OPINION: Operation Polyphemus — Ukraine blinds Russia and opens the sky toward Moscow

The name of a Cyclops, the logic of a campaign

In Greek mythology, Polyphemus was the Cyclops that Odysseus blinded to escape his cave. On July 1, 2026, the Ukrainian Special Operations Forces — their Unmanned Systems unit, group Roni — revealed that they had been carrying this name for weeks, in secret, because the logic was exactly the same: destroy the enemy's eyes to strip away its capacity to see, react, and defend. Operation Polyphemus targeted the radar systems of the Bryansk region in Russia, with a precision and patience that, according to official Ukrainian statements, created an aerial corridor toward deep Russian territory. A corridor that long-range strike drones traveled — toward Moscow, toward Saint Petersburg, toward the port of Ust-Luga.

What Operation Polyphemus represents is not an isolated victory. It is the concrete manifestation of a military doctrine that has been maturing for months within Ukrainian command structures: use drone superiority to systematically destroy layers of Russian defense, create zones of vulnerability, then exploit them with deep strikes on high-value strategic targets. This is network warfare applied to real war — and it works. The figures published by Euromaidanpress on June 30, 2026 are eloquent: nearly 200 Russian air defense systems destroyed since the beginning of the year, 31 in June alone.

Polyphemus. Blinding the Cyclops. Ukrainians name their operations with a mythological precision that says something about their strategic intelligence. This is not poetry — it's an operational doctrine. And this doctrine works.

Bryansk as a strategic testing ground

The Bryansk region occupies a crucial geographic position in the drone war: it constitutes a buffer zone between Ukrainian territory and the Russian strategic depth, including Moscow. For a drone launched from Ukraine or from advanced Ukrainian positions in temporarily occupied Russian territory to reach Moscow without being intercepted, it must traverse the radar coverage of this region. These radars — long-range surveillance systems, fire-control radars for Pantsir and S-300/S-400 systems — constitute the first defensive curtain of Russia's strategic depth. Destroying them means blinding the air defense before the drones even enter the covered zone.

The Roni unit of the Ukrainian Special Operations Forces did exactly this — systematically, patiently, following the logic of an engineer rather than a warrior. Identify the radar systems, prioritize them according to their contribution to aerial coverage, and neutralize them one by one until exploitable gaps are created in the coverage. This methodical approach resulted in the documented corridor: "When the enemy loses its eyes, the sky opens for our long-range strikes," declared group Roni in its public communication. This is not rhetoric — it's the description of an operational result.

200 air defense systems destroyed in six months

The figure of 200 Russian air defense systems destroyed since the start of 2026 — including 31 in June alone, including Pantsir systems and two radars in Crimea in the last week of June — is staggering when put in perspective. Russia spent decades building one of the densest air defense architectures in the world. The S-300, S-400, Pantsir, Tor systems — developed and produced during the Soviet period and then modernized — were supposed to make Russian territory impenetrable to conventional airstrikes. Ukraine, without sufficient air force capability to conduct conventional missions deep inside Russian territory, circumvented this architecture by using drones that fly low, slowly, and in numbers — and by destroying the architecture itself before using it.

The pace of 31 destructions in June is also significant. It suggests acceleration — a scaling up of the campaign, an improvement of targeting and strike methods, and perhaps increased pressure on Russian replacement resources. Russia can replace its destroyed systems — but it takes time, industrial resources, and trained crews to operate them effectively. Each destroyed system is a lost investment and a gap in coverage that persists until replacement. At this rate, the map of Russian air defense looks less and less like a continuous shield and more and more like a block of cheese riddled with holes.

200 air defense systems in six months. 31 in June alone. These numbers don't make headlines like a major ground offensive — but they say something about how this war is actually being won. Not through spectacular breakthroughs. Through the methodical attrition of the adversary's defensive capability.

