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In a bold and unexpected move, Ukraine has struck Russia’s $2.7 billion Moscow shipyard using an improvised bicycle bomb paired with a coordinated drone assault, marking one of the most unconventional attacks of the russian ukraine war to date. Surveillance footage shows a lone bicycle parked near a fuel storage zone moments before a timed detonation, synchronized with the arrival of low-flying Ukrainian drones targeting radar towers and logistics bays. The result: a series of cascading explosions that crippled drydock facilities and ignited a chain reaction across ammunition storage points. This level of ingenuity is rapidly redefining the nature of the russian ukraine war, where asymmetric warfare and urban infiltration are proving just as destructive as conventional firepower. For many observers, this strike is a psychological message more than just a tactical win—showcasing that in the russia vs ukraine war, even Moscow’s inner military-industrial zones are no longer untouchable. Analysts suggest the attack was part of a larger strategy to degrade Russia’s naval production capacity and disrupt supply lines linked to the Black Sea fleet. In the broader narrative of the russia vs ukraine war, this incident represents a shift toward creative sabotage and hybrid operations—blending local infiltration with high-tech targeting. Russian security forces responded with citywide lockdowns and air defense alerts, but the damage was already done. Ukrainian sources claim the use of bicycle-based IEDs was designed to evade electronic surveillance and blend into civilian infrastructure—a tactic that’s quickly becoming a signature move in the russian ukraine war. Satellite images released hours later confirm widespread fire damage and infrastructure collapse, with smoke still billowing over several key buildings. As the russia vs ukraine war continues to evolve, Ukraine’s ability to strike symbolic targets deep within Russia is sending ripples across military command structures. This video breaks down exactly how the operation unfolded, why the shipyard mattered, and how this hybrid tactic may shape future strikes in the russian ukraine war. With every strike, the russia vs ukraine war is moving further away from static fronts and into the heart of Russia’s military ecosystem. Subscribe for exclusive analysis and leave a comment below: is this the new face of warfare in the russian ukraine war?
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Javier Dibbert MD
47222 Esther Knolls South Priceburgh, NH 38213-3778
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Mother’s maiden name Dicki
Birthday
Date 1983-07-22
Age 41 years old
Ukraine waited for the convoy to pause, then shattered P66 with two precision FPV strikes in seconds. At 5:38 a.m., the sky above Moscow was pale and heavy with fog. Deep inside the city, the GRU headquarters stood still until the silence cracked. Out of nowhere, waves of Ukrainian drones, each worth around $4,800, swept in from multiple directions, dropping bomblets with pinpoint accuracy. From the ground, bicycle bomb couriers sped through narrow streets while T72 tanks valued near 1.5 million each unleashed fire toward the compound walls. Overhead, MiG 29 fighters worth about 25 million escorted by Iris T interceptors cut through the haze. Electronic warfare trucks jammed the spectrum. Anti- drone rifles sparked and chaos ignited. What began as silence became a storm of fire. The fight for Moscow had just begun. Before we break down the next strike, comment on your location and subscribe to stay updated. We ended the last video on the brink of major escalation. And this is the moment everything erupts. The opening strike shattered the morning calm, and within seconds, the first wave was already pressing hard into the GRU perimeter. Ukrainian drone swarms, each unit costing roughly $4,500, dived low over the compound, jamming Russian radar grids and dropping small precision charges onto watchtowwers. The explosions ripped apart sensors and sent debris falling across the courtyard. Behind them, robotic mine layers valued near 30,000 each crawled under the fencing, their tracks grinding across broken concrete as they planted shaped charges. When those charges detonated, they blew open gaps wide enough for armor to force its way through. Through the smoke poured motorbike infantry, each bike priced around 12,000. They moved at nearly 50 mph, weaving between burning vehicles and shattered walls, launching bursts of rifle fire as they sped past guard posts. Their mobility turned