Every democracy faces a test: can institutions investigate the powerful? The answer reveals whether you have a state of law or a state of protection.

Ukraine faced this test in July 2025. The government claimed anti-corruption investigators were compromised by Russia. Raids came overnight. Legislation stripping the agencies of independence rushed through parliament. By morning, institutions investigating the president's circle would report to the president's appointee.

Then, teenagers with cardboard signs showed up. "F*ck corruption," their handmade posters read.

The thousands of GenZs outside Zelenskyy's residence this July probably couldn't explain the technical details of how Ukraine's National Anti-Corruption Bureau (NABU) works. But they understood something fundamental: when your government cracks down on anti-corruption investigators amid a war, you show up.

"If NABU is leashed, the corruptioners walk free," read one such cardboard sign as thousands gathered to protest against legislation stripping NABU of its independence. International partners expressed alarm. Within a week, mass demonstrations forced Zelenskyy to reverse course and restore NABU's independence.

Why Zelenskyy attacked Ukraine's anti-corruption agencies

At the time, it was not immediately clear what motivated Zelenskyy to torpedo the anti-corruption infrastructure created as part of Ukraine's EU integration obligations—and by doing so, to implode the EU's secret plan to bypass Hungary's veto in opening accession negotiations with Ukraine.

However, journalistic investigations offered a compelling explanation: NABU finally reached Zelenskyy's inner circle. One of the suspects was reportedly Tymur Mindich, Zelenskyy's former comedy studio business partner, birthday party guest, and longtime friend.

Throughout the summer and fall, Ukrainian media outlets spoke in hushed tones about "the Mindich tapes"—audio recordings allegedly captured by NABU surveillance in Mindich's apartment on vul. Hrushevskoho, where Zelenskyy once celebrated his birthday.

NABU and the Specialized Anti-Corruption Prosecutor's Office neither confirmed nor denied their existence. Opposition politicians referenced them cryptically. Anti-corruption activists warned they could be "Ukraine's new Melnychenko tapes"—a comparison to the recordings that sparked massive protests, damaging President Kuchma's presidency in 2001.

On 10 November, NABU unveiled "Operation Midas"—15 months of investigation, over 1,000 hours of surveillance recordings, and charges against seven people in a corruption scheme that treated Ukraine's state nuclear operator Energoatom like a personal ATM machine. The alleged mastermind, according to audio excerpts NABU released: Tymur Mindich.

The Mindich tapes were real. And they documented exactly the kind of high-level corruption the July crackdown was designed to bury.

Tymur Mindich: From Kolomoisky's youngest partner to Zelenskyy's inner circle

To understand why Zelenskyy risked Ukraine's European integration to protect one man, you need to know who Tymur Mindich is—or more precisely, who he became.

From Kolomoisky's shadow to presidential power

Mindich entered Ukraine's oligarchic world as the youngest partner of Ihor Kolomoisky, managing media assets while the controversial businessman built his empire through PrivatBank and vast holdings. While Kolomoisky amassed billions, Mindich played a supporting role—"bringing branded clothing to Ukraine," handling logistics, "conceptually holding part of Kolomoisky's assets," as business sources described it.

"He was never a player," one influential Ukrainian businessman told Ukrainska Pravda. "He could turn to the president with a request, but nothing more."

But Mindich possessed something more valuable than Kolomoisky's billions: genuine friendship with Volodymyr Zelenskyy.

The two men were co-owners of Kvartal 95, the comedy studio that launched Zelenskyy's entertainment career and eventually his political brand. Their relationship extended far beyond business partnership.

"The president could spend a weekend with him. Grill shashlik. Disconnect. Rest his soul," another influential source told Ukrainska Pravda. A different source called Mindich's role in the power architecture "a hotel, a restaurant, costumes"—maintaining the lifestyle that surrounded the presidency.

The visible signs of intimacy

The friendship became political early. In 2019, as Zelenskyy's presidential campaign reached its final stretch, he began using Mindich's armored Mercedes. During the COVID-19 pandemic in early 2020, journalists documented Mindich visiting the Presidential Office multiple times. When asked, Mindich explained he came "to help organize food deliveries during lockdown."

