At 03:45 hours, local time, at secret launch sites in Odessa, Ukrainian UAV crews were preparing for a key strike aimed directly at Saki airbase, a target 190 miles away on the Crimean Peninsula.
Saki is the base of the 43rd Naval Attack Aviation Regiment of the Black Sea Fleet, where Russia stations Su-24 bombers and Su-30 fighters.
More importantly, it is also a vital link in Russia’s air power network for protecting the skies over Crimea.
In just 1 hour, Ukraine would make sure those Russian fighters would never take off again.
And ironically, what would set the warplanes Russia had always proudly called among the best in the world on fire was nothing more than Ukraine’s cheap UAVs.
At exactly 03:52 hours local time, the commander of the UAV control crew gave the order to launch the AN-196 Lyut was from a camouflaged runway.
The first aircraft took off at 50 mph then quickly accelerated to 110 mph to stabilize after leaving the ground.
Every 30 seconds, the remaining 24 Lyuts continued accelerating and taking off toward the southeast, where Russia’s Su-24s and Su-30s were parked waiting for bombing missions.
Once the launch phase was complete, the control crews immediately withdrew quickly along secret roads in the darkness, shut off all lighting systems, and activated thermal sensor blocking measures.
They understood very clearly that in just 1 minute, once Russia detected these unusual signals, the launch area would immediately be struck by Russian artillery, missiles, or suicide reconnaissance UAVs.
At the same time, the 25 AN-196 Lyuts had dropped to an altitude of 240 ft above the sea and were racing southeast.
They quietly followed the darkness of the Black Sea like small black dots crawling beneath the eyes of the entire Crimean air defense network.
On Russian radar screens, only a few very weak signals appeared, flickered, and then disappeared near the radar horizon.
But that very abnormality immediately caught the attention of the Russian duty crew.
Too slow to be cruise missiles, too low to be fighter jets, and with a radar cross-section too small to immediately confirm as real targets.
Only seconds later, the warning signal was transferred into Crimea’s air defense network.
Target data was quickly pushed to the S-400 Triumph system positioned in Sevastopol.
The long-range defensive layer Russia believed was strong enough to lock down the skies over Western Crimea.
In theory, the S-400 was an almost impenetrable air defense fortress.
The 91N6E Big Bird surveillance radar could search for targets from very long distances.
The 92N6E fire control radar could track multiple targets at the same time.
And the interceptors inside the vertical launch tubes could reach out to 300 miles.
The 48N6E3 missiles in those vertical launch tubes could reach up to 150 miles and intercept targets at an altitude of 100,000 ft.
With a system like that, Russian officers believed Ukrainian UAVs should have been shot down at the outer edge of Crimea.
But the battlefield does not operate according to advertised numbers on paper.
It operates according to the curvature of the earth, ground clutter, sea surface reflections, and every second of human reaction time.
At an altitude of only 240 ft above the sea, the Lutaeus almost turned the radar horizon into a natural shield.
A ground-based radar can be extremely powerful when looking up into the high sky, but it struggles when searching for small targets skimming just above the sea surface.
Every wave, every strip of low land, every coastal structure, and every reflected signal can turn the radar screen into a chaotic field of clutter.
It is like a soldier looking up to find aircraft in the sky while the real threat is crawling close to the ground right beneath his feet.
The S-400’s X-band fire control radar, operating in the 8 to 12 GHz range, is extremely effective at tracking fighter aircraft at high altitude.
But the problem was that the 25 Liuti is were not flying as one mass.
They spread out into multiple small approach directions, forcing Russian radar to distinguish which signals were real UAVs, which were background clutter, and which were only false returns created by the terrain.
Every second of hesitation shortened the distance between the UAV formation and Saki.
The next defensive layer was Buk-M3, a system used not only to intercept medium-range targets, but also to shield the S-400 Triumph itself when threats slipped inside the long-range defensive zone.
Buk-M3’s 9S36 radar could support detection and guidance against low-flying targets, while its 9M317M missile could intercept targets at ranges of up to 40 miles.
But in this situation, the problem was no longer range, the problem was time.
From the moment the UAV signal became clear on the screen to the moment the missile left the launcher, the Russian combat crew still needed at least 6 seconds to receive the radar signal, identify the target, transfer the data, rotate the launcher, and give the firing order.
