed from three directions. After the launch, the UNK reported a malfunction on the missile ramp. The blast from the high-elevation launch had created a crater beneath the platform, shifting the 13-ton launcher 20 cm from its original position. One of the missiles had even fallen off its beam.

The enemy must have sensed the situation. A major air strike followed from azimuth 205, but the crew couldn’t launch in that direction—it was a forbidden zone, where a blast would damage their own equipment. Despite being one of the strongest attacks since the war began, one launcher was out of action.

From azimuths 300–330 and 150–180, more aircraft approached. Aničić ordered his deputy to activate the radar imitator. Short, precise commands followed. The imitator began emitting brief bursts, quickly switching from target to target. Each radar pulse lasted no more than five seconds before switching to a new source.

To the enemy aircraft, it was unclear whether they were being painted by a real fire control radar or an imitator. While the Low Blow radar illuminated one group, the imitator covered the second, which approached from the forbidden cone. The third group remained uncovered—there simply weren’t enough imitators to go around.

Meanwhile, brigade headquarters called to ask about the engagement and how the radar image appeared on the Low Blow system. They had seen everything on the P-18 surveillance radar, but wanted insight from the fire control radar’s perspective. Aničić delegated the response to the missile guidance officer.

Aničić ordered another search sweep and detected two aircraft at 14–18 km, moving out of range. From the rear, another plane approached, entering the engagement zone at 15 km. There was no time to pursue departing targets—the approaching one became the new focus.

As soon as it was illuminated, the screen flooded with electronic clutter—jamming. The missile guidance officer reported,
“Target lost… can’t see it anymore.”

“Turn off fire control radar,” Aničić ordered.

For the remainder of the night, only radar imitators were used. Though aircraft remained in the air, none entered the engagement envelope.

It was clear—something significant had happened. The sheer number of aircraft and repeated attempts to destroy the site were unlike anything seen before.

At 01:30, the sky finally cleared, and the combat shift ended its long, tense watch.

Aftermath

In the Serbian press, it was reported that a B-2 had been hit and crashed in the area of Spacvan forest, on the Croatian side, about 15 km from the Serbian border.

The fact is, there is no material evidence that anything crashed. No publicly available photos, videos, or audio recordings. However, there are strong indications that something did happen that night.

We believe that an aerial target was engaged that night, and two hits were observed.

From the air defense crew’s perspective, several key facts are clear:

• The crew had no way of identifying the exact type of aircraft in the air. To them, it was simply one of many targets acquired on radar.

• Can a B-2 be detected and tracked by SNR-125 fire control radar and P-18 tracking radar? As previously mentioned, the answer is yes. Although the B-2 is a large aircraft, its RCS is reportedly less than 0.1 m²—but still within the detection threshold of the SNR-125 system.

• The F1 radar screen displayed a very large and very unusual radar blip. Could it have been a real aircraft? Absolutely. Could it have been a towed decoy? Possibly, but not likely, given the signature characteristics and behavior.

  

  Explanation of the drawing:

Left: Shift Commander – VIKO P-18 Radar Screen
The concentric circles represent distance markers at 10, 20, …50 km intervals. The next switch position extends the range to 90 km. The radar antenna base rotates at 6 RPM. Smaller blips indicate fighter aircraft, while the larger and irregular blip likely represents a larger aircraft, possibly a stealth platform.

Mid-Left: Battery Commander – UK-31
The arrow on the left displays the distance to the interception point. The right-hand arrow indicates the nearest destruction zone, while the arrow at the bottom shows the farthest limit of the destruction zone.

Mid-Right: Missile Guidance Officers’ Screens UK-32
The left rectangular screen displays two missiles with guidance strobes. The missile guidance officer tracks the target by distance. Note that the diagram is not to scale; the tracking base is 42.5 km. As the target closes to within 2 km of the interception point, the left indicator switches to an exact scale, providing clear visibility of the missile entering the destruction zone. The resulting explosion produces a debris "cloud" that reflects electromagnetic energy.

Far Right: Manual Tracking Operators – F1 and F2 UK-33
There are two identical screens with tracking positioned at 90 degrees to each other. These operators observe the target with high precision. On this occasion, the target appeared “stretched across” the screen—something that had never been seen before.

SNR-125

• The target’s altitude, speed, and flight path matched a typical evasive maneuver after a bombing mission, consistent with the behavior of an aircraft attempting to exit hostile airspace after being hit.

  

  

• Immediately following the engagement, visual observers noted position lights in the sky near the Croatian border. This is highly unusual - military aircraft operating near enemy airspace rarely use position lights, suggesting a potential emergency situation.

• A crash was recorded at 00:23 on the Croatian side of the border. Captain Ilija Vučković, operating a P-12 surveillance radar under the 250th Air Defense Brigade, was stationed near the village of Karlovčić. He tracked the aerial target until it disappeared from radar at a range of approximately 105 km, in the 275–280° azimuth. Notably, the Špačva Forest, located in Croatia, is roughly 100 km from Karlovčić.

• Immediately after the engagement, the battalion experienced unusually fierce and coordinated attacks from multiple directions—a first for the unit, which had never faced such a synchronized aerial assault before.

• Helicopter activity was reported shortly after the event, flying near but not crossing into Serbian airspace. Their presence was considered unusual and significant.

• Throughout the war, radio amateurs proved to be a valuable source of information for the Serbian side. On this occasion, they reported an unusually loud noise, described as a grinding sound, followed by an explosion and a large fire on the Croatian side. These reports coincided with the radar observations and added further credibility to claims that something significant had crashed.

MORE INFORMATION CAN BE FOUND IN:

After the war

In the year after the aggression, one strange thing happened:

The annual US Air Force inventory report didn’t list Spirit of Missouri (AV-12, 88-0329). US officials claimed that it was a typo or an editorial mistake. The name of the B-2 Spirit of Missouri appeared in a later edition. Well, things like this can happen; the timing was just a bit off…

In 2005, A US delegation visited the combat crew that downed an F-117A. During the conversation, Warrant Officer Matić, F2 operator (then retired), showed them photos of the B-2 victory mark on the UNK door. Matić asked them about the downing of the B-2. The US representative was caught and simply couldn’t look Matic in the eye and answer his question. He changed the subject.

After the aggression, the US sent several questions to the Serbian military asking for very specific details about detection, in particular, B-21:

Question 1: What was the importance of the field visual observers for F-117 and B-2?

Answer: It is important to point out, as regards visual observation, that the aircraft mostly flew during the night, and the B-2 at very high altitudes, meaning that it was not visible to visual observers.

Question 2: The B-2 uses a very different refuelling system from the F-117. Have you been able to distinguish between F-117 and B-2 aerial refuelling?

Answer: Not provided in this document. The answer may well be in other documents. An aerial tanker has a large RCS; it may create a single blip on surveillance radar and the aircraft refuelling may be ‘masked’ by it. Modern radars can tell the difference.

Question 3: Where were you able to recognize and track the B-2 during flyovers of your territory?

Answer: According to our information, the B-2 took off from the USA and was escorted by fighters during air refuelling. Typical altitude was 40,000 feet, at which the aircraft can avoid our air defence. How we detected and ‘listened’ to it?… Like every other aircraft, the aircraft must report to his own command when he enters into the combat zone. Every airplane had a specific call sign, extraordinarily powerful radio, and only flew at night. The aircraft reported to flight command in Brindizi. Typically it approached from the north and fulfilled its missions north of the 45th parallel in the Belgrade zone as per defined targets such as the Chinese embassy, Interior ministry building, Defence ministry buildings, etc. We registered more than ten missions.

Question 4: Can you track the B-2, and can you identify it?

Answer: We can track targets up to 18,000 m altitude and we can identify the B-2. As previously mentioned, there is much speculation, but little direct evidence from the US side, that a B-2 was lost. But for the sake of clarity, there is evidence that something was hit that night… something really big. What was it, and did it crash or not? These are subjects for further research.

“Many ???”

It is well known that secret military projects—especially those involving stealth technology—are concealed from public view through multiple layers of classification, cover stories, and compartmentalized development. This deliberate obfuscation serves to protect national security, maintain technological advantage, and delay or prevent adversarial countermeasures. Two of the most iconic examples are the F-117 and the B-2.

The F-117 Nighthawk, the world’s first operational stealth aircraft, was developed under a highly classified program known as “Have Blue.” Its existence was not officially acknowledged by the U.S. government until 1988, five years after it had entered service. The aircraft was tested in remote desert locations like Groom Lake (commonly referred to as Area 51) under intense secrecy. To mislead observers, the F-117 was often flown only at night, leading to its “Nighthawk” nickname, and disinformation was spread to mask its capabilities and even its shape.

Similarly, the B-2 Spirit stealth bomber was developed under a black project with a veil of deception. Originally pitched during the Cold War as an "Advanced Technology Bomber" (ATB), its design, role, and budget details were hidden behind cover programs. Even after its first flight in 1989, much of its performance and internal systems remained classified for decades. The aircraft’s shape and radar-absorbing features were the result of breakthroughs in low-observable technology, which the U.S. Air Force sought to keep secret as long as possible. Budget lines for the B-2 were buried in other programs, and public discussions were often deliberately vague or misleading.

In both cases, what the public saw was only the surface of vast, complex efforts involving defense contractors, specialized government agencies, and secluded test facilities. This multilayered secrecy wasn't just for protection—it was a strategic decision to delay adversary responses, secure technological superiority, and manage political and budgetary scrutiny.

Accidents during testing and operational deployment of stealth aircraft are of utmost importance, not only due to the high cost of these platforms but also because they reveal critical information about design vulnerabilities, environmental limitations, and system reliability. For example, in 2008, a B-2 Spirit crashed shortly after takeoff from Andersen Air Force Base in Guam—the first and only loss of a B-2 to date. The cause was traced to moisture in the aircraft’s sensors, which fed incorrect data to the flight control system, resulting in an unrecoverable stall. This incident underscored how even small environmental variables can have catastrophic consequences in highly complex systems. Similarly, during the early years of the F-117 Nighthawk program, several crashes occurred, including a notable one in 1986 in California that killed the pilot. These mishaps, though shrouded in secrecy at the time, were critical in refining flight control software, pilot training protocols, and maintenance procedures. In both cases, the secrecy surrounding these aircraft often delayed public awareness of the risks and technical challenges involved. However, internally, such incidents were invaluable learning opportunities that contributed to the eventual maturity and combat readiness of stealth platforms.