the outer ring of the compound into a maze Russia struggled to control. Stunned by the speed of the assault, Russian defenders scrambled to deploy Pancer S1 air defense units worth about 15 million. Crews rushed across the pavement trying to power up the launchers before the drones looped back. But the swarm kept coming, buzzing just feet above the rooftops, dropping grenades onto exposed operators and blinding the sensors with constant interference. Every second escalated the tension. Fire rolled across the entry lanes. Smoke climbed hundreds of feet and the crack of small arms fire mixed with the hard thump of detonations. What was moments earlier a fortified intelligence hub had already become a battlefield of shattered steel and collapsing guard towers. And the attack was only warming up. The breaches carved open in the first wave became the gateway for Ukraine’s heavier assault. T72 tanks valued at roughly $1.5 million each rumbled through the smoke. Their 125 mm guns firing point blank into the GRU’s outer concrete barriers. Every shot sent chunks of reinforced walls flying across the courtyard, shaking the ground like thunder. Above them, drone swarms each platform worth about $4,800 spread into tight reconnaissance grids, scanning alleys, rooftops, and blind spots. Operators used the live feeds to guide tank crews around hidden firing positions, turning the assault into a coordinated, fast-moving push toward the compound’s core. Through the cracked streets slipped one of the strangest yet most effective elements of the operation, bicycle bomb couriers. Each rig worth almost $3,000. They pedled hard through narrow Moscow alleys nobody else could fit through, weaving past burning cars and collapsed fences. When they reached the fuel depots and ammo trucks behind the GRU’s loading bays, the explosions tore upward in violent columns of fire, sending metal fragments flying more than 100 ft. Those blasts ignited secondary fires that forced Russian defenders to abandon several key supply points. Overhead, MiG 29 fighters priced near $25 million performed aggressive low passes at barely 300 ft. Their afterburners shaking windows along the district. They fired off long streams of flares to distract Russian manpads teams forming on rooftops. The sky erupted with heat signatures and missile trails, buying precious seconds for drones and ground units to advance without being hunted from above. By now, the battlefield had transformed into a tangled maze of smoke, shattered glass, twisted steel, and burning debris. Tanks maneuvered through narrow choke points blasted open by earlier drones. Infantry on motorbikes darted between vehicles, firing into windows and stairwells. Russian guards tried forming new defensive lines, but every attempt was smothered by drone strikes or tank fire before it stabilized. The entire outer ring of the GRU headquarters, once considered impenetrable, had become a collapsing battlefield, lit by flames and echoing with non-stop gunfire. Ukraine had broken through the perimeter and the fight was now driving straight into the heart of Russia’s intelligence fortress. The destruction of the GRU’s outer ring forced Moscow into immediate overdrive. As the compound’s walls collapsed and flames rose hundreds of feet into the dawn sky, the Kremlin ordered a rapid counter strike. Within 20 minutes, armored convoys from the 147th automobile base thundered into central Moscow. Columns of BTR negative 82 seconds and BMP infantry carriers escorted by fuel trucks and mobile artillery sped down the wide boulevards at nearly 40 mph. Their engines echoing between skyscrapers. Civilians scattered as the streets turned into a battlefield corridor. From the skies, Russia unleashed its next wave. Attack helicopters m28 seconds and K -50 2 seconds. swooping in low to flush out drones and target Ukrainian tanks punching through the GRU’s defenses. But their advantage didn’t last. Ukrainian MIG negative 29 seconds paired with Iris T interceptors locked onto the helicopters from just a few miles out. Bright streaks of missiles tore across the morning air, bringing down the first chopper in a ball of flame that crashed into a government parking lot. Pilots pulled back, forced into evasive maneuvers while drones continued circling freely overhead. Meanwhile, the battle shifted into an invisible but equally brutal fight. Electronic warfare. Ukrainian jamming trucks lit up Moscow’s spectrum, cutting Russian radios and scrambling GPS guidance. Russia countered with its own mobile EW units, unleashing pulses across the city. The result was a storm of