Zelensky confirms: the space communications center struck twice

On June 30, 2026, President Volodymyr Zelensky confirmed the second Ukrainian strike on the Dubna Space Communications Center, approximately 500 kilometers from the Ukrainian border. The first strike, on June 22, 2026, had damaged the main 32-meter MARK-IV antenna and the central control building. The second strike, a week later, deepened the damage to the facility. Zelensky described these strikes as "long-range sanctions" — a deliberately political formulation that positions Ukrainian precision strikes not as acts of blind warfare but as targeted and measured responses to Russian aggression, equivalent to economic sanctions in their logic of imposed cost.

The Dubna Center is not an ordinary military target. It is used for military communications, coordination of occupation forces, and Russian space intelligence. Its 32-meter antenna is part of the command and control infrastructure that allows the Russian military to maintain secure communications across the immensity of its military apparatus. Damaging this infrastructure degrades Moscow's capacity to coordinate its operations — to communicate in real time between central command and units deployed across a front thousands of kilometers long. This logic of striking command nodes is consistent with Operation Polyphemus: blind, then disorient.

500 kilometers of penetration: the new map of the war

500 kilometers from the Ukrainian border. This distance matters — it redefines what strategic depth means in this war. For a long time, the dominant logic in Western capitals was that Ukraine should strike only Russian military positions directly linked to attacks on Ukrainian territory — not infrastructure in depth, not logistical centers far from the front, and certainly not at 500 kilometers. This logic — politically understandable, strategically debatable — evolved under the pressure of ground realities. Ukraine has demonstrated that it can strike deep with precision, without uncontrolled escalation, and with measurable strategic impact.

The strike on Dubna is the most visible proof of this shift. But it fits into a larger picture: strikes on Moscow, on oil refineries in the Samara region, on deep ammunition depots, on military production facilities hundreds of kilometers from the front. Russia no longer has an absolute sanctuary on its own territory. This reality changes Moscow's military calculations: it forces a dispersal of critical infrastructure, increases the costs of protecting the rear, and imposes a psychological burden on populations in cities that believed themselves out of reach. This is not decisive alone — but it is significant.

Zelensky calls it "long-range sanctions." Brilliant politically — he presents a military strike on a site 500 km away as the equivalent of an economic sanction. The framing is strong. And on the substance, the logic is correct: impose a real cost on Russia's command capability, as a sanction imposes an economic cost.

Sensors for the missiles hitting Ukraine — now in smoke

On July 1, 2026, Euromaidanpress reported that a Ukrainian strike had hit the Penza Institute — the industrial facility that manufactures guidance sensors for the missiles used by Russia in its strikes on Ukrainian cities. This is not a trivial target. It is the logic of industrial warfare taken to its logical conclusion: if you cannot stop the missiles in flight — or if missile defense has a prohibitive cost — you destroy the factory that makes them. The Penza Institute is both a legitimate military target and a symbol: Russia has used these missiles to kill Ukrainian civilians for years, and Ukraine just struck the source.

This strike illustrates the evolution of Ukraine's deep-strike strategy: it no longer targets only ammunition depots or military bases. It targets the Russian war's industrial base — weapons factories, missile production facilities, military research centers. This strategy is consistent with a military thinking that extends over the long term: weakening Russia's industrial capacity to reconstitute its arsenals is as important as destroying the arsenals themselves. And the Ukrainians, with their long-range drones and refined intelligence on Russian industrial targets, have developed the capacity to conduct this industrial war from their own territory.

Mapping Russian industrial targets

The strike on the Penza Institute is not a lucky blow. It presupposes precise intelligence on the supply chain of the Russian armaments industry: which institutes and factories make which components, where they are located, what their physical vulnerabilities are, and what their priority level is in the military value chain. This industrial mapping work — conducted with the probable assistance of allied intelligence services — represents one of the most valuable capabilities that Ukraine has developed in this war. It transforms the drone war from a tactic of opportunistic strikes into a strategic industrial campaign.

The cumulative impact of this campaign is difficult to measure publicly, but several indicators suggest it is real. Russia has increased its purchases of munitions from North Korea and Iran — which suggests its domestic production is insufficient to cover its losses. It has relocated some of its military industrial production toward the Urals and Siberia — out of range of Ukrainian drones, but with the logistical costs that this relocation implies. These Russian adaptations say that Ukrainian strikes have had an effect significant enough to justify costly operational changes. That is the definition of a strategic campaign that works.