What is particularly interesting about the earlier crashes is the extraordinary level of attention the USAF paid to securing and cleaning the crash sites. These locations were tightly cordoned off and heavily guarded to prevent any unauthorized access. In some cases, deception measures were employed to obscure the true nature of the wreckage and mislead observers or potential adversaries. This rigorous control over the crash sites ensured that sensitive technology did not fall into the wrong hands and helped maintain operational secrecy. Such measures reflect the strategic importance of protecting stealth technology even in the aftermath of accidents.

The crash site on the Croatian side of the border was heavily guarded from 20 May 1999 for over two months. The author had the opportunity to speak with Marijan F., a Slovenian gentleman now in his late seventies, who lives in Canada and was present in the area at the time. According to him, Croatian police strictly enforced checkpoints (even though he had a journalist ID) and did not allow anyone to pass. All roads leading toward the Spačvan Forest were blocked entirely from civilian use. Additionally, he observed SFOR vehicles and the US military trucks moving frequently throughout the area, indicating a significant and sustained security presence.

Another interesting fact is that the USAF “recycles” aircraft serial or registration numbers. For example, the numbers and marks of the airplanes are recycled. For example, F-16CG from the 555th squadron, which was downed over Yugoslavia, appeared on another F-16.

Everything is done for a reason…

Conspiracies or not?

Let’s lay out the facts that detail the early development of the B-2 Spirit strategic bomber program. The original production contract called for:

• Two ground test articles – labeled AT-0998 and AT-0999 (also referred to as “Iron Birds”).

• One prototype for flight testing – designated AV-1 (AT-1000)

• Five pre-production aircraft – designated AV-2 to AV-6

• Fifteen production aircraft - designated AV-7 to AV-21

Additionally, the contract included upgrading the five pre-series (AV-2 to AV-6) aircraft to full operational status, bringing the total to 23 aircraft, of which two were ground-based test units not intended for flight.

One of the people who participated in the tests on AT-0998 and 0999 wrote the following:

“I worked the B-2 program and remember those two aircraft very well. I worked on both. The two Stress Test birds were numbered 998 and 999. At one point, they both had hundreds of steel load cell pads glued to the outer skin. These pads were instrumented to measure stress loads during fatigue testing. After testing, they were both stored outside Bldg 435 at the Northrop facility at Plant 42 in Palmdale. They were both taken apart, and 999 and all of its parts were trucked to the Air Force Museum, where it was stored for a few years and then statically restored by the restoration crew at the Museum. They did a great job."

I talked with one of the Stress Engineers who was involved in the final fatigue test that broke the wing on 998. It broke just outboard of the radar bay at the X131 wing mate area. He said that in his estimation, the plane probably could have made it home if it had broken in flight. He said it was the strongest aircraft he had ever tested. “That thing is built like a tank. It's a great design.”

According to the “Aerial Vehicles Production List”2 webpage, up to four airframes were created either pre-production or during the early life of the airframe to test features. AV-0999 has now been on display at the USAF museum in Dayton, OH. AT 0998 is in Palmdale. Two other frames, if they can be designated as such, were used and later adapted for weapons-load trainers and testing.

When a reader carefully examines the numbers from different sources, some confusion arises, particularly regarding which airframe was actually used for testing and which one is now on display in a museum.

If the B-2 was indeed downed, it is highly unlikely that the United States would acknowledge such an event, at least not for a very long time, if ever. This is especially true if the opposing side or neutral parties lack physical evidence, such as identifiable wreckage or sensitive components, as seen with the F-117. Without undeniable proof in the public domain, official denial remains a powerful and convenient tool. The other common response is no response at all, a calculated silence, or simply feigned ignorance. In such cases, the absence of acknowledgment serves as a strategic choice, allowing officials to avoid giving the story legitimacy or traction. This tactic, often employed in sensitive military or intelligence matters, leaves just enough ambiguity to stall public scrutiny while maintaining plausible deniability.

Acknowledging the loss of such an advanced and costly strategic asset could have significant military, political, and psychological repercussions, both domestically and internationally.

The Pentagon typically does not publicly announce the loss of any aircraft during a combat mission unless the opposing side possesses material evidence, such as wreckage, captured pilots, or verifiable imagery. If an aircraft is damaged and subsequently crashes during or after the mission within "friendly territory," the official explanation is often attributed to mechanical failure or human error. In a broader sense, if a missile strike caused the damage that led to the crash, then technically, the Pentagon’s claim of mechanical failure may still hold some truth, albeit a carefully framed one. This selective framing enables plausible deniability while maintaining an internal narrative aligned with operational security goals.

A new theory

In his book The Fall of the Night Falcon, Colonel Golubović3, a former intelligence officer and member of the 3rd Battalion, presents a provocative theory that challenges the official narrative.

23 February 2008: A B-2 reportedly crashed during takeoff at Andersen Air Force Base in Guam. The official statement identified the downed aircraft as AF 89-0127, the Spirit of Kansas. Four months later, footage was released showing two B-2s taking off. The second aircraft appeared to lift off abnormally before crashing onto a grassy area near the runway. Both pilots ejected safely. This video was captured by airport surveillance cameras.

However, another video, reportedly recorded on 7 January 2011, adds an additional layer of intrigue. Filmed by base personnel close to the runway, it shows yet another angle of the failed B-2 takeoff. What’s unusual is the location from which the individuals were recording: a position where personnel are typically not permitted during takeoff procedures (at the end of the next clip, what is clearly a passenger car is visible in the crowd). This raises critical questions: Were they placed there deliberately to film the incident? Could the publication of this footage have been designed to reinforce a myth—or to support a carefully curated cover story?

It’s important to note that Andersen AFB is not a permanent base for B-2A operations. The bombers are deployed there temporarily, often as part of power-projection missions in the Pacific. This leads to a key question: How did the Spirit of Kansas come to crash there? Was it truly that aircraft—or was it a symbolic "ghost," crafted to fill a gap in public perception?

According to the official investigation, moisture condensation affected onboard sensors, causing inaccurate altitude data during takeoff. While technically plausible, this explanation only fuels further suspicion: Was this accident narrative constructed to cover a loss that actually occurred much earlier, perhaps on 20 May 1999, over Serbia?

Could it be that the real Spirit of Kansas was already gone—and had been for nine years?

Just four weeks before the crash at Andersen AFB, the base received a high-profile female visit: 15 Denver Broncos cheerleaders. Two were photographed inside the cockpit of a B-2A, specifically, the Spirit of Kansas, tail number 0127. The photo, published on Andersen AFB’s official website under the title “B-2 Pilots Support Different Kind of DV Tour,” clearly displays “0127” on the co-pilot’s seat.

This raised eyebrows. Publicly photographing a B-2A is usually governed by strict regulations, particularly regarding visible angles and markings. Yet in this case, the aircraft’s full tail number was clearly shown. Why was this permitted?

Was it intentional? Was there a need to publicly confirm that this particular aircraft, 89-0127, was active, mission-ready, and fully operational? Could it have been part of a deliberate public relations effort, intended to reaffirm the aircraft’s status just weeks before its staged “loss”?

These are the questions raised by Colonel Golubović in his book, where he suggests that this photo itself may serve as evidence—a visual anchor for a constructed legend.

According to official records, General Electric delivered more F118-GE-100 engines than were required for the production of the 21 flying B-2 bombers. This detail opens the door to a provocative possibility suggested by Golubović: that one of these surplus engines may have been installed in AT-0999, the ground test article never intended to fly.

If AT-0999 were equipped with engines and had its systems upgraded just enough, it could conceivably taxi under its own power, build up takeoff speed, and simulate a brief liftoff, ending in a controlled crash, as planned.

Golubović elaborates with a provocative claim:

“If the transport of AT-1000—AT-0999’s ‘little brother’—to the museum in 2003 worked (and it did), then we can consider that the dress rehearsal was successful. The ‘older brother’ (AT-0999) could be transferred to Guam using the same principle (since it couldn’t fly). It could be reassembled, brought to a basic operational level—just enough for it to ‘jump.’”

The implication is stunning: What if the aircraft that crashed at Andersen AFB was not the real Spirit of Kansas, but AT-0999 in disguise—used to stage a loss, reinforce a false narrative, and bury the truth about a bomber that had actually been downed years earlier over Serbia?

The next question is, could AT-0999 fly? This leads to the central technical question: Can an aircraft built exclusively for ground testing ever fly?

Logically, the answer is no. AT-0999 was never designed or certified for flight. But, as Golubović points out, “everything is possible—if it goes according to plan.”

In The Fall of the Night Falcon, he poses a string of challenging questions:

• Did the crash of a B-2 on 23 February 2008 lift a burden from the hearts of those who had been carrying it since May 20, 1999?

• Was this crash the perfect alibi?

• Could it be that two B-2A aircraft were lost, one being the real Spirit of Kansas in 1999, and the other AT-0999 in 2008, used as its stand-in?

• Was this all part of a carefully orchestrated operation to mask the downing of the world’s most expensive bomber during the war in Yugoslavia?

U.S. Air Force protocol requires wreckage from a crash to be secured and placed in a hangar for investigation. In this case, no such photos have surfaced. Only the publicly released video of the crash exists. That absence of documentation is itself suspicious.

Again, it may not seem logical, but perhaps that’s precisely the point.

Another pressing question arises: Could a B-2 loss be hidden for nine years? How could the loss of such a high-profile aircraft be hidden from over 5,000 personnel stationed at Whiteman Air Force Base?

Golubović argues that it’s entirely plausible, because of the nature of the B-2 itself. As a nuclear-capable strategic platform, access to the aircraft is highly compartmentalized. Only a small, cleared group of personnel has access to the relevant hangars, missions, and data. In such an environment, concealing the loss of a single aircraft from the broader base population is technically achievable.

As compelling as this narrative is, it must be approached with caution. Golubović himself acknowledges:

“The absence of physical wreckage or a commemorative display—such as a tail fin or wing section, which is typical in confirmed shoot-downs—prevents us from claiming with 100% certainty that a B-2A was downed by the 3rd Battalion on 20 May 1999.

Just as the downings of the F-117A and F-16CG were thoroughly documented, any assertion about a lost B-2 must be subjected to the same level of discipline, verification, and factual scrutiny.

Yet with time, new evidence—or the release of classified information—may allow future historians to either confirm or disprove this highly provocative theory. and invites deeper scrutiny of events surrounding the air war over Yugoslavia.