In January 2021, Zelenskyy celebrated his birthday in Mindich's apartment at 9a Hrushevsky Street—the same apartment where NABU would later install the surveillance devices that captured Operation Midas. Later that year, Mindich attended Presidential Office head Andriy Yermak's 50th birthday celebration at the state residence Synohora in the Carpathians.

Multiple sources in business circles said that Mindich also played a quiet but crucial role in personnel decisions. At the start of Zelenskyy's presidency, Mindich recommended Oleksiy Chernyshov when asked about him. "Tymur said he was a good guy," sources told Ukrainska Pravda.

That endorsement launched Chernyshov's rise from Kyiv regional governor in 2019 to Deputy Prime Minister by 2024—until NABU corruption charges ended his potential path to the premiership.

Wartime transformation: Energy and defense influence

After Russia's February 2022 invasion closed the Presidential District to public view, Mindich's alleged influence expanded dramatically. "He started making a lot of noise when he placed his people in the Cabinet," one business source told Ukrainska Pravda. "He actively invited people to his home. He proposed various schemes. There became a lot of him."

By 2024, sources across political, business, and law enforcement circles linked Mindich to Ukraine's most lucrative wartime sectors:

• Energy: Sources connected him to then-Energy Minister Herman Halushchenko (now Justice Minister), Environment Minister Svitlana Hrynchuk, and Agriculture Minister Vitaliy Koval. Even after mid-2025 Cabinet reshuffles, Hrynchuk moved to Energy and Halushchenko to Justice—maintaining network influence, sources said. His relative Leonid Mindich was detained in summer 2025 for allegedly taking "personal control" of procurement at state energy company Kharkivoblenergo in 2021.
• Defense: Fire Point defense company began receiving billion-hryvnia state contracts in 2024 for long-range drone production. In November 2024 alone, Fire Point received two contracts worth over 7 billion hryvnias ($170 million), according to defense sector sources. The company allegedly received funding from both Ukraine's budget and Western partners. After Mindich's name emerged publicly, management reportedly decided to sell part of Fire Point to a Saudi buyer.
• Banking: Sources said Mindich gained influence over nationalized Sens Bank through contacts with Vasyl Vesely, an unofficial curator. Vesely's family received a stake in Karpatnaftochim, Ukraine's largest petrochemical enterprise, in 2024—the same year assets were unfrozen.

"Right now in Ukraine, big money is made in only a few directions: defense (drones), energy, reconstruction, and call centers," one businessman told Ukrainska Pravda. According to numerous sources, Mindich was present in the first two.

The Russia connection and FBI interest

In September 2025, MP Yaroslav Zheleznyak published an investigation revealing Mindich operated a "mirror" diamond business in both Ukraine and Russia. The investigation found Mindich created a company in Russia after its initial aggression in 2015, continued as co-owner after the full-scale war began, and sold Russian laboratory diamonds abroad in 2022.

Ukraine's Security Service opened a case under Article 111-2—aiding an aggressor state.

Ukrainska Pravda reported in early November that Mindich could also have become the subject of an FBI money-laundering investigation, though US authorities have not confirmed any such probe. The speculation stems from the case of Oleksandr Horbunenko, a Ukrainian businessman wanted by NABU who was detained by US authorities in April 2025 and subsequently released under FBI protection—a move Ukrainian law enforcement sources interpreted as indicating cooperation with American investigators.

The oligarch who wasn't—until he was

By Zelenskyy's own 2021 anti-oligarch law, Mindich 2.0 qualified as an oligarch: media influence (Kvartal 95 co-owner), alleged control over strategic enterprises (Energoatom), participation in political life (presidential access), and significant assets.

"Tymur is a good organizer. He has direct access to the president. But he never had big money, and he was never a separate subject," one influential member of the informal "Privat" group recalled—the network that effectively ceased existing after Kolomoisky's arrest in late 2023, when the oligarch was charged with money laundering through Privabank, Ukraine's largest bank.

But surviving Kolomoisky's fall may have been Mindich's greatest achievement. As the oligarch's empire collapsed, his junior partner transformed presidential proximity into alleged influence over who gets contracts, who enters ministries, and who controls energy flows in a wartime nation where only a few sectors generate what businessmen call "big money."