The factory making sensors for the missiles that kill Ukrainians is burning. I am not going to pretend to emotional distance on this point — this strike is just, documented, and militarily necessary. Striking the instruments of death is a form of defense.

How Ukraine became the world's leading military drone power

In 2022, Ukraine had no military drone industry to speak of. Four years later, it produces hundreds of thousands of FPV drones per month, has developed long-range drones capable of striking at 1,000 kilometers and beyond, and has created an operational doctrine — of which Operation Polyphemus is the most sophisticated expression — that integrates drones into every level of war: reconnaissance, targeting, strikes, electronic warfare, logistics. This transformation is not solely due to Western military aid — it comes from a unique combination of existential necessity, endogenous technological talent, and an extraordinarily agile innovation structure.

Ukrainian drone companies — Ukrarmor, Skyeton, UA Dynamics, and dozens of others — developed in a few months capabilities that Western defense industries would have taken years to produce through their acquisition processes. They did so because they received immediate feedback from the front: drone pilots sent daily reports on failures, necessary improvements, new Russian countermeasures. This accelerated innovation cycle — a combat-to-factory feedback loop in days rather than years — has produced rapid technological evolution that continues to surprise the Russian military.

Electronic warfare: the invisible arm-wrestling match

The drone war is also an electronic war. Russia has deployed GPS and communications jamming systems that render Ukrainian drones blind or uncontrollable. Ukraine has adapted: by developing navigation systems that do not rely solely on GPS, by perfecting vision-based autonomous navigation algorithms, by developing drones that can fly in formation and guide each other. Operation Polyphemus probably integrated these adaptations: if you destroy the enemy's radars, you also reduce its capacity to detect and target the jamming sources, creating a more favorable electromagnetic environment for the following strike drones.

This dimension of the electronic war is little visible in public reporting — but it is central to Ukraine's recent successes. The capacity to maintain a high level of drone strike efficiency despite Russian countermeasures is what makes Operation Polyphemus sustainable and not merely punctual. Each destroyed radar is also a potential electronic jamming system eliminated, each destroyed antenna is one less layer of passive electronic warfare. Victory in the drone war plays out as much in the electromagnetic spectrum as in the physical domain.

Electronic warfare is the invisible war. It has no spectacular photographs. No columns of smoke. But this is where much of the effectiveness of Ukrainian drones is determined — in the capacity to keep functioning despite Russian jamming. And this is where Ukraine continues to innovate faster than its adversary.

Strikes on Russian energy infrastructure

Operation Polyphemus facilitated strikes on the port of Ust-Luga, a major oil and gas installation in the Leningrad region on the Baltic Sea. Ust-Luga is one of the main export terminals for Russian petroleum products toward Europe and Asia — critical infrastructure in the Russian financial machine that funds the war. Striking Ust-Luga means hitting the oil valve on which Russia depends to finance its armies. This is economic war and military war converging into a single target.

Ukrainian strikes on Russian energy infrastructure — refineries, oil terminals, fuel depots — have, according to several analyses, cost Russia billions in reduced export capacity and repairs. These costs are difficult to quantify precisely, but their strategic logic is clear: Russia finances its war largely through hydrocarbon revenues. Reducing these revenues by striking the infrastructure that generates them is therefore directly equivalent to reducing Russian war capacity. And with the corridors opened by Operation Polyphemus, these targets are now within regular range of Ukrainian drones.

Crimea under growing pressure

Late June 2026 also saw Ukrainian strikes on air defense systems in Crimea — a Pantsir and two radars, according to Euromaidanpress reports. Crimea remains a priority target for Ukraine for several reasons. It serves as a logistical rear base for Russian operations in southern Ukraine. It houses crucial naval infrastructure, including the Sevastopol base of the Black Sea Fleet — although that fleet has suffered significant losses since 2022. And it is symbolically central to Putin's vision of Ukraine: its reconquest would be the clearest sign that the war is definitively turning against him.