If AT-0999 is currently on display at the National Museum of the U.S. Air Force in Dayton, as mentioned previously, and AT-0998 is preserved in Palmdale, then the question naturally arises: Was there an AT-0997, and could that be the mysterious airframe Colonel Golubović was referring to in his theory instead of AT-0999? The official B-2 airframe numbering system typically follows the AV (Air Vehicle) sequence, from AV-1 to AV-21. However, the “AT-099x” identifiers are less publicly documented and may refer to internal tracking codes, alternate tail numbers, or classified variants.

If AT-0997 existed—and was not acknowledged in any formal source—it’s conceivable that it represented either a prototype, a re-designated test vehicle, or even an airframe involved in a covert mishap, such as the one Colonel Golubović hints at. This opens the door to the possibility of a "phantom airframe", one whose existence and fate are obscured through paperwork, reassignments, or physical stand-ins.

Conclusion

This event carries a strong aura of conspiracy, largely because public opinion is deeply divided: some categorically dismiss any claim related to the downing of a B-2, while others are absolutely convinced that it did in fact happen.

As previously mentioned, there is no material evidence—no publicly available piece of wreckage—that definitively proves a B-2 was downed. However, there are several compelling facts and circumstantial indicators that strongly point in that direction. These clues, while not conclusive on their own, form a mosaic that cannot be easily dismissed.

Let us now elaborate on the theory of a “make-up”, a scenario in which a serious incident may have occurred but was deliberately masked through misdirection, information control, and strategic silence.

Lying is arguably more prevalent in politics and military affairs than in any other field. To simplify it, the number of lies told by politicians—when measured against the number of people employed in politics—might be the highest "per capita." Military officials are not far behind. As for intelligence operatives, deception is practically part of the job description. Presidents lie, chiefs of staff lie, members of Congress and the Senate lie—so why would the Air Force be exempt? In this world, lying is often viewed not as a moral failing, but as a tool—one that is routinely employed to achieve specific strategic or political objectives.

In many cases, the pursuit of a strategic or political objective is seen as sufficient justification for the methods employed, even if those methods involve deception or manipulation.

The theory that one of the “make-up” airframes was allegedly modified to perform only a few seconds of flight—just long enough to crash—and then be later designated as the Spirit of Kansas, serving as a cover for a B-2 lost over Serbia, is the kind of idea that sparks intense imagination. While elements of the theory are viable and raise legitimate questions, every new detail seems to open up even more uncertainties. One thing, however, is certain: the truth exists somewhere—buried beneath layers of secrecy, disinformation, and strategic silence. And whatever that truth may be, there will always be those who defend the official version and those who challenge it.

[i] Edited by Piquet (EditPiquet@gmail.com)

References

1. M. Mihajlović & Dj. Aničić: Shooting Down the Stealth Fighter

2. Bill Scot: Inside the Stealth Bomber: The B-2 Story

3. Thomas Whittington: B-2A Spirit Units in Combat

4. Steve Pace: B-2 Spirit: The Most Capable War Machine on the Planet

5. Jay Miller: B-2 Stealth Bomber

6. S. Golubović: The Fall of the Night Falcon

If you like the article (and many more articles regarding military subjects will come) you can buy me a coffee:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/mmihajloviW

Several excellent books discuss the development of the B-2 in detail; therefore, this article will not revisit that history. Instead, key titles will be listed in the references. The purpose of this piece is to evaluate the B-2 Spirit in the context of modern air defense systems. Is this iconic aircraft truly a game-changer? Can it dominate the skies and remain invincible, or is it perhaps just one of several masterpieces born from the marriage of the Pentagon, the Military-Industrial Complex, and Hollywood & Mainstream Media?

Background

The B-2 Spirit was conceived during the height of the Cold War, a period defined by the nuclear arms race and the doctrine of mutually assured destruction. The U.S. needed a strategic bomber that could penetrate deep into Soviet airspace, deliver nuclear weapons, and evade detection by increasingly advanced radar systems. Existing bombers, such as the B-52, were large, fast, and capable, but they were also vulnerable to sophisticated surface-to-air missile systems and interceptor aircraft.

The B-2 was designed to ensure credible second-strike capability—the ability to retaliate after a nuclear attack, which is the cornerstone of deterrence. It needed to reach highly defended targets in the Soviet Union without relying on fighter escort or electronic jamming from other aircraft.

At the heart of the B-2 Spirit's revolutionary stealth technology lies the work of a Soviet physicist, Professor Petr Ufimtsev. While he did not design the aircraft, his mathematical theories on electromagnetic wave reflection provided the essential foundation for making stealth aircraft a reality. In the 1960s, Ufimtsev published a paper titled "Method of Edge Waves in the Physical Theory of Diffraction", which detailed how radar waves interact with various surfaces and edges.

His work was largely overlooked in the Soviet Union, but translated and declassified by the U.S. Air Force, it became a cornerstone for American stealth research. Ufimtsev had essentially shown that radar cross-section (RCS) could be mathematically predicted—and therefore manipulated or minimized.

American engineers, particularly those at Lockheed’s Skunk Works and later at Northrop Grumman, utilized Ufimtsev’s mathematical models to design aircraft with shapes that deflect radar waves away from the emitter, rather than back toward it. This led to the creation of the F-117 Nighthawk, the world’s first operational stealth aircraft, and later the more aerodynamically refined B-2 Spirit.

The B-2's smooth, blended flying wing shape owes much to the insights derived from Ufimtsev’s calculations. Its surface curvature, edge angles, and material coatings were all optimized using computational applications of his diffraction theory. Without Ufimtsev’s theoretical framework, the advanced stealth shaping of the B-2 would not have been possible.

Famous Stealthiness

Is the B-2 Spirit Really Stealthy and “Invisible” to Radar?

The answer is not straightforward. The B-2 Spirit exhibits remarkably low observability characteristics, particularly in its ability to evade detection and tracking by modern air defense radars. However, it is not truly “invisible.”

The key lies in how the aircraft interacts with radar systems: the B-2 doesn’t appear on radar as a typical aircraft. Instead, it appears as an anomalous return, often interpreted by radar operators as background noise or interference, and thus filtered out by automated radar processing systems.

The B-2’s shape, structure, and coating were optimized to minimize its radar cross-section (RCS), especially against fire-control radars used by the Soviet Union. These radars typically operate in the centimeter-wave (X- and Ku-band) range, which is ideal for guiding missiles to targets. Against these, the B-2 performs exceptionally well.

However, less attention was given to older surveillance and early warning radars, especially those operating in metric wavelengths (VHF and UHF bands). These longer-wavelength systems, though considered obsolete by many Western standards, have characteristics that can detect stealth aircraft, albeit with low resolution. In particular, the large size of the B-2 can result in resonant scattering effects in these bands, making detection possible under the right conditions.

The Soviet Union, and later Russia and other nations, conducted extensive research into the B-2’s radar visibility. This included simulations, scale model testing, and radar cross-section (RCS) measurements across a wide range of frequency bands. While most of the findings remain classified, some results have appeared in technical literature and academic publications, offering a glimpse into the B-2’s detectability.

Ultimately, the B-2’s stealth is a dynamic capability, highly effective against certain systems, but potentially vulnerable to others, especially when those systems are designed or adapted to defeat stealth platforms.

The cat-and-mouse game of radar measures and countermeasures continues. Stealth technology evolves, and so do detection techniques. In this ever-changing landscape, no aircraft is truly invisible, only harder to find.

“Unlock the Stealth Code”

To analyze the radar scattering characteristics—specifically the Radar Cross Section (RCS)—the basic step is to make a simplified geometric model:

In a book by I. Sukharevsky1, in the modeling process, the aircraft's smooth surfaces were approximated using 26 triaxial ellipsoidal sections, while 24 straight-edge scattering elements were used to represent surface discontinuities and angular features. These simplified shapes allowed for effective simulation of the aircraft's radar scattering behavior across various frequency bands. It is essential to note that for serious military analysis, these models for analytical purposes will be significantly more complex.

For the realistic simulation, such as Ansys HFCC, Electrodynamics, Altair FEKO, MATLAB & Simulink, to mention just a few, the model's surface shall incorporate a Reflection Absorption Coating (RAC) of the Sommerfeld type, which mimics certain properties of actual Radar Absorbent Materials (RAM) used on stealth aircraft.

The greatest effort in reducing the RCS is focused on the forward aspects of the aircraft. However, there are greater returns to be had for other aspects, or at least for some angles. These trade-offs promise some advantages over well-designed bistatic radar networks. Secondly, though shaping is the first principle in reducing RCS and must be carefully considered in the design of low-observables, long wavelengths are less affected by the shape of the airframe and its details.

B-2 in Combat

B-2 First Combat - Aggression against Yugoslavia

From the Air and Space Forces2 :

…” Exactly 51 pilots flew the B-2 in combat. Most of them flew one mission; a handful flew two, and one pilot flew three times. The B-2 mission-capable rate during Allied Force, not counting low-observable maintenance, averaged about 75 percent. When such maintenance is included, the figure is about 60 percent. However, not a single B-2 mission started late, and only one airplane had to abort its mission for an in-flight mechanical problem. Each B-2 could—and, in some cases, did—attack 16 targets in 16 different locations per mission. Pilots reported they were apparently never detected…”

Reading that article is like reading pure marketing material written at the level of a salesperson trying to sell used equipment to a hamburger-loving customer. The biggest lie is that B-2 was never detected.

Also, the Serbian side knew the B-2’s radar scattering characteristics (the author worked on that).

The B-2 actions against the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia will be addressed in a separate article.

Against the Taliban

During the early 2000s, some of the most straightforward missions for U.S. B-2 Spirit bomber crews were conducted over Afghanistan, targeting Taliban positions. These operations, though logistically complex, presented minimal combat risk. The Taliban lacked radar systems, surface-to-air missiles, or interceptors, making it virtually impossible for them to detect—let alone counter—the stealth bombers flying high above.

For B-2 crews, the missions were considered routine in tactical terms, with the greatest challenge being the duration of the flights. Bombers often flew nonstop from the continental United States, requiring aerial refueling and round-trip sorties lasting more than 40 hours. Despite the physical and mental strain of such long missions, the absence of enemy air defenses made these deployments among the safest and most predictable in the B-2’s combat history.

The practice for Iran: bombing Houthis in Yemen

In a show of strategic airpower and a clear message to Iran, on 17 October 2024, the US deployed a B-2 to carry out a precision strike against Houthi military infrastructure in Yemen. Compared to Afghanistan raids, the Houthi militia has technology that can put a B-2 in harm’s way if they can establish a lock. For that reason, the whole flight path was swiped with EW and SEAD aircraft prior to a B-2 arrival.