That may sound very short, but against a low-flying target closing in at 110 mph, those few seconds could become a matter of survival.
The Ukrainian UAVs could cover 1.
2 miles in only 40 seconds.
If Buk-M3 only saw the target clearly when it was already very close, the real reaction window was almost choked shut.
The missile still had range, the radar was still operating.
The combat crew was still sitting in front of the screen.
But everything was happening too close, too low, and too fast for the system to respond the way it was drawn on the operational map.
That was exactly what Ukraine was aiming for.
They only needed to push it into a situation where a delay of just a few seconds was enough to tear open the entire defensive layer in front of Saki.
And by then, everything was already too late.
At 04:48 hours local time, the first eight AN-196 Lutyus slipped through the final defensive layer in western Crimea and raced straight into the radar area protecting the approach to Saki.
The first explosions tore through the air defense position near Sevastopol.
The 92N6E fire control radar, the command vehicle, and the support equipment around it were swallowed by a column of fire.
A system designed to control the sky from hundreds of miles away had now been knocked down at exactly its most vulnerable point.
The final few miles before the target.
Once the most important link of the S-400 was broken, the remaining Lutyus immediately shifted to the second target.
The Su-24 and Su-30 parking area at Saki airbase.
These were the aircraft Russia used to maintain pressure over the Black Sea and threaten Ukraine’s defensive lines in the south.
But when they were sitting motionless on the ground, they were no longer symbols of air power.
>> >> They were only large blocks of metal filled with fuel, ammunition, and electronics.
Almost impossible to hide from electro-optical sensors.
Within minutes, the aircraft parking area began to burn.
Fuel trucks, maintenance equipment, and auxiliary compartments around the Su-24s and Su-30s detonated in a chain reaction.
For Ukraine, this was not only a strike on a few aircraft, it was a strike on Russia’s ability to sustain air attacks across the entire Crimean direction.
And that was only the first part of the attack.
By 04:52 hours local time, as black smoke was still rising from the S-400 radar area, the next wave of Liutiyas pushed deeper into Saki.
At this point, Russian Buk-M3 crews tried to fill the gap the S-400 had just left behind.
9M 317M missiles left their launchers and raced into the low sky at supersonic speed.
But the problem was no longer how fast the missiles could fly.
The problem was whether they still had enough time to lock onto the right targets.
The Ukrainian UAVs did not rush in along one single path.
They split into multiple small directions, forcing Russian radar to keep switching tracks, classifying targets, and setting priorities.
Some signals appeared and then vanished behind the terrain background.
Others showed up for only a few seconds before dropping close to the sea surface.
For the Russian operators, every delayed decision meant another Liutiy had moved closer to the aircraft parking area.
Buk-M3 began firing continuously.
9M317M missiles left their launchers and dived into the low airspace in front of Saki at Mach 3.
8.
Their proximity fuses were set to detonate within 15 ft of the target.
But under these conditions, flying close was not enough.
Four missiles flashed past the Liutiy formation, but failed to create a fragment cloud dense enough to tear the UAVs apart.
Two others were pulled off by reflections from the sea surface, low terrain, smoke from the S-400 site that had just been hit, and metal structures around the airfield.
Buk-M3 was still firing, but every shot was like throwing a spear into a gray curtain that kept shifting.
Meanwhile, the thermal sensors of the AN-196 Lyutius saw Saki Airbase in a completely different way.
Against the cold pre-dawn background, every heat source stood out.
Fuel trucks, recently active engines, electrical equipment clusters, maintenance zones, and the Su-24s and Su-30s sitting still on the parking apron.
The UAVs selected their targets one by one.
One struck the fuel truck area, another drove into a maintenance equipment cluster.
The next ones aimed directly at the rows of Su-24s and Su-30s where the aircraft were parked close enough for one explosion to trigger multiple secondary fires.
When the Lyut II warheads detonated, fire swept across the parking area like an orange wall.
Fuel ignited.
Debris tore across the runway surface.
One Su-24 caught fire along its fuselage.
One Su-30 was pierced near the wing.
The surrounding ground vehicles continued exploding, turning each small fire point into a spreading chain of flames.
By 04:57 hours local time, Saki Airbase had become a sea of fire.
Buk-M3 had fired heavily, but it had brought down only 12 of the Lyut II formation.