Strikes in Crimea follow the same logic as Operation Polyphemus: methodically dismantle the air defense layer, create corridors, then exploit these corridors for precision strikes on high-value targets. The peninsula, whose air defense was considered particularly dense at the start of the war, is now far more vulnerable. This is the result of two years of systematic campaign — costly in resources and lives, but whose strategic results are now visible in every burning Pantsir and every radar that goes permanently dark.

Crimea losing its radars. Ust-Luga in flames. These are not isolated actions — it's a map being drawn, an architecture of Russian vulnerability built patiently by Ukrainian military engineers. Polyphemus is going blind. And Odysseus escapes.

Strikes on Moscow as a political message

Strikes on Moscow — made possible, in part, by the corridors opened by Operation Polyphemus — have a psychological and political dimension that exceeds their immediate military impact. Moscow is the capital, the symbolic and administrative heart of the Putin system. Sending drones there, triggering air defense alerts, damaging infrastructure — even modestly — contradicts the narrative that the regime has imposed on the Russian population: the war is out there, far away, everything is fine here. Every alert in Moscow is a crack in this narrative.

The psychological impact on the Russian population is difficult to measure from outside — independent Russian media operate in exile or underground, and public polls are unreliable in an increasingly authoritarian state. But indirect testimony — conversations on Russian forums, evacuation behaviors in border regions, queues at borders in the months following strikes — suggests that the reality of the war is beginning to penetrate the daily consciousness of Russians who have no relatives at the front. This is not decisive. But in a war of attrition, every element that erodes rear-area cohesion counts.

Information as a battlefield

The communication by the Roni unit on Operation Polyphemus — with its evocative name, its tactical explanations, and its imagery — is itself an information operation. It tells the world that Ukraine has sophisticated capabilities, that it thinks strategically, and that it advances despite three years of war. It tells NATO and Western allies that investments in military support are bearing fruit. It tells the Ukrainian population that its soldiers are winning, innovating, progressing. And it tells Russia that its territory is no longer a sanctuary — that even its most advanced defense systems are vulnerable to Ukrainian determination and ingenuity.

This strategic communication is not propaganda — it is based on verifiable facts: radars destroyed, corridors created, documented strikes on Dubna, Ust-Luga, Moscow, Saint Petersburg. The line between military communication and public communication has blurred in this war — and Ukraine has mastered the art of strategic communication better than any contemporary army. This is also a product of democratic freedom: the Ukrainian army can communicate on its successes because it is accountable to a civil society that demands accountability, in a democracy where the press is free.

The operation is called Polyphemus, and the unit talks about it publicly with precise tactical explanations. This is mastered strategic communication — not boasting. Ukraine knows that every documented success is political and moral capital for what comes next. And it is right.

Missiles on Ukrainian cities: the inability to respond otherwise

Faced with Ukraine's successes in deep strikes, Russia's main response remains what it has always been: massive missile and drone strikes on Ukrainian cities and infrastructure. This strategy of civilian population terrorism is morally condemnable and militarily revealing of tactical impotence. If Russia could effectively counter the Ukrainian drones striking its territory, it would. The fact that it responds by targeting civilians rather than protecting its own installations says something about its real capacity to contest Ukrainian drone superiority.

Russia has however developed adaptations. It has increased its purchases of Iranian Shahed drones, intensified the deployment of electronic warfare systems, and begun dispersing its critical infrastructure away from the borders. It has also used Kinzhal hypersonic missiles — difficult to intercept — to compensate for the vulnerability of its more conventional ballistic missiles against Ukrainian Patriot systems. These adaptations show an army that is learning — but more slowly than its adversary, and with industrial logistics that are beginning to show their limits.

Losses in air defense systems: a growing vulnerability

The loss of 200 air defense systems in six months is not trivial for Russia. These systems are expensive, slow to produce, and require trained crews to operate effectively. Their replacement involves an industrial priority — diverting resources from other programs — or increased dependence on allies. North Korea has supplied artillery ammunition; Iran has supplied drones. But advanced air defense systems are not manufactured in Yemen or North Korea. They require a sophisticated electronics and precision manufacturing industry that only Russia itself, or China, can supply.