The B-2s, which flew from Whiteman Air Force Base in Missouri and conducted aerial refueling en route, struck a hardened command-and-control facility near Sa’dah, believed to be central to coordinating Houthi attacks on shipping lanes and Saudi territory. The target was chosen for its strategic value and the difficulty of reaching it with conventional aircraft due to dense air defense coverage and rugged terrain.

Defense analysts noted that the use of the stealth bomber, capable of delivering bunker-busting precision munitions while remaining virtually undetectable, sent a clear message about U.S. resolve without escalating to a wider ground conflict.

Pentagon officials emphasized that the mission was surgical and proportional, aimed at degrading Houthi operational capacity rather than expanding the scope of the conflict. No civilian casualties were reported, and post-strike assessments indicated a high level of accuracy and mission success (if US reports are to be believed).

“Shaping Operation” - Israel’s Attack on the Iranian Air Defense

At the onset of the recent Israel-Iran conflict, Israel initiated a highly coordinated, multi-layered air campaign aimed at systematically degrading and neutralizing Iran’s air defense network within the first few days. The operation integrated cyber warfare, electronic warfare, long-range precision strikes, and, most critically, the use of a fifth column. This internal element carried out targeted assaults on key Iranian positions using remotely operated drones and Spike anti-tank guided missiles, disrupting defenses from within. These pre-placed operatives and concealed assets struck radar nodes, communication hubs, and mobile SAM units, creating localized chaos and confusion. Following these preliminary attacks, Israel's stealth assets, particularly F-35I “Adir” aircraft, penetrated Iranian airspace in a tightly synchronized offensive designed to blind radar coverage, suppress missile batteries, and paralyze the core of Iran’s command-and-control architecture.

The use of covert elements embedded within Iranian society was part of a carefully orchestrated operation. In several cases, drone assembly and launch sites were reportedly established in close proximity to Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) facilities, sometimes even within the same neighborhoods. This level of access and operational freedom highlights the extent to which Mossad and Israeli intelligence had succeeded in penetrating Iranian society and its security apparatus. The ability to stage, arm, and remotely deploy drones and guided munitions from within Iran’s own borders suggests not only detailed intelligence but also deep infiltration and long-term planning.

The operation began with cyber attacks targeting key nodes in Iran's air defense communication and radar systems. These cyber intrusions—likely developed over years—were used to introduce malicious code into networked radar installations and command centers, causing confusion, data corruption, or complete shutdown of systems. This was followed by electronic warfare operations, where Israeli aircraft, particularly specialized platforms like the Gulfstream G550 Nachshon Shavit and Eitam, jammed radar frequencies and disrupted communications. These aircraft operated from standoff distances and coordinated their jamming to coincide with kinetic strikes.

Simultaneously, Israel deployed its F-35I “Adir” stealth fighters to penetrate Iranian airspace undetected. Operating alongside F-16 and F-15 strike aircraft, the mission focused on eliminating strategic air defense targets, including SA-17, SA-15, and Khordad-3 surface-to-air missile systems, as well as early warning radar installations, especially in the western part of the country. The F-35Is, leveraging their stealth capabilities, were able to fly deeper into Iranian territory, employing terrain masking and low-observable flight profiles to avoid detection by the remaining elements of Iran’s integrated air defense. These aircraft delivered precision-guided munitions with high accuracy, significantly degrading Iran’s ability to track, target, and engage incoming threats.

The Israeli Air Force also used long-range munitions such as Delilah cruise missiles, Rampage air-to-ground missiles, and Harop loitering munitions to destroy SAM sites, power relays, and radar installations. Some of these were launched from beyond Iranian borders, particularly from aircraft operating in Iraqi and Syrian airspace or international airspace over the Persian Gulf, minimizing risk to Israeli assets while maintaining offensive pressure.

A particularly effective component of the campaign was the targeted elimination of Iranian mobile SAM units. These units, including the domestically produced Raad and Bavar-373 systems, were suppressed through a combination of signals intelligence to locate their positions and time-sensitive strikes. Israel also appears to have used decoys and drones to stimulate Iranian radar systems into emitting, thereby revealing their locations for follow-on strikes.

Within the first 72 hours, Israel reportedly neutralized some of Iran’s long-range air defense coverage, degraded regional radar visibility, and disrupted command coherence within Iran’s Integrated Air Defense System. By combining cyber, electronic, and kinetic attacks in a synchronized campaign, Israel established localized air superiority, which enabled follow-on operations without significant resistance from Iran’s air defense forces.

After several days of sustained attacks, the Iranian military became increasingly cautious and began to suspect the extent of fifth column activity within its own territory. In response, Iranian commanders shut down several radar systems, likely as a protective measure to preserve the remaining air defense assets in case the conflict escalated further. By limiting radar emissions, Iran may have sought to prevent further detection and targeting by Israeli forces, recognizing that active radars were being rapidly located and destroyed, often with the assistance of internal sources. This shift in tactics marked a transition from a fully active defense posture to one of radar silence and survivability, prioritizing long-term endurance over immediate coverage.

“Midnight Hammer”

Deploying the B-2 Spirit, America's stealth bomber, isn’t as simple as launching a jet into the sky; rather, it’s a “logistical nightmare” involving several dozen aircraft, hundreds of personnel, and planning that stretches across continents.

The B-2’s range is impressive, over 11,000 kilometers, but to reach deep targets across the globe and return safely, it relies heavily on aerial refueling. That means KC-135 Stratotankers or KC-46 Pegasus aircraft must rendezvous with the B-2 mid-flight, often multiple times, over international airspace. These tankers themselves need support, clear flight corridors, basing agreements, and contingency planning.

Then there’s the matter of fighter escort. While the B-2 is stealthy and can often operate independently, in higher-threat zones it may be accompanied by F-22 Raptors or F-35s, which help suppress enemy air defenses, protect tankers, and secure the airspace. Coordinating these escorts adds complexity: fighters require their own refueling, communications, and threat briefings, all of which must be synchronized with the bomber’s flight plan.

Furthermore, every B-2 mission relies on secure communications, GPS accuracy, and weather data, making satellite support and real-time intelligence feeds essential. Even minor delays—like a tanker being off schedule—can jeopardize an entire mission.

In short, a single B-2 strike can involve dozens of aircraft, thousands of gallons of fuel, and days of synchronized preparation. The bomber may be stealthy, but the operation around it is massive and visible, reminding us that modern airpower is as much about logistics as it is about firepower.

During Operation Midnight Hammer on June 22, 2025, B-2 bombers reportedly launched from Whiteman Air Force Base in Missouri, flying a transatlantic route over the Atlantic Ocean and Mediterranean Sea, eventually entering Iranian airspace from the west or southwest.

This flight path passed through airspace monitored by Russian radar systems, including two advanced types theoretically capable of detecting stealth aircraft under specific conditions.

These systems, which rely on ionospheric reflection to monitor targets at vast distances, are located at Kovylkino (Mordovia) and Zeya (Amur Region).

These radars can detect large, low-observable targets, such as the B-2, when operating at specific frequencies and under favorable atmospheric conditions.

Designed primarily for ballistic missile detection, some Voronezh systems have coverage overlapping the Middle East such as Armavir (Voronezh-DM) – built specifically to monitor Middle Eastern airspace and missile launches, making it the most likely to detect U.S. bomber activity over Iran; Orsk (Voronezh-M) – though optimized for northern approaches, it might have provided fringe coverage if the B-2s penetrated northern Iranian airspace.

It is highly likely that Iranian air defense was indirectly supported by Russian tracking data, given the integrated nature of regional surveillance systems and the geopolitical context.

Before a B-2 ever appears on radar, if it does at all, seasoned observers can often sense that something is coming. Unusual patterns in tanker flights, the sudden repositioning of AWACS and EW aircraft, or a spike in encrypted radio traffic all signal the early stages of a major operation. These logistical “tells” don’t go unnoticed by foreign intelligence or military watchers.

In the hours or even days before a strike, increased support aircraft activity, subtle changes in air traffic flows, and elevated communications silence protocols among U.S. assets often betray the scale and tempo of what’s unfolding. While the B-2 itself may be virtually invisible to radar, the infrastructure required to support it leaves a footprint—one that can tip off those who know what to look for.

The US exercised a deception tactic by relocating several bombers to Guam. According to Pentagon disclosures, six B-2 bombers were deployed to Guam in the lead-up to the operation, not for strike purposes, but as a deliberate deception maneuver. This feint was designed to mislead both Iranian and Russian military intelligence, suggesting the primary threat vector would originate from the Pacific.

The strategic objective of this deception was to prompt Russian radar operators to shift the operating modes of their Voronezh and Container radar networks toward ballistic missile tracking, thereby reducing their sensitivity to low-altitude, low-observable aircraft, such as the B-2, approaching from the west.

This layered strategy, combining stealth, geographic misdirection, and electronic deception, was likely critical to ensuring the strike’s element of surprise and operational success.

Iran has significantly bolstered its early warning capabilities through the acquisition of at least four Rezonans-N VHF over-the-horizon (OTH) backscatter radars from Russia, systems specifically designed to detect low-observable (stealth) aircraft at long range. These powerful radar stations have been locally modified to some degree and constructed in two distinct variants, forming the backbone of Iran’s long-range air surveillance network.

The larger systems, known as Sepehr, are built with quadrilateral antenna arrays approximately 100 meters across, supported by very tall transmitter towers at each corner. These elaborate, isolated installations are believed to offer deep early warning coverage, potentially monitoring aircraft and missile activity across Southwest Asia, well beyond Iran’s borders.

Complementing them are the smaller Qhadar radars, which also use a quadrilateral layout but are less than 70 meters wide and contain a central transmitter tower rather than corner-mounted ones. These stations are more modest in design, often placed in rural farmland, and appear to serve as regional or gap-filler coverage nodes.

Together, the Sepehr and Qhadar3 radars provide extensive and overlapping VHF-band surveillance coverage of Iranian airspace. Their low-frequency operation gives them an advantage in detecting stealth aircraft, such as the B-2 Spirit or F-35, which are optimized to evade higher-frequency radar bands.

However, while these radars can alert Iran to the presence of stealth aircraft, their ability to provide precise targeting information remains limited. In a modern electronic warfare environment, they are still vulnerable to jamming, cyber disruption, or decapitation strikes by long-range missiles or internal sabotage.

Nonetheless, this radar network represents a serious upgrade in Iran’s strategic situational awareness, further complicating the planning of any foreign air operations in the region.