NABU wiretaps expose Energoatom kickback scheme during Russian attacks

Over 15 months, NABU surveillance in Mindich's Hrushevsky apartment captured a protection racket at Energoatom—the company generating over half of Ukraine's electricity while Russia systematically struck substations powering nuclear plants.

Contractors faced what suspects called "Shlagbaum" (boom barrier): pay 10-15% kickbacks or watch payments freeze. One company allegedly received a 435 million UAH ($10.4 million) contract in 2025 after agreeing to the higher rate.

On tape, suspects used codenames: "Carlson" for Mindich, "Professor" for Halushchenko, "Rocket" for former energy minister advisor Ihor Myroniuk, "Tenor" for Energoatom security director Dmytro Basov. In June, "Carlson" expressed concern about investigations.

A month later, when discussing protective structures for nuclear facilities, "Rocket" replied: "I'd wait. But, f***, honestly, it's a shame to waste the money."

On 7-8 November, Russia targeted substations powering Khmelnytskyi and Rivne nuclear plants. Two days later, NABU unveiled Operation Midas, documenting how the Ukrainian president's friend ran a scheme to profit off protection contracts, decreasing Ukraine's chances to survive Russia's winter missile barrage with power in their flats—at least some of the time.

• Operation Midas key facts:
• Duration: 15 months of NABU surveillance (2024-2025)
• Evidence: Over 1,000 hours of audio recordings
• Kickback rate: 10-15% of contract values
• Total scheme value: $100 million in alleged kickbacks
• Suspects: 7 people charged, including former Energy Minister Herman Halushchenko
• Method: Contractors paid bribes or faced frozen payments ("Shlagbaum" barrier)

NABU documented how $100 million was processed through a money-laundering office in central Kyiv belonging to the family of Andriy Derkach—a former Ukrainian MP whom the US Treasury sanctioned in 2020 as "an active Russian agent" for election interference, and who now serves as a Russian senator.

Can Ukraine hold the powerful accountable?

NABU's release of the "Mindich tapes" answered any remaining questions about the reasons behind Zelenskyy's crackdown on the anti-corruption agency in July: the anti-graft bureau had reached his long-time friend.

Mindich fled Ukraine hours before NABU came to search his flat—somebody had tipped him off. NABU is studying who exactly and how Mindich could be returned.

President Zelenskyy addressed the investigation in general terms on 10 November, stating that "everyone who has constructed corrupt schemes, must face a clear procedural response." He did not mention Mindich or address the searches at former Justice Minister Halushchenko's residence.

Ukraine's anti-corruption infrastructure proved stronger than the president's attempts at gutting it to protect his inner circle this July. But the fabricated justification for that crackdown—claims that NABU was infiltrated by Russian spies—continues damaging the bureau's work.

Security forces arrested two agents during a raid to justify the crackdown on NABU. They are still being prosecuted on accusations anti-corruption activists say are fabricated.

Energy expert Oleh Savytskyi wrote that Operation Midas exposes what he calls "GULAG culture"—the Soviet-era mentality where energy sector managers, from mine directors to ministers, treated state assets as personal fiefdoms. The same networks have controlled Ukraine's energy sector through kickbacks and political protection across every presidency since independence.

"In Zelenskyy's case, there was a chance to change everything, and his first government even tried to change course from self-destruction to European integration," Savytskyi wrote. "But the deeply rooted corruption system won again, and the gang not only regained control over Energoatom but also attempted to control all key state energy companies, including Ukrenergo," the operator of Ukraine's entire power grid.

The pattern Savytskyi identifies: Halushchenko, Myroniuk, and others in the Midas investigation belonged to a group that previously controlled Energoatom under earlier administrations. They lost influence when Zelenskyy's first government attempted reforms, then regained control—turning wartime nuclear protection contracts into profit opportunities while Ukrainians endure 12-hour blackouts.

Will Zelenskyy learn from his failed July crackdown? Or will protecting networks trump institutional integrity—again?

NABU delivered accountability the president promised but avoided executing. Western partners watching—with €50 billion in EU assistance already at risk over anti-corruption failures—want to see whether investigations reach conclusions or stall protecting the powerful.