China, until now, has avoided providing lethal weapons to Russia — under Western pressure and to protect its own economic interests with Europe and the United States. If this red line were to be crossed — if Beijing began supplying air defense systems to Russia — the implications for the effectiveness of Operation Polyphemus and its successors would be direct. This is why American policy designating Chinese companies, the pressure on dual-use technology transfers, and the monitoring of Chinese exports to Russia are directly linked to Ukrainian successes on the ground. The war in Ukraine and the Sino-American technology competition are two faces of the same issue.

200 systems destroyed. Russia cannot replace them fast enough alone. It looks toward Beijing. And this is precisely why American sanctions on Chinese technologies — the 1260H list, export controls — are not abstract. They have an address in Ukraine.

Long-range Western drones and the restrictions that remain

The success of Operation Polyphemus and Ukrainian long-range strikes has reignited debate in Western capitals about the limits imposed on the use of weapons supplied to Ukraine. The United States lifted, in 2025, certain restrictions on the use of ATACMS missiles against targets on Russian territory — but limitations remain on other systems. The United Kingdom and France gave Ukraine Storm Shadow/SCALP cruise missiles with progressively expanded use authorizations. But some systems — notably German Taurus missiles — are still being withheld, in the name of a political caution that is increasingly difficult to justify as Ukraine demonstrates its capacity to use its weapons with discernment.

The argument for persistent restrictions — avoid escalation, do not strike targets that would provoke a disproportionate Russian response — now runs up against operational reality. Ukraine is already striking at 500 kilometers with its own drones. It has struck Moscow. It has struck Saint Petersburg. Russia has responded by continuing its strikes on Ukrainian cities — exactly as it would have done anyway. The escalation that Western allies feared has not materialized. What has materialized is the demonstration that Ukraine can strike with precision, that these strikes have a strategic impact, and that holding them back deprives Ukraine of an advantage that could shorten the war.

A roadmap for more effective aid

What military analysts close to Ukraine are asking Western allies is not new revolutionary systems — it is the lifting of artificial restrictions on the use of already-supplied systems, and the faster delivery of munitions that the Ukrainian army needs to maintain the pace of 31 air defense system destructions in June. This pace is unsustainable if precision strike munitions run short. Ukraine needs long-range drones in quantity, anti-radar missiles to complement strikes on surveillance systems, and precision munitions for strikes on industrial targets.

Western support for Ukraine has been considerable — and decisive for its survival. But it remains short of what would be needed for a rapid victory. The political compromises that limited supplied weapons — understandable politically in 2022 — have become strategically costly in 2026. Operation Polyphemus shows what Ukraine can do with the capabilities it has developed. It also suggests what it could do with more complete capabilities — and the gap between these two states is directly measurable in Ukrainian lives and war duration.

Ukraine strikes at 500 km with its own drones. It has proven its restraint, its precision, its strategy. And some allies are still withholding systems for fear of an escalation that hasn't come. At some point, this caution becomes complicity in the duration of the war.

Destroying eyes before striking the body: a doctrine for the 21st century

Operation Polyphemus is not only a Ukrainian tactical victory. It is the illustration of a military doctrine for the 21st century: before striking a target, destroy the systems that allow the enemy to see, aim, and respond. This doctrine — call it suppression of adversary eyes by analogy with traditional SEAD (Suppression of Enemy Air Defenses) campaigns — is made possible by drones because drones are low-cost, numerous vectors capable of operating autonomously or semi-autonomously in environments with high air defense density.

Armies that understand this lesson and invest in drone capabilities to conduct autonomous SEAD campaigns will have a considerable strategic advantage in future conflicts. Armies that continue to think in terms of conventional air superiority — with piloted fighter jets and long-range missiles — risk being surprised by adversaries that adopt the Ukrainian doctrine. Ukraine invented something — not ex nihilo, as the doctrine existed partly in military theory, but in real application, under the pressure of an existential war and with limited resources. This is one of the most important contributions of this war to contemporary military theory.