The remaining 13 still punched through the final defensive layer and hit their targets.
For Ukraine, that was enough.
They did not need to destroy the entire Crimean air defense network.
They only needed to make it a few seconds slower than the real battlefield, and those few seconds were enough to set Saki on fire.
Sometimes, what defeats an air defense system is not a more advanced weapon.
It is numbers, tempo, and pressure pushed onto it all at once.
After the S-400 position near Sevastopol was hit, Russia understood that a dangerous hole had been torn open in the western Crimea defensive layer.
So, at 04:55 hours local time, all remaining systems around the Saki approach route were ordered to fire at maximum capacity.
Buk-M3 held the intermediate interception layer.
Pole 21 began covering satellite signals and control channels with jamming.
In the innermost ring, 2S38 Derivatsiya systems had already turned their 57 mm cannon barrels toward the low flight path, ready to create a dense fire layer in front of any target that broke through.
On the operational map, it was still a terrifying air defense network, but in reality, that network had just lost its most important eye and was now facing a problem it was not designed to solve easily.
Too many small targets appearing at the same time.
The AN-196 Lyutius did not rush in as one single formation.
They split into multiple small groups approaching from different angles, sometimes separating, sometimes crossing paths, sometimes merging back into the same direction.
On Russian radar screens, the UAV formation no longer looked like 25 separate targets.
It looked like a swarm of signals spilling through multiple gaps at once.
The problem was no longer detecting one UAV.
The problem was deciding which one was most dangerous, which one had to be fired at first, which one was only a decoy, and which one was racing straight toward the aircraft parking area.
As soon as one track was created, the formation changed angle.
As soon as one group was prioritized for interception, another had already slipped into a gap.
The fire control computer was not defeated by one target that was too powerful.
It was dragged into too many small decisions at the same time.
In a desperate effort, the Pole 21 system intensified its jamming, trying to choke the UAV’s navigation and communication signals.
But the Lyutius did not depend entirely on one single control source.
They could still keep flying through inertial data, pre-programmed routes, and terminal phase self-correction.
Even more ironically, the strongest jamming zone unintentionally pointed toward the place Russia was trying hardest to protect.
Where Pole 21 interference was thickest was often also where air defense positions, fuel depots, command vehicles, or active aircraft parking areas were located.
Every cycle of detection, classification, target assignment, and fire preparation required time.
But the Lutye formation did not wait for the Russian system to complete that calculation.
With every short second, they kept moving closer to Saki, forcing air defense crews to fire faster, choose targets more hastily, and accept wider margins of error.
When Buk-M3 focused on one group, another shifted its approach direction.
When two S-38 Derivatsiya locked down one fire corridor, the UAVs behind it spread out.
When radar tried to redistribute targets, the formation crossed paths again, forcing the system to calculate from the beginning.
This was not yet the final moment of the attack.
This was the moment Russian air defense was stretched to its limit.
Before the final Lutyus rushed into the Su-24 and Su-30 parking area, the network protecting Saki had been forced to process too many directions, too many signals, and too many decisions at the same time.
And in modern war, sometimes making the enemy a few seconds slower is enough to turn a heavily protected base into a target that can no longer save itself.
At 05:02 hours local time, when the AN-196 Lutye groups were still 14 miles from the main fuel depot area of Saki airbase, Russian air defense began firing with everything it had left.
And the Russian air defense crews began to understand why Ukrainian UAVs had become such a terrifying obsession.
The S-400 immediately launched 8 9M96 E missiles and brought down eight Luiches in the first firing sequence, a perfect interception rate.
Buk-M3 continued by launching eight-nine M317M missiles and shot down seven more.
When Pole-21 intensified its jamming at high power, four UAVs drifted out of formation, lost their optimal approach path, and were removed from the final attack phase.
In the innermost ring, two S-38 Derivatsiya systems poured 57-mm fire into the low sky, creating red streaks of fire across the flight path and bringing down four more Luiches before they could close in on the base.
On the report sent back to headquarters, the numbers looked almost impossibly good.
Russia had intercepted most of the UAV formation.
Each defensive layer had gradually eliminated Ukraine’s unmanned aircraft.
But the problem was that war does not end on a statistics board.
After all those missile launches, electronic jamming, and dense walls of fire, enough Luiches still punched through the defensive layer and raced straight towards Saki’s main fuel depot area.