Zelenskyy has instructed that ministers of Justice Herman Halushchenko and Energy Svitlana Hrynchuk be dismissed. Mindich remains at large, reportedly in Israel and Austria. The Tsukerman brothers fled Ukraine.

In July, teenagers with cardboard signs forced a president to back down. In November, NABU proved why they were right. Whether Ukraine passes democracy's ultimate test—holding the powerful accountable—now depends on what happens in courtrooms, not just on streets.

Correction: an earlier version of this article said the Melnychenko tapes toppled the Kuchma administration. In fact, they merely damaged it—Kuchma stayed in power.

London's High Court finalized a ruling requiring oligarch Ihor Kolomoisky and his partner Hennadii Boholiubov to pay PrivatBank over $3 billion in compensation and legal costs.

The 10 November ruling marks the culmination of an eight-year legal battle that began when Ukraine nationalized the country's largest bank in December 2016 after discovering the oligarchs had siphoned approximately $5.5 billion—roughly 1.5% of Ukraine's 2014 GDP—through fraudulent loans to shell companies.

Ukraine spent billions recapitalizing the institution to prevent systemic collapse, a burden that fell on taxpayers while the oligarchs' assets remained largely intact abroad.

The judgment represents the largest banking fraud recovery in Ukrainian banking history, though enforcement remains uncertain given the complexity of the corporate structures and multiple jurisdictions involved.

The fraud that nearly collapsed Ukraine's banking system

Between 2010 and 2014, Kolomoisky and Boholiubov issued hundreds of loans to over 50 shell companies they secretly controlled, according to Justice Trower's 30 July ruling. These weren't real businesses—most had no operations, employees, or purpose except to receive money.

Those fraudulent loans were immediately transferred to corporate defendants in the UK and British Virgin Islands under the pretense of "prepayments" for goods that were never delivered. The court found the payments were never returned.

Cyprus served as the key pipeline, with PrivatBank's branch facilitating over $2.3 billion in foreign currency transfers. When loans came due, new fake loans were issued to repay old ones—creating an illusion of solvency while money flowed to accounts controlled by the oligarchs.

A 2017 audit by Kroll confirmed PrivatBank engaged in massive fraud before nationalization, with losses reaching $5.5 billion.

Why PrivatBank sued in London instead of Ukraine

Ukraine's Minister of Finance Serhii Marchenko welcomed the ruling as "an important step towards achieving justice," noting that it demonstrates that "Ukraine can successfully defend its position and interests on the international stage."

However, the London ruling also indicates that Ukraine was powerless to achieve this success at home.

PrivatBank filed its lawsuit in London's High Court in 2017, arguing Ukrainian courts couldn't deliver justice.

The bank's legal team told the court that Kolomoisky's "power and influence" made fair proceedings impossible in Ukraine.

The court found senior PrivatBank employees facilitated the scheme under direct orders from Kolomoisky and Boholiubov. Compliance failures weren't accidental—they were deliberate, driven by intimidation. Even National Bank of Ukraine officials faced threats when they investigated.

Justice Trower noted that Kolomoisky threatened NBU deputy governor Kateryna Rozhkova, telling her he was "a hungry tiger in a cage" with "very long arms" who could reach her anywhere.

Failed defenses and destroyed evidence

Kolomoisky and Boholiubov deployed multiple legal strategies that the court rejected.

Boholiubov claimed he acted independently from his longtime partner and suggested bank management orchestrated the scheme without his knowledge. The court found this implausible, noting he voted to reappoint the same management board after devastating audit reports exposed massive fraud.

Kolomoisky attempted a "free-choice extinction" defense, arguing PrivatBank's new management had voluntarily accepted the fraudulent transactions when signing 2016 financial statements. Justice Trower noted this argument was never properly pleaded and would have been rejected anyway.

Both oligarchs destroyed documents that could have served as evidence, withdrew their witness statements, and refused to testify under oath—leading the court to draw adverse inferences from their silence.

Collection challenges ahead

PrivatBank stated the oligarchs must pay by 24 November 2025, with interest accruing afterward if payment isn't made. The bank plans to pursue forced collection through the oligarchs' assets if they don't pay voluntarily.