broken signals, radars flickering on and off, drones veering off course, missiles losing lock mid-flight. Operators on both sides fought not just with weapons but with bandwidth, desperately trying to seize the upper hand. Amid this chaos, Ukrainian motorbike infantry ambushed convoys in side streets, planting improvised mines that disabled BTRs before tank shells finished them off. Russian soldiers poured out of transports, returning fire as Moscow’s avenues turned into kill zones. By the end of this phase, reinforcements had reached the GRU’s shattered perimeter, but they were already bleeding strength. The battlefield was no longer just the compound, but the heart of Moscow itself, and both sides braced for the brutal close quarters fight that was coming next. The arrival of Russian reinforcements only tightened the battlefield into a brutal chokeold. As BTRs and BMPs funneled toward the GRU compound, Ukrainian sappers and robotic squads sprang their trap, small tracked robots no bigger than lawnmowers carried TM62 anti-tank mines, slipping into alleys and intersections ahead of the convoys. Within minutes, the first BMP struck a mine, its hall torn open in a fireball. The blast blocked the street and the vehicles behind it became sitting targets. With the armor slowed, infantry squads on foot pushed in. Moving in groups of six to eight, they advanced building to building, their rifles up as they cleared each room. Cover fire came from anti- drone rifles crackling with bursts of energy, dropping Russian quadcopters from the sky before they could mark positions. Overhead, Ukrainian scout drones hovered no higher than 150 ft, relaying live thermal images to operators on the ground. Every corner, every staircase was mapped in real time, giving assault teams the edge in an environment where ambushes waited behind every door. The GRU’s outer ring, once fortified with guard towers and checkpoints, had transformed into a labyrinth of gunfire, smoke, and collapsing walls. Tank shells pounded entry points, sending chunks of concrete cascading onto the streets. Motorbike troops dismounted to join the infantry, darting into side halls with grenades and carbines. The close quarters combat grew savage. Russians fired from shattered windows. Ukrainians blasted breaches with shaped charges and stairwells filled with choking dust as fighters wrestled for every floor. By the halfhour mark, the headquarters perimeter had become a death trap. Disabled Russian vehicles burned at choke points, their ammunition cooking off in secondary blasts. Entire hallways glowed orange from fires while drones buzzed above like mechanical vultures, marking targets for the next strike. The fight was no longer about breaking into the compound. It was about surviving its hellish interior where every yard forward was paid in blood. And yet, despite the carnage, Ukrainian units pressed deeper, determined to seize the heart of Russia’s intelligence fortress. The collapse of the GRU’s outer defenses funneled the battle straight into its core. With choke points mined and Russian vehicles burning in the streets, Ukrainian forces pressed the assault deeper into the compound itself. Drones led the way, slipping through shattered skylights and blown out windows, dropping small charges into stairwells and command rooms. Each detonation sent showers of glass and concrete cascading into corridors, clearing paths for the assault teams below. Behind them, T72 tanks punched new openings in the perimeter walls. their 125 mm cannons blasting breaches wide enough for infantry and sappers to flood in. Robotic squads followed close, rolling down hallways to plant explosives against reinforced doors and server rooms. Every movement was guided by overhead scouts hovering at just 200 ft, transmitting real-time heat maps that showed where defenders clustered. But the Russians were not passive. Spettznaz units counteratt attacked from hidden tunnels and fortified chambers. Fighting with ruthless precision, they launched ambushes at stairwell choke points and lobbed grenades into hallways as Ukrainian troops advanced. Yet their edge faltered when Ukrainian jammers cut across the spectrum. Radios hissed into silence and encrypted networks flickered offline, leaving Russian squads unable to coordinate strikes beyond line of sight. What followed was raw, savage closearters combat. Hallways echoed with the clash of rifle fire and steel fragments, the buzz of drones swooping just feet overhead, and the thunder of shaped charges ripping open blast doors. Fighters grappled in smoke filled rooms where visibility