Passive approach

Instead of emitting signals like regular radars, passive radar systems work by picking up existing radio waves (such as TV, radio, or cell phone signals) that bounce off an aircraft. These systems cannot be jammed or easily avoided. Iran is rumored to be developing such systems and could potentially use them in urban or densely populated environments. The challenge for B-2 is that its stealth is less effective against these forms of detection because passive radar doesn’t rely on bouncing signals from a central emitter.

While not primary detection tools, Iran could also use Electro-optical (EO) and infrared search and track (IRST) systems to detect the heat signature of the B-2. These are useful during clear weather, night operations, or from high-elevation areas. The B-2 is designed to have a low IR signature, but no aircraft is heat-invisible, especially during takeoff, descent, or after long missions.

Iran’s radar network is diverse but vulnerable. While it includes long-range systems like the (S)Epehr and Ghadir, as well as imported technology such as Russian VHF radars, these systems have gaps. They are less effective at detecting low-flying or stealth aircraft, but in this case, B-2 definitely didn’t fly low. In cases where the enemy has superiority in attacking means, survivability tactics such as turning radars off to avoid being targeted are often applied, but this further reduces Iran’s situational awareness. As this operation was highly likely coordinated with Israel, radar coordination across sectors may have been compromised by cyber and EW attacks.

Behind the Scenes

It’s possible that Iranian political leaders hesitated to authorize a full air defense response until the nature and scale of the attack became clear. Fear of escalation, uncertainty, or internal confusion might have led to delayed or constrained engagement orders, especially if the aircraft were already on their way out after delivering their payloads.

In the days leading up to the United States' surprise military strike on Iranian nuclear facilities on 22 June 2025, a series of clandestine diplomatic meetings were held between American and Iranian representatives in Oman. While the world focused on rising tensions and troop movements across the region, a quieter drama was unfolding behind closed doors in Muscat, where both sides engaged in last-ditch efforts to prevent a war.

According to intelligence and diplomatic sources familiar with the talks, the meetings began in early June and continued until just hours before the first wave of U.S. aircraft entered Iranian airspace. The setting was discreet—a private Omani government villa near the coast—where mid-level diplomats, intelligence officers, and back-channel envoys exchanged signals, warnings, and last-minute proposals.

Oman has long served as a trusted mediator between Washington and Tehran. In 2013, it hosted the secret nuclear negotiations that eventually led to the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action (JCPOA). In 2025, as tensions escalated over Iran's enrichment activities, Oman was again asked to play the role of quiet facilitator.

However, unlike past negotiations, this time there was no roadmap for compromise. According to two sources with direct knowledge of the talks, the U.S. team, believed to include CIA and Pentagon liaisons, delivered a stark message: unless Iran immediately and verifiably halted advanced uranium enrichment and dismantled several underground centrifuge clusters, military action was imminent.

The Iranian response was firm but restrained. Negotiators reportedly offered a temporary suspension of enrichment at one of the key sites—possibly Fordow—in exchange for guarantees of no further sabotage or assassination attempts against Iranian scientists. Tehran also sought the release of frozen assets and the easing of sanctions on oil exports.

But for Washington, that wasn’t enough. With intelligence indicating Iran was days or weeks away from reaching weapons-grade enrichment thresholds, the Trump administration had reportedly made the strategic decision that containment was no longer viable. The talks in Oman, then, were not a platform for a deal—they were a final warning.

Omani officials, always cautious and understated, reportedly pleaded with both sides to allow more time for a diplomatic breakthrough. King Haitham's government was concerned not only about regional stability, but also about the potential civilian fallout and the possibility of Iranian retaliation across the Gulf. Despite their efforts, the tone of the meetings grew increasingly tense, and by June 20, U.S. delegates left Muscat.

Just before dawn on June 22, a coordinated strike began. U.S. B-2 bombers, F-35s, and cruise missiles targeted key elements of Iran’s nuclear infrastructure, including Natanz, Fordow, and a suspected new facility near Isfahan. Cyber operations and internal sabotage complemented the external attack.

The secret Oman talks have not been officially acknowledged by either side. Iranian state media has made no mention of the meetings, while U.S. officials have neither confirmed nor denied their existence.

When U.S. stealth bombers and cruise missiles struck Iran’s nuclear sites in the early hours of June 22, 2025, many observers were surprised by what didn’t happen: there was no immediate massive Iranian response, except the missile launch toward the US base in Qatar.

According to multiple Western and regional officials, the United States delivered a discreet warning to Tehran in the hours before the strikes. The message—relayed through a combination of Swiss diplomatic channels, Qatari intermediaries, and backchannel signals-was clear: the U.S. would strike specific nuclear targets only, and Iran should avoid escalation if it wanted to prevent a broader war.

One senior Gulf intelligence official described it as “a calibrated message—not asking for permission, but offering a limit.” The U.S. reportedly made it clear that no leadership targets, civilian infrastructure, or military barracks would be hit—only nuclear facilities deemed to be in violation of past agreements.

Iranian leaders, faced with overwhelming American air power and a deteriorating economy, made a calculated decision not to respond militarily. Sources inside Iran say elements of the air defense network were even ordered into a standby mode shortly before the strikes, not to provoke, not to expose.

In the days that followed, Iran’s official response remained restrained. There were denunciations in the media and diplomatic protests, but no serious and massive military action against the US targets, just a symbolic bite, for which they communicated the exact time of the attack to the US base in Qatar, and the base was evacuated. Instead, Iran emphasized national resilience and regional diplomacy, quietly regrouping behind the scenes: “The Art of the Deal” in practice.

So, this war chapter is over, and all three sides declared victory… Well, so be it… until the next time.

Conclusion

The B-2 Spirit remains one of the most advanced and iconic strategic bombers in the world, designed to penetrate deep into enemy airspace and deliver precision-guided munitions undetected. With its flying wing design, radar-absorbing materials, and low thermal and acoustic signatures, the B-2 can evade most conventional radar systems, especially those operating in higher frequency bands. It can carry both conventional and nuclear payloads and fly intercontinental missions with aerial refueling, making it a core asset in U.S. power projection.

But despite its reputation, the B-2 is not invincible.

This was illustrated in 1999, when Serbian air defenses using Soviet-era technology shot down an American F-117A Nighthawk, a stealth aircraft often considered even more elusive than the B-2 under certain radar profiles. The incident served as a reminder that stealth is not the same as invisibility, and adapting tactics, timing, and ground-based intelligence can challenge even the most advanced systems.

The B-2 remains a powerful tool, but in a world of evolving detection technologies, its survivability increasingly depends on the element of surprise, effective mission planning, and a favorable strategic environment.

[i] Edited by Piquet (EditPiquet@gmail.com

Bibliography

For those interested in B-2 development and combat history, as well as technical literature discussing its RCS, here are a few recommended sources:

1. Bill Scot: Inside the Stealth Bomber: The B-2 Story

2. Thomas Whittington: B-2A Spirit Units in Combat

3. Steve Pace: B-2 Spirit: The Most Capable War Machine on the Planet

4. Jay Miller: B-2 Stealth Bomber

5. M. Mihajlovic & Dj. Anicic: Shooting Down the Stealth Fighter

6. Вождаев В. В.: Характеристики радиолокационной заметности летательных аппаратов - монография

7. О.И. Сухаревский, В.А. Василец, С.В. Кукобко: Рассеяние электромагнитных волн воздушными и наземными радиолокационными объектами: монография

8. Air Force Magazine, January 2017

9. R. Grant: Spirit of Innovation

If you like the article (and many more articles regarding military subjects will come) you can buy me a coffee:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/mmihajloviW

According to President Trump, who often portrays himself as a strongman unafraid to use force, the operation was extremely successful and all goals achieved, meaning the Iranian nuclear program went up in ashes. However, beneath the rhetoric and posturing, serious doubts remain about whether such strikes could meaningfully degrade Iran’s nuclear capabilities, especially when it comes to deeply embedded sites like Fordow. cspsbilities

At best, this could amount to little more than strategic theater, a carefully orchestrated display of power aimed at sending a political message rather than achieving lasting military results. In effect, the U.S. may have executed a strike based on an Israeli wish list: using bombs to project strength while avoiding actions that could trigger broader conflict.

For neoconservatives and proponents of an aggressive foreign policy, such a scenario would be hailed as a success—proof that decisive military action can shape geopolitical outcomes. Yet, Iran, a nation known for its strategic patience and resilience, chose to respond publicly in a controlled manner, targeting the US bases in Qatar. What will happen next is that they quietly assess the damage, reinforce their underground infrastructure, and continue their nuclear work beyond the reach of even the most powerful conventional weapons.

The world may be led to believe that the “threat” has been neutralized, for now. But history suggests that such illusions rarely last. Eventually, the same concerns will resurface, bringing the crisis back into the global spotlight.

“The roaring mountain just gave birth to a mouse.”

In the case of a high-profile strike, such as the one on Fordow, the symbolic value often overshadows the physical outcome. A site as hardened and deeply buried as Fordow—originally constructed within a mountain to withstand conventional attacks. It can’t be easily neutralized even with specialized munitions like the MOP or a direct hit from a hypersonic ballistic missile.

Yet, even then, the effectiveness depends on:

• Intelligence accuracy: Was the target still active?

• Timing: Was the infrastructure recently evacuated or relocated?

• Munition capability: Did the weapon used have sufficient penetration depth and explosive yield?

If the facility was decommissioned, emptied, or redundant, then the operation becomes more about message than material damage, a geopolitical performance aimed at deterring adversaries and reassuring allies.

Optical Effect Over Outcome

Such events often produce more theater than transformation. The media cycle amplifies the action, leaders issue statements of resolve, flags are waved, and bombs and missiles are launched - but the real question remains: What was actually destroyed?

This is where the gap between perception and reality widens. If core infrastructure remains intact or the targeted regime adapts quickly, the long-term strategic balance may not shift significantly. In this light, the operation resembles a symbolic punctuation mark in an ongoing diplomatic struggle rather than a decisive blow.

While political rhetoric and military parades dominate headlines, financial markets often act as the first honest arbiter of whether a crisis has real economic consequences, including:

• A spike in oil prices could signal concerns over regional stability.

• Currency fluctuations could reflect investor confidence (or lack thereof) in involved nations.

• Defense stocks may rise on expectations of increased military spending.

Markets don’t care about slogans or intercepted missiles shown in shaky phone videos; rather, they react to risk, uncertainty, and real shifts in power dynamics. So far, as the punches were exchanged, the market is not reacting “violently”.