That was what made the strike so dangerous.
If the aircraft parking area was where Russia’s air power could be seen, then the fuel depot was where that power was kept alive.
The Su-24s could still be sitting intact on the runway.
The Su-30s might not have been directly destroyed.
But if the fuel depot, pumping lines, refueling trucks, and distribution station were hit, all the remaining aircraft would become nothing more than decorations.
At 05:04 hours local time, the six remaining Luiches rushed into the tank area and fuel supply routes from multiple angles.
The first explosions tore through the concrete ground, threw ground vehicles into the air, and ruptured fuel pipelines.
Only seconds later, small fire points began connecting into one long strip of flames.
Fuel ignited first, then came the technical vehicles, pump clusters, distribution station, and auxiliary storage areas around the depot.
The fire did not erupt from one single point.
It appeared in multiple places at the same time, making it impossible for Russian firefighters to identify which area had to be prioritized first.
At 05:06 hours, local time, the next loochy wave struck the refueling vehicle area and support structures near the depot.
The shockwave rolled across the canopies, blew open metal doors, tore through internal roads, and pushed debris into the logistics area.
Black smoke spread across the fuel zone, blocking the movement routes of fire trucks, and dividing the entire area into multiple separate fire zones.
By the end of the attack wave, the paradox of Saki was clear.
On paper, Russia could claim it had intercepted most of Ukraine’s UAVs, but on the ground, the main fuel depot, pumping lines, refueling trucks, auxiliary storage area, and support structures around the base were all burning.
That was the difference between a beautiful interception rate inside headquarters and the reality of the battlefield.
Russia could shoot down many UAVs, but if only a few broke through at the right location, the entire operating rhythm of Saki airbase could still be turned into a sea of fire.
When the Russians thought this morning’s attack was beginning to subside, Ukraine delivered the final blow against the most dangerous target still remaining, the airport operations building and Crimea’s air defense system.
This was the place that connected flight data, runway information, radar warnings, ground communications, and air defense coordination orders around the Saki area.
This operations building was also what kept the entire base able to see, hear, and react.
At 05:08 hours, local time, while The was still spreading through the main fuel area.
Russia activated the final protective layer around the operation zone.
The Krasukha 4 electronic warfare system began intensifying its jamming around the central area trying to disrupt UAV communication channels, navigation signals, and sensor data.
In theory, this was the defensive layer built to counter targets dependent on guidance and electronic links.
Any UAV relying completely on external signals could lose direction, drift away from its target, or fall out of formation.
But the AN-196 Lyutiy did not fly by one signal alone.
They continued relying on inertial guidance, pre-programmed routes, electro-optical sensors, and terminal phase image recognition.
They did not need to ask, “What are my exact coordinates?” They only needed to identify “Where is the operations building? Where is the internal road? Where is the antenna cluster? Where is the command vehicle area? And where is the
communication center?” At continuous processing speed, the Lyutiy sensors read every sign on the ground, roof edges, technical fences, communications antenna clusters, the shadows of command vehicles, cable routes, concrete yards, and abnormal heat points around the operations area.
Krasukha 4 could jam external signals, but it could not erase the real shape of Saki airbase from the eyes of the sensors.
Russia had prepared decoys around this area.
False heat sources, fake vehicles, fake antennas, and equipment clusters placed off-center to pull the UAVs away from the main target.
But those misleading details were recognized very quickly.
The shadows were wrong.
The heat trace did not match a real generator.
The fake antennas lacked auxiliary cable clusters.
The distance between structures did not match the base layout already loaded into memory.
The decoys were ignored.
By around 0509 hours local time, the jamming intensity around the operations area increased sharply.
But that itself unintentionally revealed the place Russia was trying hardest to shield.
The area under the heaviest jamming was not an empty zone.
It was where the remaining communications routes, command vehicles, flight coordination equipment, and air defense data links were located after the S-400 had been hit.
The Lyutits began assigning targets among themselves.
One locked onto the main operations building.
Another marked the communications antenna cluster.
A third aimed at the auxiliary power station and backup generators.
The remaining aircraft divided up the command vehicle routes, equipment rooms, and data connection points between the airfield and Crimea’s air defense network.
At 0511 hours local time, the strike began.
The UAVs carrying penetrating warheads drove into the hard points of the building.