shrank to a few feet, forcing combat into bayonets, pistols, and hand-to-hand struggles. By the peak of the fighting, the GRU’s heart was unrecognizable. Once a bastion of Russian intelligence, now a maze of fire and rubble. Every corner was contested, every stairwell a killing ground. Yet, despite the Spettznaz resistance, the Ukrainian advance kept pressing, determined to carve out the nerve center of Russia’s intelligence machine. The climax had arrived, and Moscow’s strongest fortress was now fighting for its survival from the inside out. By the time the fighting inside reached its peak, the GRU compound was already breaking apart. Fires roared through command rooms where intelligence servers once hummed and vehicles left in the courtyard burned like torches, their ammunition cooking off in violent bursts. The Spettznaz resistance, fierce as it was, could not stop the advance once communication lines collapsed. Ukrainian drones hovered low, marking final targets while sappers set time charges on key infrastructure. As dawn broke over Moscow, the headquarters was engulfed in smoke columns rising thousands of feet. Russian reinforcements rushing in from the 147th automobile base found themselves caught in a gauntlet of pre-laid TM62 mines and drone ambushes. Entire convoys were immobilized before reaching the gates. Their vehicles left smoldering and blocked intersections. Ukraine had no intention of holding the compound. It had never been about occupation. Instead, the order came to withdraw in discipline. Tanks reversed out through the breaches they had carved, their turrets still covering streets. Drones deployed smoke screens, veiling the retreating infantry as motorbike squads sped out of the kill zones. When the last unit pulled back, the GRU headquarters was a ruin. The objective was complete. Moscow’s intelligence corps lay crippled, and the battlefield behind them was nothing but chaos. The battle ended with the GRU headquarters reduced to a smoldering ruin. What had once been Russia’s most secure intelligence hub now lay silent, its command posts and servers destroyed. The strategic victory was undeniable. Moscow’s ability to direct operations across the front lines had been severed. Yet Ukraine’s withdrawal carried a deliberate message. Soldiers spared the wounded, proving the strike was aimed at military power, not civilians. Still, a haunting question lingered. If even the GRU could be breached, what fortress in Russia was truly safe? In the rising black smoke, a lone blue and yellow flag flickered, then vanished. At 528, lights still glowed on Shokovo’s hangers. A light mist clung to the radar dome. Without warning, a volley of Neptune R360 cruise missiles guided by MiG 29 flyovers screamed overhead. Seconds later, kamicazi drones and Dana M2 artillery lit up fuel depots, radar sites, and incoming KH55 bunkers. This wasn’t a raid. It was a coordinated saturation strike meant to paralyze command before Russia could respond. Within moments, an S400 launcher exploded. The war has entered a new phase. Before we dive into this battle, let us know where you’re watching from in the comments, and don’t forget to subscribe so you’ll be the first to get the latest war updates. Following the initial strike, the chaos at Schulavo was far from over. While the base’s main S400 battery was still recalibrating after the Neptune blast, a second wave of unmanned systems began their silent work. Above the hangers and shattered radar arrays, a dense fog of electronic interference started to form, not natural, but carefully constructed. Dozens of Spectre M2 Recon drones and Panther style ground robots advanced just under rooftop level. Each fitted with thermal decoys and active jammers. They didn’t fire a shot they didn’t need to. Instead, they flooded the airfield’s inner zones with false radar echoes and heat signatures, making it nearly impossible for Russian fire control systems to isolate targets. The Borisk 2 jamming suite, which once secured the base’s signal dominance, blinked out in under half a minute. In the command bunker, comms went dead. For 22 full seconds, secondary radar feeds and encrypted voice links across the base collapsed. A blackout not caused by missiles, but by drones weaving data disruption into the fight. Meanwhile, NASA’s batteries positioned 18 mi away track the airspace overhead, ready to intercept any Russian aircraft scrambling in response. But so far, Skolovo hasn’t managed to get any birds in the air. Their launch crews were working blind, disoriented by what looked like a dozen threats on their scopes, most of them