The Depth

How deep is Fordow?

Open sources provide at least three distinct estimates for the depth of the Fordow facility: approximately 60–90 meters, 80–100 meters, and even up to 500–800 meters. These discrepancies arise from differences in measurement methodologies, limitations of satellite imagery, and deliberate information obfuscation by the Iranian government. Until engineering plans are leaked or the IAEA gains direct access to the site for inspection, the precise depth of Fordow remains uncertain.

Still, it is worth examining why Iran might engineer such a deeply buried facility, possibly extending toward the half-kilometer mark, and why that possibility alarms the Pentagon more than it does Israel.

The 60–90 Meter Estimate:
Outlets such as Deutsche Welle, Economic Times, and the Foundation for Defense of Democracies (FDD) estimate Fordow's depth based on the thickness of the mountain rock layer above the main halls. In practical terms, this reflects the vertical cover, like measuring the height of “floor-1” from the surface. Their estimates place the depth at 60–90 meters.

The 80–100 Meter Estimate:
Moneycontrol cites a slightly deeper figure, likely accounting for a broader interpretation of structural depth rather than just the overhead rock.

The ~100 Meter Estimate via Satellite DEM:
Bloomberg reportedly used digital elevation models (DEMs) from commercial satellite imagery (Planet Labs and Maxar) to measure the distance from the entrance tunnel’s opening to the presumed facility roof. This method places Fordow around 100 meters deep. However, it should be noted that small angular errors, such as a ±3° deviation in tunnel slope, can introduce measurement discrepancies of dozens of meters. Additionally, some sources introduce further variance when rounding feet to meters.

Given these limitations, depth estimates are best treated as approximations unless corroborated by direct data.

Iranians are very capable of carrying out any of the previously mentioned deeds. They experience gained in mining projects, including copper and iron mining projects, in the Zagros Mountains. They have mastered the technology of drilling rotating, spiral tunnels with a diameter of up to 6 meters. This technology allows the construction of deep complexes without complex ventilation systems.

Iranians are highly suspicious of the IAEA and its connection with the Mossad and CIA, so they never disclosed design drawings of Fordow.

Going Through the Rocks

The Fordow enrichment facility is located beneath a mountain ridge, approximately 80–90 meters (260–300 ft) underground, though some sources estimate even deeper construction.

Fordow is not merely underground; rather, it is embedded in terrain specifically selected to resist kinetic strikes. This “geological armor” is not a flaw in design but a calculated feature of strategic protection.

It is surrounded by:

• High-compression rock, such as granite or volcanic basalt

• Engineered voids and shockwave traps

• Entrances that are designed to collapse inward, not allowing breach access

• Multiple physical redundancies are designed to isolate sections from collapse

Strikes designed to "go through the rock", such as those targeting deeply buried facilities, require careful assessment of multiple variables. Key considerations include the type and thickness of overburden material, the penetration performance of the weapon, and the probability of neutralizing the actual target beneath.

Kinetic Energy Limitations The kinetic energy of the GBU-57 is enormous, but not infinite. The MOP isn’t a high supersonic at ground impact; its velocity (~Mach 0.9–1.2) limits the kinetic energy needed for deep penetration into compressive, non-brittle rock. Upon impact with solid rock, the bomb must transfer that energy to displace or fracture material. The efficiency of this transfer depends heavily on the target’s properties:

• Granite has a compressive strength of 130–230 MPa

• Basalt exceeds 200 MPa

• High-density rock absorbs and deflects shockwaves

• Kinetic energy dissipates rapidly in a radial pattern

The deeper the target, the more energy is lost in transferring the blast force. Energy disperses quickly in rock, not in a focused shaft like concrete.

In the relatively soft soil material, the MOP forms a narrow, deep penetration tunnel. Against hard rock, the impact resembles a shallow crater due to energy dispersal and shattering resistance. Rather than slicing through layers, the bomb impacts, shatters the first few meters, and loses momentum.

It is well known from rock fracture dynamics that hard rocks, such as granite, fracture and absorb impact energy unevenly. After initial impact, the shock wave dissipates radially, reducing penetration efficiency. Hard rock, such as granite, is not ductile. Upon high-velocity impact, it fractures in chaotic, energy-absorbing patterns, which significantly reduce the forward energy transfer. This further limits depth penetration.

Impact angle sensitivity dictates that even minor deviations in impact angle result in reduced penetration depth. Sloped terrain or rock layering can cause deflection or premature detonation.

While multiple hits might theoretically deepen the impact tunnel, precision placement is nearly impossible due to shock debris from the first hit, loss of GPS/INS accuracy under hardened bunkers, and surface shifts or collapse that obscure the impact point.

One may argue that if the U.S. Air Force is able to achieve multiple hits at the same point, it could gradually increase the penetration depth. However, this works only in theory, and in mass media fantasies promoted by networks like CNN and FOX. In practical terms:

• The first hit collapses the immediate area

• Subsequent bombs cannot follow the same trajectory

• Cavity/tunnel alignment is lost

• Fragmented rock layers and shock deformation scatter energy instead of funneling it

It is essential to acknowledge that Iran has not remained passive in the face of potential military threats. Tehran has actively pursued a layered defense strategy rooted in strategic deception and physical hardening, aimed at mitigating the impact of precision airstrikes, especially those involving bunker-busting weapons, such as the MOP. Some of the measures that they took are:

• Filling tunnel entrances with rock and soil to absorb blast energy and prevent deep-penetration weapons like the Massive Ordnance Penetrator (MOP) from reaching critical areas;

• Constructing false chambers and decoy facilities to mislead intelligence assessments and divert attacks away from real, high-value targets.

• Employing shock-isolated construction techniques, such as reinforced bunkers and deeply buried, segmented infrastructure, to preserve key operational zones even in the event of a successful strike, and

• Relocating sensitive materials, personnel, and equipment ahead of anticipated attack windows to minimize damage and maintain continuity of operations.

Going Through the Ventilation Shaft

Hitting a ventilation shaft does not mean a deep penetration was achieved. Ventilation shafts in secret underground military bunkers are not merely technical necessities; they are critical components of survivability, carefully engineered with redundancy and deception in mind.

Underground military facilities must support:

• Sustained human occupancy

• Electronic equipment cooling

• Air quality management (CO₂ removal, O₂ replenishment)

• Overpressure control (in case of blasts or chemical attacks)

Without ventilation, even the most secure bunker becomes uninhabitable within hours or days.

Underground military facilities—especially ones as strategically important as Fordow or similar hardened structures—are not designed with straight, vulnerable lines. Ventilation systems are purpose-built with redundancy, deception, and survivability in mind:

• Shafts are rarely straight. They often follow angled, zigzag, or tiered pathways, minimizing the chance of a direct kinetic strike traveling deep enough to cause systemic damage.

• Decoy shafts are common. Many are deliberately constructed as false targets, designed to absorb or mislead incoming munitions. These decoys can mimic real ventilation signatures (thermal, acoustic, airflow) and even include dummy infrastructure visible to reconnaissance.

• Shaft geometry is tactical. Real ventilation lines may include horizontal-to-vertical combinations, internal blast baffles, or reinforced choke points designed to contain damage locally, even in the case of partial penetration. Some advanced bunkers use distributed micro-vent systems, employing narrow ducts spread over wide areas rather than one or two large shafts. These are harder to detect or block.

• The subsurface ventilation strategy in military-grade bunkers is designed to withstand partial collapse, maintain airflow, and isolate damaged sections, thereby ensuring the survivability of the larger system.

In a post-attack briefing, the US General Caine said that Iran placed cement caps at the top of the ventilation shafts to the site. The initial U.S. airstrikes knocked out the cement caps. Several subsequent strikes dropped bombs down the ventilation shafts, where they exploded deep underground.

So, claims of "ventilation shafts being hit" should be viewed with skepticism unless accompanied by clear, verifiable evidence that a bomb not only found the shaft but survived the entry trajectory, avoided decoys, and managed to travel deep enough—likely dozens if not hundreds of meters—to inflict real damage.

Ventilation systems in these facilities are not weaknesses—they’re traps for analysts and attackers who don’t understand how deeply engineered these underground networks are.

Hitting a shaft may temporarily disrupt operations, but it’s unlikely to destroy or disable the entire facility due to its layered design and redundant airflow systems.

“Micro Earthquake”

What is also important during the hit of the underground structure is the seismic effect that the explosion will cause.

After the shock wave (SW) reaches the surface of the ground, surface waves begin to propagate from the epicenter of the explosion. The reason for the appearance of surface waves is the mass velocity of the surrounding material particles behind the shock wave front. After the SW passage, the particles, moving by inertia, pass their equilibrium position and return to their original position.

As a result, there are longitudinal oscillations of particles along the direction of the SW movement. At the same time, in the directions perpendicular to the SW movement, transverse oscillations of particles arise, connected with the resistance of solid bodies to change their shape.

The joint action of longitudinal and transverse vibrations of particles causes a surface seismic wave (Rayleigh wave) to be propagated along the free surface of the ground from the explosion epicenter. The point is that particles located on the ground surface experience less resistance from the surroundings during their movement than particles located at depth, because in the first case, the contact area of particles with the ground is almost twice as small.

The seismic wave causes oscillations of particles outside the fracture radius, i.e., in the elastic deformation zone. Recording the horizontal displacements of particles under the action of seismic waves makes it possible to obtain the so-called explosion seismogram. Initially, the recorder will discern the forced oscillations of the soil in response to the SW. The period of these oscillations corresponds to the elastic deformations of the surrounding material at the shock front (τ = 0.005–0.050 seconds). This phase of oscillations is referred to as the onset. After 1–10 seconds after the beginning of the entry phase, the main phase of free particle oscillations, which is a seismic wave, begins.

Multilayered Protection

Let’s now analyze the combination of penetration through the solid rock and concrete structure that protects the underground space.

Firstly, nobody knows what kind of concrete is installed, its thickness, or shape, so everything is a very wide range of assumptions.

In the article titled “Deflection of Projectile Penetrating into Composite Concrete Targets,”1 researchers analyzed the behavior of solid penetrators striking composite concrete structures with specialized geometries, such as diamond-shaped layering. A key finding of the study was that the internal structural design can significantly influence the trajectory of incoming projectiles, often inducing measurable deflection and reducing the effectiveness of penetration.