Lessons for NATO allies

NATO allies are watching Ukrainian operations closely and drawing lessons for their own doctrines. French, British, German and American chiefs of staff have sent observer delegations to Ukraine to understand concretely how drones are used, how the industry adapts, and what tactical innovations the allies should integrate. These visits have influenced procurement decisions — several member countries have increased their drone budgets after observing Ukrainian effectiveness.

But the lessons go beyond equipment procurement. They concern innovation culture, the organization of the decision-feedback-innovation loop, and the capacity to rapidly adapt doctrine against an adversary that is also adapting. The Ukrainian army has developed a rapid military innovation culture that has no equivalent in NATO armies — precisely because the cost of failing to innovate is death. NATO allies can learn much from this culture, and the integration of Ukrainian veterans into NATO exercises and training schools would be a particularly valuable collective security investment.

Ukraine invented a military doctrine under survival pressure. NATO observers watch, take notes, go home to make presentations. That's good. What would be better: let Ukrainians train NATO officers directly. They have experience no one else has.

Iranian Shaheds versus Ukrainian drones: an inverted asymmetric war

One of the most significant dimensions of the drone war in Ukraine is its technological proxy dimension: on one side, Ukrainian drones developed with Western technological and financial support; on the other, Iranian Shahed drones supplied through Russia to strike Ukrainian cities. This opposition reflects the broader geopolitical alliances: the West supports Ukraine; the Moscow-Tehran-Pyongyang axis supports Russia. The war is also a test of the technological quality of these two alliances — and so far, Ukraine and its allies maintain a qualitative advantage.

Iranian Shahed drones are relatively cheap and can be produced in quantity. But they are also relatively slow, poorly maneuverable, and increasingly vulnerable to Ukrainian defense systems that have learned to intercept them. The Iranian response has been to improve the Shaheds — faster versions, smaller, with evasive trajectories — and to deliver the technology so that Russia can manufacture them on its own soil. This technological evolution in the adversary camp is proof that the drone war is a continuous technological race, not a competition with a permanent winner.

North Korea and munitions for the war of attrition

North Korea plays a different role in supporting Russia: it supplies mainly artillery munitions and ballistic missiles rather than drones. These deliveries have partially compensated for Russian ammunition shortages resulting from insufficient industrial production and Ukrainian destruction of ammunition depots. But they also have their limits: North Korean munitions have a higher failure rate than modern Russian-produced munitions, and their guidance quality is inferior. These are war-of-attrition munitions — in quantity, not in precision.

This Russia-Iran-North Korea triangulation in military supply says something about the limits of Russia's defense industrial base. It can still fire millions of shells, launch hundreds of missiles, and deploy drones en masse. But it cannot do so alone, indefinitely, without compromising other priorities. And each Ukrainian strike on its industrial capabilities — the Penza Institute, the refineries, the ammunition depots — tightens this constraint further. The war of attrition that Russia hoped to win by waiting for the West to tire is slowly becoming an industrial attrition war that it risks losing.

Russia orders its drones from Iran and its shells from North Korea. This is not the signature of a great military power — it's the signature of a war economy under pressure. Ukraine doesn't have to win spectacularly. It has to hold longer than Russia's industrial capacity to reconstitute itself.

Behind the destroyed radars, lives given

The statistics — 200 air defense systems, corridors opened, strikes on Dubna — are abstractions that erase the human reality of this campaign. The drone teams that conducted Operation Polyphemus operated in active combat zones, under Russian fire, with considerable personal risk. Ukrainian drone pilots — often young technicians, engineers, gamers repurposed to war — paid a real human price for each destroyed radar. The figures are not public, but every successful military operation is paid in courage and risk of death.

This human reality is important to name, because it serves as a reminder that behind every tactical victory, every documented strike, every success of Operation Polyphemus, there are men and women who chose to risk their lives to defend their country against an unprovoked aggression. This choice deserves respect and support. And this support — in weapons, in financing, in political backing — is the minimum contribution that democracies can make to those who fight on their behalf against the advance of authoritarian regimes.