fake. Suddenly, a Spectre M2 hovering near the base’s power station emitted a narrow beam laser designation pulse, guiding the next round of smart artillery from a Dana M2 battery, still well out of return fire range. Within 15 seconds, a 152 mm guided shell tore through the generator housing. There was no loud explosion. And this time just a low boom then silence. The lights insideo dimmed. The base wasn’t just under attack. It was being unraveled. Signal by signal, circuit by circuit. The strike on Shokovo’s power station wasn’t even cold when alarms sounded across the airfield’s eastern apron. Through the jamming haze and signal interference, a pair of Russian Sue 34 fullback bombers roared to life, cutting through the early morning fog. Each carried a payload of KH555 air launched cruise missiles along with ECM pods and flare dispensers. These jets weren’t retreating. They were launching a counter punch. But Ukraine had anticipated this move. Just minutes before, MIG 29 seconds operating in tandem with groundbased Spectre drones had established a targeting net built from radar reflections, thermal cues, and line of sight relays. As the Sue 34 seconds lifted off at roughly 180 knots, the MiGs, flying low at under 1,000 ft, adjusted course and locked on from outside visual range. By the time the Russian jets cleared 2,000 ft, Ukraine’s NASA’s units, positioned just under 20 mi out, had already acquired the launch signatures of the KH55 seconds. A quartet of AIM120C interceptors stre into the sky within seconds, guided by a mesh of satellite feeds and EW assisted targeting. Two of the KH55 seconds were hit mid-RK, detonating in the air with muted flashes. The remaining two veered wildly after losing navigation lock, their INS systems corrupted by ongoing signal disruption from the jamming layer laid earlier. But the fight wasn’t done yet. One of the Sue 34 seconds call sign Vastto 1 released flares and dove sharply attempting to evade. The second banking left pushed toward cloud cover. That’s when a stinger missile fired from a concealed Ukrainian man pads team embedded near a rail depot found its mark. It hit just after of the port engine Nel. A brief fireball erupted and the aircraft rolled hard before regaining control. The pilot pulled away, leaking fuel and trailing smoke. The other Sue34 aborted its run completely, retreating at full throttle. By 541, Russian long range strike capability from Shokovo had been neutralized. What was once a launch hub for KH, 555 missions had now become a contested no-fly zone, cluttered with wreckage, false targets, and the wine of high alitude drones still circling above. With Russian air cover faltering and KH555 launches disrupted, Ukraine wasted no time pushing the next phase. While Spectre drones continued circling the airfield, feeding targeting data through encrypted uplinks, the ground assault began in earnest. Leading the charge were PT9120 main battle tanks rumbling forward across cracked service roads in a dispersed grid formation. Each tank maintained a spacing of around 100 ft, minimizing exposure to artillery and allowing infantry squads on IFVs to weave between them. Their objective was simple but critical. Break through the outer perimeter before Russia could reestablish air or artillery coordination. From inside the base, T80BMs emerge from hardened shelters, unleashing 125 mm high explosive shells across the southern approach. Explosions rocked the terrain, gouging craters into the tarmac and flinging dirt into the air. But the return fire came fast. From over 16 miles away, Data M two self-propelled howitzers delivered a synchronized barrage of 155 mm cluster munitions timed precisely with drone verified coordinates. The rounds detonated above impact, raining down submunitions across the T80s cover line. Two Russian tanks halted mid-rotation, one of them already belching smoke. Simultaneously, a Spectre M2 drone, preloaded with a heat warhead, made a sharp dive through the exhaust haze, slamming into a rear ammunition trailer behind the tank line. The resulting detonation blew fire and debris over 100 ft into the air. A rolling column of black smoke now marked the collapse of their rear support node. Russian crews began reversing, attempting to fall back toward the aircraft parking zone. But as one T80BM crossed the edge of a concrete taxiway, a PT91’s autoloader fired a tungsten round that snapped the track clean off. The tank slid sideways and stopped cold. Its turret still tracking, but the hull immobilized. By 552, Ukrainian armor had carved a breach nearly 600 feet wide, exposing the