But the court document notes that applications for appeal permission must be filed by 24 November, meaning no concrete final payment date can be established yet.

The oligarchs' assets have been under a worldwide freezing order since December 2017, when an English court issued an order for the worldwide arrest of their assets.

In February 2025, Ukraine's National Security and Defense Council imposed sanctions on both men, blocking their Ukrainian assets.

The BBC reported that due to Ukraine's sanctions, any recovered funds will be held in a client account at law firm Hogan Lovells in the UK until legal proceedings conclude. Given the enormous sum, complex corporate structures, and multiple jurisdictions involved, enforcement will likely be "prolonged," the court acknowledged.

Where the oligarchs are now

Kolomoisky has been in Ukrainian custody since September 2023 on charges of organizing contract killings and fraud. The BBC reported that a Kyiv court extended his detention until 14 December 2025 on 16 October.

Boholiubov left Ukraine in June 2024 using what investigators claim was an invalid passport. Journalists later discovered he's living in Vienna.

The London judgment came just over three months after Justice Trower's 30 July ruling that found the pair orchestrated "a brazen fraud that nearly collapsed Ukraine's entire banking system."

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Marauder's thumbs make micro-adjustments on the FPV controller, keeping the racing drone steady at 5 km above ground. On his screen: a speck against gray sky—the Russian reconnaissance drone. Its camera swivels, scanning for threats.

Too late. The pilot presses the button. Bang.

Both drones—Ukrainian interceptor and Russian spy—disappear in the detonation. The freeze frame on the screen shows the enemy's rearview camera catching its killer in the final millisecond. The team in the underground bunker cheers, but waits for confirmation. Minutes later, radar confirms: target down.

Around him in the underground bunker, two teammates have been managing their own screens: one tracking the target's coordinates across three monitors, another radioing compass directions to the sapper above, who's swiveling a directional antenna to keep their interceptor connected.

They've been doing this for months now—hunting Russian drones with drones, from positions the enemy can't see.

Teams like these have shattered Russia's air supremacy—saving countless Ukrainian military targets. Now they're Moscow's most wanted. Just one problem: you can't kill what you can't see underground.

It's a reversal that could reshape Ukraine's air defense calculus: instead of expensive missiles chasing cheap drones, cheap drones are now hunting expensive ones.

In this exclusive, I am granted the world’s first look inside the inner workings of an anti-aircraft team of the 113th Separate Kharkiv Territorial Defense anti-aircraft battery and the Volunteer unit “Phoenix” as they pioneered this underground drone warfare.

Russian eyes from above meet their match

Big Russian reconnaissance drones like the Orlan-10, Zala, and Supercam slip through Ukrainian defenses and patrol for hours deep in Ukrainian territory, guiding Iskander missiles and Lancet drones to devastate Ukrainian training grounds, logistical hubs, and civilian targets.

Until recently, Ukraine was powerless against these spy drones. Flying at altitudes of 4-5 km, above the range of MANPADs and anti-aircraft guns, demanding expensive anti-air missiles, the feared recon UAVs could loiter for hours, unhindered, spotting targets that Russian ballistic missiles would slam into minutes later.

Even if the Russian scouts got into range, Ukraine’s air defense teams were prohibited from attempting to shoot them down during the day, lest they themselves become a target.

Then came Ukraine's $600 interceptor drones—now hunting the $30,000-120,000 reconnaissance UAVs from underground bunkers the Russians can't target.

Best known for being the most promising solution to Russia’s Shahed drones swarms, they are now launched by air defense units from underground bunkers to down the recon drones that once traveled Ukrainian airspace with impunity.

Anti-aircraft positions like the 113th and Phoenix defend more than military assets. According to Ukrainian emergency service officials in the region, 90% of Russian airstrike targets are civilian—and these anti-aircraft (AA) teams are the only thing standing in the way.

Attack drones such as Shahed drones are pre-programmed with a route and target in mind. Prior to the drone launch, someone in Russia chooses a target they deem a priority.

Illya, a volunteer soldier of the Phoenix unit, callsign “Artist,” sees the pattern:

“Potentially, the target is something that they think is very important, but normally, they just hit civilians for some reason. Maybe that's the goal; in fact, I'm pretty sure it is."