In the idealized scenarios often promoted by ordnance manufacturers—such as the case with the GBU-57A/B—marketing materials typically present best-case performance. These “analyses” assume a 90-degree impact angle, a perfectly perpendicular trajectory, and homogeneous material composition beneath the point of impact. This narrative, readily accepted and propagated by lobbyists, lawmakers, and technically underinformed decision-makers within the U.S. defense establishment, simplifies the complexities of real-world engagement.

However, such assumptions disregard the possibility of engineered deflection mechanisms within underground structures. If a target facility incorporates composite concrete with embedded deflection layers—specifically designed to induce angular deviation—the bomb’s path could be subtly or substantially redirected. Even if the GBU-57 were to miraculously pass through 100 meters of dense granite, these deflection barriers could still redirect the penetrator away from critical infrastructure, causing it to detonate in less vulnerable zones. This makes the difference between a symbolic impact and a mission success.

An excellent article discussing this issue (Reference 1) presented both theoretical and practical simulations. The conclusion drawn from the experiment was that, based on comparative results of penetration into concrete targets, with and without the diamond-shaped moving target, at an impact velocity of approximately 400 m/s, the projectile was effectively deflected by the diamond-shaped moving target. As a result, the penetration depth into the concrete was reduced, thereby improving the protective performance of the target plate.

Conclusion

Israel, acting without direct U.S. involvement, does not possess the necessary means to guarantee the destruction of the Fordow facility, even if its depth is “only” around 90 meters. While Israel has advanced airpower and precision munitions, it lacks the deep-penetration capability required to reach and neutralize such hardened underground infrastructure.

By contrast, the United States is undoubtedly capable of achieving a “mission kill”—disabling the site by targeting entrances, ventilation systems, and power nodes. However, a “layout kill” (the complete structural destruction of the underground halls) can only be reliably achieved if the facility is no deeper than approximately 35-40 m. Beyond that depth, even the GBU-57 MOP’s effectiveness is significantly reduced by the geological protection offered by dense rock formations.

So, how does the MOP manufacturer claim penetration of 60 m of concrete?

The U.S. spent considerable time and resources developing the MOP. Testing was conducted not far from the site where the first nuclear bomb test was previously carried out.

I am not aware of the Pentagon publicly sharing extensive results of these tests, but it is reasonable to believe that the intention was to demonstrate the MOP's ability to penetrate to a depth comparable to the estimated depths of key Iranian nuclear sites, as well as underground facilities in North Korea and China.

It is reasonable to assume that U.S. assessments of destruction are based not only on classified intelligence but also on rudimentary analysis of test results shown in publicly released videos. However, the question remains: who should we believe?

The media landscape offers little clarity, with both pro-Trump and anti-Trump outlets presenting conflicting narratives. Analysts continue to assess the situation from multiple angles, and it may take time before a more definitive picture emerges.

Iranian sources contribute to the confusion, often contradicting themselves, with reports ranging from minimal damage to claims of major destruction. This inconsistency raises questions about intent: Is Iran attempting to downplay the impact of any strikes, or is it deliberately obscuring the true status of its nuclear infrastructure?

From a strategic perspective, there are clear incentives for each side to shape the narrative in their favor. By asserting total destruction, the U.S. can project military dominance and suggest the permanent end of Iran’s nuclear ambitions, at least for public consumption.

Meanwhile, Iranian claims of localized damage could serve as a deliberate distraction, shifting attention away from deeper, more resilient parts of its program. In this context, everyone has a stake in letting the dust settle, allowing ambiguity to work in their favor.

The reality is that the location of Iran’s 60% enriched uranium, along with key components of the program, is known only to a select few within Iran. Moreover, there are underground facilities believed to be even deeper than those at Natanz or Fordow — capable of continuing enrichment activities beyond the reach of current conventional weapons.

In short, the nuclear game is far from over. If anything, it has merely entered a new phase—one marked by strategic misdirection, information warfare, and long-term resilience planning.

The bottom line, summed up in one sentence about the current equation between the U.S., Israel, and Iran: “the wolves are fed, and all the cattle are accounted for”.

Edited by Piquet (EditPiquet@gmail.com)

References

1. Analysis on Deflection of Projectile Penetrating into Composite, Concrete Targets, YingxiangWu, Xigui Tao, Yan Liu, Qingming Zhang, and Yijiang Xue

2. Rockets and Missiles Over Ukraine, Frontline Books

3. I.V. Balagansky: Damaging Effects of Weapons and Ammunition, Wiley

4. S. Jaramaz, Physics of Explosion

5. Cratering by Explosion, Compendium

Subscribe now

If you like the article (and many more articles regarding military subjects will come) you can buy me a coffee:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/mmihajloviW

The GBU-57A/B Massive Ordnance Penetrator (MOP), developed by the United States, is one of the most powerful conventional weapons ever built — a non-nuclear "bunker buster" designed to destroy deeply buried and hardened underground facilities.

This article provides a technical breakdown of the MOP’s capabilities and limitations when targeting Iranian underground military sites, including nuclear facilities and command centers. We’ll explore how deep these bunkers are, what they're made of, and whether the MOP can actually destroy them.

The historical background of the bunker busters’ use in the modern post-WWII conflicts includes the Gulf War & Iraq (1991–2003). Despite heavy use of bunker busters, many Iraqi bunkers survived due to their depth and construction. Some attacks resulted in civilian casualties, raising ethical concerns about the potential for collateral damage.

In Lebanon, bunker busters had mixed success due to complex geology and extensive tunneling.

To date, the MOP has never been used in combat. Simulated tests suggest potential effectiveness, but real-world conditions — weather, terrain, enemy countermeasures — remain unknown.

Technical characteristics:

• Weight : ~30,000 lbs (~13,600 kg)

• Length: ~20.5 ft (6.2 m)

• Diameter: 31.5 in (0.8 m)

• Warhead: ~5,342 lb (2,423 kg)

• Explosive weight:

  • AFX-757: 4,590 pounds (2,082 kg)

  • PBXN-114: 752 pounds (341 kg)

• Penetration Capability1: Up to 200+ feet of reinforced concrete or 1,000 feet of earth (under ideal conditions)

• Guidance System: GPS/INS for precision targeting

• Delivery Platform: B-2 Spirit stealth bomber

Mechanics, Effects, and Structural Impact of Massive Munitions

This section explores the penetration mechanics, structural effects, and resulting damage caused by high-mass, high-velocity penetrators impacting reinforced concrete and rock media, supported by simplified diagrams and physics-based analysis.

The ability to strike deeply buried underground bunkers has long been a critical concern in strategic military operations. These hardened facilities are designed to withstand conventional attacks and often house command centers, weapons storage, or critical infrastructure. The use of massive penetrator munitions —such as the GBU-57A/B Massive Ordnance Penetrator (MOP), Russian FAB-3000 class bombs, or specialized warheads carried by ballistic missiles like the Kinzhal and mysterious Oreshnik—represents some of the most effective methods for defeating such targets.

More about attacking underground structures can be found here:

The MOP is a massive, precision-guided bomb specifically designed to strike hardened underground targets.

Unlike traditional bombs, the MOP uses its mass and speed to punch through layers of rock and concrete before detonating deep underground. Its explosion creates intense shock waves and overpressure, which can collapse tunnels and chambers even if the warhead doesn’t directly hit them.

Mechanics of Penetration

When a massive penetrator strikes a target at high velocity, it undergoes a complex sequence of interactions with the material it impacts. The process can be broken down into three major phases:

Initial Contact and Cratering

At the moment of impact, the projectile's kinetic energy is transferred to the target surface, causing localized stress far beyond the yield strength of the material. This results in crater formation and the initial displacement of material along radial and lateral directions.

• Velocity: > 250 m/s typical for large gravity bombs; up to 1,800 m/s for hypersonic systems.

• Stress Waves: A shock wave propagates through the target medium, initiating spallation and fracturing.

• Material Response: Concrete behaves like a brittle solid under high strain rates, while soil and rock may exhibit both ductile and brittle characteristics depending on composition and compaction.

Tunneling Phase

As the penetrator continues forward, it "tunnels" through the medium. Resistance is primarily due to frictional drag and plastic deformation of the surrounding material. The shape and mass of the penetrator, as well as its angle of attack, significantly influence this phase.

Terminal Phase – Deceleration and Explosion

Eventually, the penetrator decelerates due to cumulative resistance forces. At this point, the embedded explosive charge detonates, transferring energy directly into the surrounding structure. This phase is crucial for maximizing damage to internal chambers.

• Buried Explosions: Generate radial cracks, conical fractures, and cavity expansion, leading to the collapse of tunnels and chambers.

• Shock Wave Propagation: In multi-layered structures, reflections and refractions of the blast wave can amplify damage.

Impact Velocities

Let’s now consider one of the scenarios: To calculate the maximum speed of the GBU-57A/B MOP dropped from 12,000 meters altitude with a forward launch speed of 800 km/h, we need to consider two things. The first is without air resistance (which sounds very good for marketing purposes):

Ignoring Air Resistance (Free Fall + Forward Motion)

If we ignore air resistance, the bomb's vertical speed from free fall is ​≈485m/s

Resulting total speed (vector sum of horizontal + vertical) ​≈533.6m/s

Maximum speed without air drag: ~534 m/s (~1,922 km/h)

If dropped from 15.000 m, it can reach 600 m/s, but this is only a theoretical estimate.

Realistic Approach - With Air Resistance

The bomb encounters aerodynamic drag, especially at transonic and supersonic speeds. MOP is designed to penetrate, not glide efficiently. Empirical modeling or simulations (e.g., CFD or physics solvers) suggest a terminal velocity in the range of 300–350 m/s, depending on altitude and air density.

• At sea level: Terminal velocity ~ 280–310 m/s

• From high altitude: It could briefly exceed 350 m/s as drag increases gradually with denser air.

Realistic max velocity with drag ≈ 330–380 m/s, with a horizontal component adding slightly to this.

At such velocities, the kinetic energy alone allows the bomb to penetrate deep into reinforced structures before detonation. Many bunker busters also feature delayed fuzes, ensuring they explode after penetrating the target.