inner logistics yard of Shokovo. Smoke poured over the skyline. And as more tank engines revved from beyond the treeine, it was clear the outer shell of the airfield was crumbling fast. The moment air superiority slipped from Russian hands over Skolkovo, Ukraine shifted tempo. No longer operating from standoff range, they pushed in with armor. PT9120 main battle tanks bristling with reactive armor andorked sensors led the assault column across the fractured perimeter roads behind them. Mechanized infantry squads dismounted from armored transports and fanned out through tree lines and service alleys, keeping pace on foot while drones circled high overhead. The formation moved in a staggered grid, minimizing exposure to Russian artillery. It worked mostly as the lead elements closed within 1,200 yds of the hangar complex. The first T80 BVMs responded, unleashing 125 mm high explosive rounds from hull down positions near the wreckage of a collapsed radar dome. But the Russian tanks hadn’t adapted to the new tempo. Within seconds, a Dana M2 wheeled howitzer battery parked nearly 15 miles out, lobbed a precision strike, delivering 155 mm cluster munitions that scattered submunitions across the forward trench lines. Russian gunners scrambled to reposition. One T80 BVM caught a direct hit from a submunition just as it tried to reverse through the fuel staging area. The blast severed its left tread and ignited its rear storage racks, forcing the crew to abandon it behind a burning SU truck. At the same time, a pantherclass ground robot, armored and four-legged, advanced low through a drainage culvert. It carried a singles-shaped charge. Operators Fed coordinates in real time its target, a resupply node tucked behind a blast wall. 30 seconds later, a deep thud explosion sent a plume of black smoke rising 200 f feet. Ammunition cooked off in chain reaction bursts. For a moment, the battlefield stood still. Then the Ukrainians surged forward with Russian armor pinned and their logistics node crippled. The outer line of defense began to collapse. Shokova was no longer a defended fortress. It was becoming a retreat path under fire. And Ukraine wasn’t slowing down. They weren’t here to hold ground. They were here to keep punching until the airfield strategic core cracked. As Ukrainian infantry breached the hangers and armor secured the inner taxiways, the operation’s final objective came into focus. The data nerve center of Shokovo airfield. Hidden beneath layers of concrete and insulated corridors, this command hub wasn’t just a control post. It housed realtime radar feats, two 160 sorty coordination systems, and encrypted comms with Russia’s long range bomber wings. Disabling it wouldn’t just silence this airfield. It would blind a large portion of Russia’s strategic aviation network. The approach wasn’t loud. It came by swarm. A formation of electronic attack drones, smaller than a launch chair, but packed with RF jamming pods and localized EMP coils buzzed in low from the south. These weren’t armed for blast. They were armed for blackout. As they neared the main control structure, they dumped barrage jamming across the two 18 GHz’s band, crashing relay signals, and overwhelming fallback routers. The Borisle 2 jammer tried to reboot its firewall. Its antenna rotated, caught signal for a second, then vanished from the network entirely. The base’s internal mesh flickered once, then it went dark. Inside the data center, backup generators kicked in. Emergency staff scrambled to reestablish links with orbital radar and relay nodes across the region. But before any command line could finish loading, a single Neptune R60 sliced in from the cloud layer above, flying low and fast. slave to a UAV’s laser spotter that had been quietly loitering nearby for over 30 minutes. The missile punched through the reinforced roof like a lance. Its warhead, configured for delayed detonation, burrowed two floors deep before igniting. The blast didn’t just tear through walls. It incinerated hard drives, thermal cooled server banks, and all stored radar echo data within a half mile radius. Above ground, the reinforced communications mass tilted. then folded like aluminum collapsing in a shower of sparks. All two 160 sorty control lines went silent. On the eastern edge of the airfield, a lone Russian officer watching from a camouflaged bunker dropped his headset and stared at the comms board. Every light, every link was out. The command node was gone. Skolivo wasn’t just damaged now. It was strategically paralyzed. No more coordination, no more targeting updates, no more bombers