A war of drones, they say

Russian tactics are evolving as fast as Ukraine’s defenses. “The enemy is not dumb; he's adjusting as well as we are to modern combat,” the Artist says. Russians now fly higher routes beyond gun ranges and deploy dummy drones—unarmed decoys that mimic real threats to distract AA teams, while armed drones threaten anyone who goes after them.

Furthermore, as soon as the Russian recon drone spots the AA team, an artillery strike may follow. "Currently, it is quite difficult to work from the ground."

“Who could have imagined that some bird [drone] would become one of the main offensive weapons five years ago?” asks Commander “Makhno,” a veteran of the 2014 Donetsk airport battle. When I interviewed him five months ago, he sat on a stationary ZU-23-3 autocannon, as part of an AA battery of the 113th Territorial Defense Brigade. That gun is now mobile.

This position? Home to the next evolution in anti-aircraft warfare—FPV interceptor drones.

First Sergeant Yuriy, callsign “Fly,” watched drone warfare evolve firsthand.

• In early 2022, using drones was unprecedented.
• By mid-2022, it was standard—Fly flew a commercial Mavic 3 for scouting missions.
• Since then, drones have spread across every sector of warfare: FPV strikes, logistics runs, even ground-based operations.
• Anti-aircraft interceptor drones only emerged in mid-2024 and became scalable in early 2025.

Where does it go next? Fly predicts that by 2026, we'll see full drone-on-drone air warfare.

But the system has growing pains. The 113th is still experimenting with ways to cut costs and improve operations. If an interceptor misses its target, the pilot must return it to base so someone can manually disarm the explosive charge.

If it hits? They need to buy a replacement drone. Each interception burns through equipment one way or another.

A Truck, a Docent, and an Artist walk into a bunker

An interceptor drone team runs on three roles: pilot, navigator, and sapper. The Phoenix soldiers training here today—Truck, Docent, and Artist—are cross-training across all three positions, giving me a complete view of how the system works.

Sapper

Truck is learning the sapper role. He assembles the interceptor step-by-step: wires zip-tied to a ten-inch carbon fiber drone, four propellers tightened onto motors, a large capacity battery velcroed into position.

Finally, the explosive charge mounts to the underside, its detachable detonator dangling loose. Truck and his trainer Snake carry the drone to a launch point away from the bunker and wait for the command to arm it.

When command gives the order, Truck attaches the battery, confirms connection to the bunker, and arms the charge by inserting the detonator.

But the sapper’s job does not end there. Truck also operates the directional antenna on top of the bunker—critical for maintaining the drone’s connection. The signal projects in a narrow beam, and the farther the drone flies, the more precise Truck’s aim must be.

He relies on constant radio updates from the navigator below, adjusting the antenna based on compass directions alone.

Navigator

First Sergeant Fly trains Docent on the navigator role.

Three screens sit in front of them: a live map tracking all aerial targets above a certain altitude, a Ukrainian radar feed, and a zoomed-in satellite map. All are required to accurately guide the pilot sitting right next to him.

The radar feed catches launches from Russian soil and tracks their general position as they enter Ukrainian airspace. The aerial target map displays airspeed, altitude, and signal emissions—helping identify the drone model.

The satellite map guides the intercept itself The FPV interceptor carries a swivel camera that can instantly point groundward.

Docent must match the landscape from the satellite image to what the drone’s camera sees, navigating purely by visual landmarks. A complicated task given that he must also relay the compass direction to the sapper above, so he could maintain a connection with the drone.

Pilot

The pilot’s job seems simpler—until the dogfight starts. When Ukrainian and Russian drones meet in the air, the pilot must pull off precise maneuvers with highly finicky drones. Marauder, the unit’s main pilot, moved from infantry to drone operations after combat injuries. The navigator guides him to the target area, but Marauder makes the final visual contact.

Finding the speck is just the start. Marauder learned FPV flying by striking virtual ground targets—and those same precision skills translate to hunting drones.

"It is vital to actually learn to work as you are hitting ground units because all these micrometrics in maneuvering, slowing down, and making a perfect angle to attack—that's what makes a successful interception."