Iran’s Underground Facilities: A Strategic Overview

Iran has invested heavily in deeply buried infrastructure, designed to survive airstrikes and sanctions. These include:

• Missile production and storage sites

• Uranium enrichment plants

• Command and control centers

• Air defense systems

• Leadership shelters

Some of the most well-known suspected or confirmed underground facilities include:

Fordow Facility (near Qom) - Buried inside a mountain; previously used for uranium enrichment

Parchin Military Complex - Suspected site of past nuclear weapons research

Isfahan Uranium Conversion Facility - Converts raw uranium into forms usable in centrifuges

IRGC Command Centers - Deeply embedded leadership shelters

These installations are typically constructed with:

• Thick reinforced concrete walls

• Earth berms (layers of dirt that absorb explosions)

• Multi-level tunneling networks

• Redundant access points and escape routes

Many of these sites are located hundreds of feet and hundreds of meters underground, making them extremely difficult to target effectively. According to some estimates, in addition to the above-mentioned, Iran has over 70 other underground facilities.

Iranians used Ultra-High-Performance Concrete (UHPC)2 in many of their structures. UHPC is a cutting-edge material that significantly surpasses traditional concrete in terms of strength, durability, and impact resistance. Originally developed for civilian infrastructure in seismic zones, UHPC has become a key material in military fortifications due to its exceptional compressive and tensile strength.

UHPC is a fine-grained, fiber-reinforced composite, often including quartz sand for high hardness and fine particle size for dense packing; Portland cement combined with fumed silica for enhanced strength and reduced porosity; steel fibers to improve ductility, crack resistance, and energy absorption; and superplasticizers to maintain workability with low water-to-cement ratios (~0.2)

There are several reasons why the use of this material, combined with the natural environment, can resist GBU-57A/B:

The first one is characterized by extreme toughness, exhibiting a compressive strength of over 280 MPa. This is 4–5× harder than conventional concrete. It significantly slows penetration and increases the chance of deflection or ricochet for the penetrator.

The second reason is that the steel fibers contribute to tensile ductility, preventing catastrophic failure by bridging cracks.

The third reason is energy dissipation. Under impact, fibers and matrix absorb shock more evenly, preventing spalling and plug formation.

The fourth reason is layered integration. UHPC is often poured in multi-layer configurations, backed by traditional concrete or steel for hybrid defense.

Can GBU-57A/B MOP Destroy Iranian Bunkers?

Let’s look at three key factors that determine if the MOP can successfully destroy hardened targets.

Structural Response and Damage Mechanisms

Underground bunkers are typically constructed using reinforced concrete, steel-reinforced earth, or excavated mountain complexes. Their survivability depends on:

• Depth of Burial (DOB)

• Reinforcement Type

• Redundant Layouts

• Blast-Resistant Design

Upon penetration and detonation, several key structural failure modes occur:

Spalling

High-stress waves reflect from free surfaces inside the bunker, creating spalls —fragments that break off the inner walls. Spalling can cause lethal injuries and equipment damage even if the outer shell remains intact.

Cratering and Breaching

The initial explosion creates a central crater, removing layers of protective material and exposing deeper structures. If the charge is sufficiently powerful, it can breach into adjacent chambers.

Progressive Collapse

Repeated shocks or multiple penetrations can lead to progressive collapse, especially in non-isolated chamber designs. Support pillars and ceiling slabs may fail sequentially.

Air-Blast Overpressure

Even when the penetrator does not fully reach the main chamber, the transmitted air-blast pressure through connecting shafts and ventilation systems can incapacitate personnel and destroy sensitive electronics.

Depth and Construction Materials

Take Fordow as an example:

• Located 75–100 meters (250–330 feet) underground within a mountain. This is an estimate based on publicly available information. The key Iranian bunkers may be much deeper.

• Estimated reinforced concrete thickness: up to 7 meters of high-performance concrete.

• Possibly shielded by additional layers of earth and rock.

Even the MOP, with its immense power, may not fully penetrate such a structure, especially if it strikes at an angle or misses the weakest point.

Newer versions of the MOP may have enhanced software and better guidance, but real-world combat performance remains untested.

Effectiveness of Detonation

Even if the MOP reaches its intended depth, destruction isn't guaranteed:

• The explosion must generate enough overpressure to collapse tunnels and damage internal structures.

• Multiple strikes targeting the exact impact point may be needed, especially for multi-chambered complexes.

• Seismic modeling suggests that unless the warhead detonates very close to critical areas (like centrifuge halls), the facility could remain partially functional.

Targeting Challenges

Hitting the right spot is crucial:

• Accurate intelligence is required to locate air shafts, ventilation ducts, or weak points.

• Iran is likely to employ decoys, false entrances, and mobile assets to mislead attackers.

• Counterforce measures, such as emergency sealing of chambers or evacuating personnel, can mitigate the impact of an attack.

Without precise information and timing, even the most powerful weapon may miss its mark.

Supporting Tools and Tactics

While the MOP is the most powerful option, it works best when combined with other tools, which may help “soften” the targets. These tools are GBU-28/B smaller bunker busters (~5,000 lb), effective against ~10–20 ft of concrete; the BLU-109/B, which can penetrate about 6 ft of concrete and is useful for follow-up strikes; JSOW/JDAM, precision-guided bombs for secondary targets like entry points; and Cyber & Electronic Warfare to disrupt communications, disable sensors, or trigger false alarms.

Together, these tools form part of a comprehensive strike package designed to maximize damage and minimize risk.

What does this mean in practice? The USAF may launch 4-6 B-2s flying from Diego Garcia, each carrying 2 MOPs. As the known number of all MOPs produced is 20-24, one attack may consume half of that. This strike will be supported by several SEAD groups (USAF and IAF), as well as 3-4 strike groups with smaller bunker-buster capabilities in an auxiliary role.

Conclusion

The main question is, can MOP destroy the key Iranian underground facilities?

The MOP has the technical capability to destroy some of Iran's deeply buried targets, particularly those with moderate reinforcement and accessible weak points; however, against heavily fortified, multi-layered nuclear sites like Fordow, a single MOP strike is highly unlikely to guarantee destruction for several key reasons.

Multiple strikes, accurate intelligence, and post-strike verification would be necessary to ensure effective results. Even then, underground facilities and critical components, such as blueprints, enriched material, or personnel, could survive. Iranians are aware of what is coming, and they have taken all necessary precautionary measures to counter the threat. It is plausible that Iranians dug much deeper than what is presumed.

At the strategic level, using the MOP would likely provoke escalation, including retaliatory strikes by Iran or its proxies. It could also cause collateral damage, regional instability, and international backlash.

Therefore, while the MOP offers a credible military option, it is not a guaranteed solution.

The Massive Ordnance Penetrator represents the pinnacle of current bunker-busting technology — a strategic tool capable of striking deeply buried threats.

However, against Iran’s sophisticated underground infrastructure, its success depends on a combination of technology, intelligence, and tactics.

For maximum impact, the MOP should be part of a broader strategy that includes:

• Advanced reconnaissance and surveillance

• Precision delivery platforms

• Follow-on kinetic and cyber effects

• Post-strike verification and containment efforts

As warfare evolves, future technologies like hypersonic weapons, autonomous drones, and AI-based targeting systems may offer more reliable ways to neutralize deeply buried threats.

[i] Edited by Piquet (EditPiquet@gmail.com)

References

1. Ultra-high performance concrete: A review of its material properties and usage in shield tunnel segment Fangyuan Niu, Yuhang Liu, Fangchen Xue, Hao Sun, Tong Liu, Haijun He, Xuguang Kong, Yunteng Chen, Hongjian Liao, Elsevier

2. Rockets and Missiles Over Ukraine, Frontline Books

3. И. А. БАЛА ГАНСКИЙ: ДЕЙСТВИЕ СРЕДСТВ ПОРАЖЕНИЯ И БОЕПРИПАСОВ, НОВОСИБИРСК

4. I.V. Balagansky: Damaging Effects of Weapons and Ammunition, Willey

5. S. Jaramaz, Physics of Explosion.

6. Cratering by Explosion, Compendium

If you like the article (and many more articles regarding military subjects will come), you can buy me a coffee:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/mmihajloviW

Renowned for its precision and versatility, the Iskander missile system has come to represent Russian military power, with its frequent use giving rise to what some have dubbed the process of "Iskanderization." It continues to draw the attention of military analysts and the media, with its specifications and capabilities widely discussed in defense publications.

Yet beyond the numbers lies a deeper narrative. To truly understand the Iskander system, one must look beyond performance metrics and examine the operational principles, design rationale, and tactical logic that define it. This exploration goes beyond raw data to uncover the strategic thinking that underpins its development.

What follows is an in-depth look at one of the world’s most effective tactical missile platforms. This is not a strictly technical article filled with complex details; instead, it takes a descriptive and accessible approach, aimed at helping the ordinary reader, without a technical or military background, grasp the essence of what lies behind the Iskander system. By breaking down its core concepts and strategic significance, this exploration aims to make the subject more accessible to a broader audience.

Origins

Ballistic missiles first emerged in the 20th century, beginning with the Nazi Germany V-2, the world’s first tactical ballistic missile. Capable of delivering a one-ton explosive warhead over a distance of 300 kilometers, the V-2 marked the dawn of a new era in warfare.

Following World War II, as ballistic missile technology progressed toward intercontinental capabilities, the development of tactical ballistic missile systems continued in parallel. A practical upper range limit for these tactical systems was established at approximately 500 kilometers. Within this range, missiles could be made small enough to be mounted on self-propelled launch platforms, typically adapted from tank or heavy truck chassis. This significantly enhanced their mobility and operational flexibility, enabling rapid deployment and repositioning. As a result, tactical ballistic missiles gained the ability to strike strategic targets deep within enemy territory—targets that had previously been beyond the reach of conventional artillery or shorter-range systems.

Tactical ballistic missiles were developed to destroy high-value ground targets, including air defense systems, airfields, rail junctions, industrial facilities, storage depots, bridges, command posts, communication centers, and power plants. Their limited accuracy—often with errors measured in hundreds of meters—was compensated by planning the use of nuclear warheads, which ensured effective destruction despite imprecise targeting.

The combination of mobility, range, and immense destructive power proved highly effective, driving the continuous evolution of tactical missile systems throughout the Cold War and beyond.

In 1955, the Soviet Union introduced the R-11 missile system, which had a range of 270 kilometers. NATO designated it as the Scud-A ("Squall"). This was followed in 1962 by the Elbrus tactical missile system, armed with the R-17 missile—better known in the West as the Scud-B. These early systems used liquid-fueled motors and were guided only during the boost phase, after which they followed a ballistic trajectory to their target.

The next stage in the evolution of tactical ballistic missiles was marked by the introduction of solid-fuel propulsion and in-flight control throughout the entire trajectory—a significant leap in accuracy and responsiveness. In 1975, the Soviet Union adopted the Tochka-U missile system, which featured short stabilizing fins located mid-body to enhance flight stability.