launching from these runways anytime soon. The airfield had been cut from Russia’s military grid surgically, decisively, and without a single Ukrainian soldier needing to step inside that bunker. The destruction of Shokovo’s command center triggered a desperate response. From a fallback position deep inland, Russian forces launched a volley of BM30 Smerch rockets, hoping to disrupt Ukraine’s armored advance and buy time to reestablish order. But it was too late and too exposed. As the 300 mm rockets arked overhead, NASA’s batteries locked on and intercepted multiple warheads mid-flight. Those that slipped through were met head-on by kamicazi drones, detonating in controlled mid-air collisions before they could impact. Ukraine kept the pressure on. Infantry squads supported by PT91 seconds and closein drone coverage surged past the fractured outer defenses. Russian crews had no time to regroup. Any attempt to reposition armor or artillery was instantly flagged by overhead drones and countered with pinpoint strikes from Dana Howitzers. Within minutes, Ukrainian forces had pushed the front to the very edge of Schulavo’s hardened shelters. There would be no organized counter strike. The window for Russian retaliation had slammed shut and Ukraine made sure it stayed that way. Skookovo was never occupied. It was systematically dismantled. In under an hour, its radar arrays, command center, and two 160 support infrastructure were wiped from the network. Ukraine didn’t need to hold the airfield. They needed to break it, and they did. The strategic impact was immediate. Russia’s long range aviation hub behind Moscow lost its launch window. KH55 sorties were grounded. Remaining bombers were rerouted to distant air bases, stretching response times and thinning coverage. And now a question hangs in the haze. Is there any base left that can replace Shokovo? On a cracked rooftop, a Ukrainian Panther robot stood still. Antenna sweeping gently through morning light. No weapon drawn, just a silent signal. Modern war isn’t about holding ground. It’s about removing the right piece from the board. Please like if you enjoy this video, comment one to show support for Ukraine. Comment two if you love peace and hate war. And comment three if you don’t like my video sliding under armor. A Russian tower team opened up with PKM fire, stitching the sky around the decoys, but the drones answered back, each releasing a $70 seed charge, blooming into a fake infrared signature that blinded the gunners. An Orland dove low to verify the contacts, only to have its camera punched out by a $20 explosive pellet from a Ukrainian micro drone. Suddenly, Russia’s defensive rhythm faltered just as the real breach silently opened. The Russian air defense network reacted with the force of a sledgehammer. The S400 system worth $200 million locked onto the two decoy drones and immediately fired off two interceptor missiles, each costing nearly $2 million to swat targets no heavier than sparrows. The sky lit up with contrails, but the real threat stayed low, silent, and unseen. Across the perimeter, the Kasuka 4 unleashed a wall of broadband noise, flooding the spectrum in every direction. Under normal circumstances, it would have turned any commercial drone into a flying paper weight. But the KHS7 seconds weren’t listening. Their jets and nano AI modules hopped frequencies 1,000 times per second, slipping through the interference like water through clenched fingers. In the shadows, Ukraine’s special operations team triggered their counter EW device. A black unmarked box designed to corrupt Russian signals from inside the noise. A bubble of electronic distortion bloomed outward, fogging nearly 10% of Russia’s radar picture and blurring the S400’s lower search bands. For the first time all night, the fortress around ZNPP blinked. Not blind, just blind enough for something small and lethal to slip through. The Russian defenses struck back with ruthless precision. A Pancier turret snapped to life first, shredding three incoming drones in tight, disciplined bursts. Seconds later, a Mi28 gunship dove through the haze and tore two more out of the sky, its cannon fire stitching glowing arcs across the perimeter. The air became a storm of tracers, shrapnel, and burning fragments. But none of it stopped the smallest threat of all. The last remaining KHS7 slipped into a blind wedge of airspace where Russian gunners refused to shoot. The angle was too tight. The backdrop too dangerous. One stray round at the wrong trajectory could ricochet toward the reactor dome. That hesitation measured in heartbeats.