Marauder trains Artist on the pilot role—the most demanding session I witness. The physical work is easier than handling explosives or juggling three screens, but mastering the precision flying takes far longer. FPV drones crash easily. The controls are unintuitive. And for a volunteer unit funding most of its own equipment, every crashed training drone is money lost.

So they start with video games. Artist boots up Liftoff, an FPV flight simulator from LuGus Studios. The program's realistic physics engine lets pilots practice the tiny adjustments—speed changes, approach angles, attack runs—without destroying real equipment. Ukrainian armed forces units have widely adopted it for drone training.

War games

What does an actual intercept look like? Ukrainian radar tracks the Russian drone from launch. The team gathers around their monitors as the sapper carries the interceptor to a launch point far away from the bunker.

He connects the battery, arms the explosive, and moves to the directional antenna. The navigator radios command for clearance. Approved. The pilot fires up the drone—FPV propellers whirring to life.

The interceptor could climb over 2,000 meters, but the pilot keeps it low. The navigator needs to match ground features on screen to the satellite map, guiding the drone toward the target zone. Approaching the intercept area, the pilot scans his screen repeatedly, hunting for a tiny speck against the open sky.

Visual contact. Now it becomes a dance between two pilots. Russian reconnaissance drones often don’t notice the small Ukrainian interceptor approaching—but not always. Marauder says Zala reconnaissance drones now carry rearview cameras to spot pursuers. During the chase, the navigator coordinates with the sapper topside, calling out quick antenna adjustments to keep the signal strong while the pilot maneuvers unimpeded by signal lag.

When the pilot closes in, he flicks a switch on the controller. Boom. Detonation. Artist jokes they’ll start marking their controllers the way pilots mark their fuselages—one kill at a time.

This is just the beginning

"That's the reality; welcome to it. Right now, potentially, anyone can be a lethal weapon with a drone, right? That's drone warfare, unfortunately,” Artist says.

The technology has opened new paths for wounded soldiers. Marauder, Fly, and Snake can no longer fight as infantry—but they can hunt Russian drones from below. Interceptor drones won’t replace gun batteries.

“A bullet is a bullet,” Fly says. But the interceptors save lives, stretch manpower, and force Russia into a calculation: spend more money sending drones, or accept surveillance gaps.

Cross-training between gun crews and drone operators creates another advantage. "It gives you perspective," Artist says. "You learn how the different systems operate."

The advantage is practical: understanding both gun operations and drone piloting means you can predict what the other side will do. Drone pilots who've worked gun crews know the evasion tactics. Gun crews who've flown drones know where pilots are vulnerable.

The two systems complement each other, Fly says. Gun teams can't operate during daylight when Russian reconnaissance drones patrol overhead. Interceptor drones struggle at night when spotting targets becomes nearly impossible. Together, they cover the gaps—protecting both military positions and the civilians Russia increasingly targets.

This is just the beginning for interceptor drones. The 113th and Phoenix innovators are already experimenting with improvements—better range, faster interception, lower costs. Now it's a race to scale the technology before Russia adapts—because every drone they down is a missile strike that never happens.

An 84-year-old woman was killed by a Russian drone in Kherson Oblast on 20 October while tending to her goats—just weeks after explaining to an American journalist why she refused to evacuate despite daily attacks on civilians.

Such drone attacks occur each day in Ukrainian regions within the range of the small FPV drones, with Russians intentionally targeting civilians. This September, the UN confirmed that this Russian systematic civilian killing campaign amounts to a crime against humanity.

Larysa Vakuliuk, known locally as Baba Lora or Grandma Lora, was walking with two goats in the Antonivka neighborhood of Kherson when a Russian FPV drone struck them. She died instantly. Both goats were also killed.

"Her legs were blown off, she was blown to pieces," said Zarina Zabrisky, the American journalist who interviewed Vakuliuk in September.

Kherson's Main Directorate of the National Police confirmed the death on 21 October.

"She was a tiny little lady that showed up near Antonivka, such a curious figure, dressed in a white, almost starched shirt, with bright eyes and a whimsical smile," Zabrisky, who is now in Kherson, told Euromaidan Press. She found out about the death of Lora from the local Telegram channel.