Reinforced doors, equipment rooms, the communications coordination area, and the rear connection line.
Others struck the auxiliary power station, command vehicles, antenna clusters, and backup generators around the concrete yard.
The first explosion blew open part of a side entrance.
The second struck the communications equipment area.
The third cut across the cable route behind the building.
In the first few seconds, the structure did not collapse immediately.
It reacted more slowly.
Glass shattered, doors burst open, black smoke blasted out from the ventilation slots, and then small explosions began echoing inside.
Power cabinets, communication servers, control panels, encryption equipment, cables, and backup electrical systems began burning in a chain reaction.
As the temperature rose inside the enclosed rooms, control screens went dark.
Switches lost connection.
Radar data became intermittent.
Communication channels between the airfield, air defense crews, and firefighting units fell into chaos.
The operations building did not create a giant fireball like the fuel depot, but its damage was deeper in a different way.
It struck the thing that allowed the base to reorganize after chaos.
Communications, coordination, warning, command, and the ability to restore control.
By 05:12 hours local time, the final strike was complete.
The fuel depot was still burning, the aircraft parking area was still covered in smoke, and now the airport operations building and the remaining links of Crimea’s air defense system had also been hit.
Saky had not only lost fuel, it had not only lost aircraft, it had lost the ability to coordinate its own rescue.
That is the difference between destruction and paralysis.
Destruction is burning a target on the ground.
Paralysis is striking the place that gives orders, the place that communicates, and the place that coordinates the response.
And that morning, Ukraine did both.
The consequences of this strike were not only in the columns of smoke rising from Saky airbase.
Militarily, Ukraine had hit multiple critical links at the same time.
At least four aircraft hangers at [clears throat] Saky were destroyed or heavily damaged.
The main fuel depot caught fire.
The airport operations building was struck.
And the ability to coordinate air defense around the Saky area was thrown into serious disorder.
But the greater damage lay in the defensive layer protecting all of Crimea.
Two launchers or components of the S-400 system were disabled.
Two Pantsir-S1 systems in the Kerch Strait area were also hit.
This was especially dangerous for Russia because Pantsir-S1 is the close-range protective layer for radars, launchers, and important logistics targets.
When both S-400 and Pantsir were worn down, the sky over Crimea was no longer the absolute safe zone Moscow once believed it to be.
The attack also spread into coordination infrastructure.
The main substation in Sevastopol, which distributes electricity from the Balaklava thermal power plant, was knocked out causing a citywide blackout.
In modern war, losing power does not only mean losing light, it also means disrupted radar, communications, surveillance cameras, command systems, and the ability to coordinate a response after an attack.
Strategically, Ukraine was not only attacking with UAVs, they were attacking the structure of Russia’s defense in Crimea.
Every weekend S-400 system, every Pantsir-S1 removed from the fight, every fuel depot and power station hit tore another hole in the protective network around the peninsula.
This was also clear proof of Ukraine’s swarm warfare capability.
The AN-196 Lyutius did not need to defeat each air defense system with individual strength.
They only needed to appear in enough numbers, spread out widely enough, and arrive at exactly the right time to pull Russian radar, missiles, electronic warfare, and anti-aircraft guns into overload.
If only a few UAVs broke through, the damage could still become strategic.
The message to Moscow was very clear.
Crimea is no longer an untouchable fortress.
Bases like Saki or Hvardiiske, logistics routes, >> >> power stations, radars, and command posts once considered safely protected can now all become targets.
In the long run, Ukraine’s goal is not only to destroy a few pieces of equipment, it is to turn Crimea from a solid Russian rear area into a region that is constantly threatened, constantly forced to patch holes, and constantly consuming resources just to protect itself.
Every time Russia has to pull more air defense back to Crimea, disperse aircraft, or repair bases, its war rhythm slows down one more step.
That is the difference between an explosion and a paralysis campaign.
An explosion only burns a target.
This campaign made the entire Crimean defense system gradually lose its ability to see, react, and protect itself.
Thank you for watching until the end of the video.
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After this strike, do you think Russia will have to increase air defense in Crimea, disperse its aircraft, or take a long-term ceasefire agreement more seriously? Share your view, and let’s support peace for Ukraine.
Disclaimer : This content may be created by AI for entertainment purposes. Any resemblance to real persons, events, or places is coincidental.