"I've seen a lot of deaths in my three-and-a-half years of reporting on the war, but this one really got to me. I was so angry, I was banging my fists off the wall."

The most cynical part is that the Russians see the civilians and deliberately target them, Zabrisky said: "They kill them while seeing them. They see that it's a little old lady."

Sadism is part of it, but the civilians and animals also become training targets for the Russians. Military sources told Zabrisky that the Russians have a pilot school in Rostov-on-Don, the graduates of which are sent to occupied Ukraine near Kherson to practice.

That's why the Russian drone pilots hit goats, dogs—and old ladies.

However, the FPV drones are only one small part of the deadly arsenal with which Russia strikes Kherson: Zabrisky says that they hit the city each hour, destroying a block a day with aerial bombs, artillery, mortars, and even Shahed drones—usually reserved for long-range attacks.

"All are scared, but each has hope"

In her September interview with Zabrisky, Vakuliuk explained why she stayed in Antonivka despite the constant threat. She had over 20 goats and felt responsible for them. Russian shelling had already destroyed her house, as well as nine apartments nearby.

"I'm ancient. What should I be afraid of? Everyone is afraid. All are scared, but each has hope," Vakulyuk told Zabrisky.

I can’t. The monsters killed her.

I spoke to her a few weeks ago. For f^^* sake. God damn, god damn them, god damn Russians.

Burn in hell https://t.co/yfChLvcGPb

— Zarina Zabrisky (@ZarinaZabrisky) October 20, 2025

She also shared a grim observation, sharing that all the cattle herders who herded cows in the village have already been killed by Russian attacks.

Most people who remain in Kherson live in basements due to the heavy Russian shelling, Larysa Vakuliuk told Zabrisky in September. They have nothing but their chickens, yet they stay, "because it's their own."

"You should help us, from America," Vakuliuk implored.

Kherson's "human safari"

Vakuliuk's death is part of what the UN Commission of Inquiry on Ukraine has documented as deliberate, systematic attacks on civilians with short-range drones—strikes that constitute crimes against humanity of murder and war crimes of attacking civilians.

In findings released on 22 September 2025, the Commission concluded that Russian forces operating from the left bank of the Dnipro use drones with real-time tracking to pursue individuals, drop explosives directly on them, and attack civilian vehicles.

"The circumstances of the attacks show the perpetrators' intention to kill, harm and destroy," said Erik Møse, chair of the inquiry.

The Commission documented drone assaults across Kherson, Dnipropetrovsk, and Mykolaiv oblasts, spanning more than 300 kilometers of front-line territory. Russian forces killed 133 civilians and injured 1,350 between July and October 2024 alone in what locals call "human safaris."

By spring 2025, Kherson residents reported up to 100 drone attacks daily. Civilian casualties from explosive weapons in Ukraine rose by 40 percent in the first eight months of 2025 compared to the previous year, with drone strikes representing a growing share.

"Drones chase us, we hide from them," one Kherson resident told UN investigators. "Drones sit on rooftops, and if they see something, there will be consequences."

The Commission also reported that ambulances, fire engines, and other emergency responders bearing visible markings were struck, preventing life-saving work in the aftermath of attacks.

Documenting the hunt

Zabrisky has been documenting Russia's systematic targeting of Kherson civilians since July 2024, when she first reported on the "human safari" in international media.

Her documentary film "Kherson: Human Safari," released this year, captures life in Kherson Oblast during Russia's full-scale invasion. The film was shot between September 2023 and June 2025 and is available for free viewing at khersonhumansafari.com.

The documentary features testimony from Kherson residents, including artist Alyona Maliarenko and composer Borys Hoina, alongside footage of drone attacks on civilians.

"When civilization is in decline, and your city is in ruins—what do you do to survive... and remain human?" Zabrisky asks in the film.

Russia has occupied the left bank of the Dnipro River in Kherson Oblast since retreating from the city of Kherson in November 2022. The city remains under constant artillery, missile, and drone attacks from Russian forces across the river.

I can’t. The monsters killed her.

I spoke to her a few weeks ago. For f^^* sake. God damn, god damn them, god damn Russians.

Burn in hell https://t.co/yfChLvcGPb

— Zarina Zabrisky (@ZarinaZabrisky) October 20, 2025