Human sustainability: Ukraine's demographic challenge

Ukraine faces a severe demographic challenge. Its population before the war was approximately 44 million people. Millions have fled abroad — to Poland, Germany, other European countries. Hundreds of thousands of soldiers have been killed or wounded. The military recruitment pool has contracted, and the mobilization of new cohorts is politically and socially difficult. This demographic constraint is one of the reasons why drone technology is so crucial for Ukraine: it allows multiplying the military impact of a limited workforce, substituting machines for soldiers in the most dangerous missions.

Operation Polyphemus is precisely this type of high-human-leverage strategy: a small specialized unit — the Roni group of the Special Operations Forces — conducts a campaign that opens corridors for strikes that would have required entire armies by conventional methods. This is smart warfare versus mass warfare — and within Ukraine's demographic constraints, it is the only viable long-term strategy. It deserves to be supported, financed, and amplified by every means available to the allies.

Ukraine substitutes drones for soldiers because it has no other choice — its demographics do not allow indefinite mass warfare. This constraint produced an innovation. Necessity has, once again, given birth to ingenuity. But ingenuity does not replace support — and support remains insufficient.

The decisive weapons: Patriot, ATACMS, Storm Shadow

Ukraine's successes in the drone war and long-range strikes did not happen in a vacuum. They were made possible by a Western support that evolved significantly since the beginning of the war: from the initial refusal to supply tanks and long-range missiles to the progressive delivery of increasingly advanced systems. The Patriot batteries supplied by the United States and Germany transformed Ukrainian air defense, protecting cities and critical infrastructure. The ATACMS missiles enabled precise strikes on Russian ammunition depots and logistical infrastructure at distances previously out of reach. The British and French Storm Shadow/SCALP missiles added a precision strike capability against fortified targets.

These weapons directly contributed to the logic of Operation Polyphemus: if Ukraine had not had access to long-range precision strike systems, the methodical destruction of Russian radars would have been much slower and more costly. The combination of locally produced Ukrainian drones and Western long-range weapons created an operational synergy that is more than the sum of its parts. This is precisely why the debate over restrictions on the use of Western weapons is not abstract — every restriction limits this synergy and slows the opening of corridors.

What the allies have not yet given

Despite this substantial support, important capabilities remain withheld. German Taurus missiles — long-range, high-precision — are still blocked by political hesitancy in Berlin. Certain types of precision munitions are supplied in quantities insufficient to sustain the operational tempo that Ukraine has demonstrated is possible. Training on certain advanced systems has been delayed by bureaucratic processes that make little sense in the context of an existential war. These gaps do not reflect a lack of good will — they reflect the internal political tensions of allied democracies, where every military decision must navigate parliamentary, media, and electoral constraints.

But these political tensions have a real cost. Every month of delay in delivering decisive capabilities is an additional month of war — with its deaths, its destruction, its unbearable human cost. The demonstration that Ukraine uses its weapons with precision and discernment — Operation Polyphemus is the proof — should accelerate delivery decisions, not slow them. Allies that understand this and act accordingly directly contribute to shortening the war. The others, by hesitating, contribute — involuntarily — to prolonging it.

Berlin withholds the Taurus. Allied bureaucracy delays munitions. Every delay has an address — the targets Ukraine couldn't reach that week. I don't say this with anger at the allies. I say it because it's true, and because the uncomfortable truth must be spoken.

Allied intelligence as a force multiplier

Operation Polyphemus presupposes an exceptional targeting capability: precisely identifying enemy radars, their exact position, their technical characteristics, their relative importance in the air defense architecture. This capability does not come from nowhere. It rests on a massive intelligence infrastructure: reconnaissance satellites, high-altitude surveillance drones, electronic intelligence (intercepting radar emissions to locate and characterize them), and human intelligence gathered by Ukrainian special services in occupied zones. The sharing of intelligence from allies — notably American and British — has been an essential component of this infrastructure.

American Keyhole satellites, RC-135 reconnaissance aircraft flying outside Ukrainian airspace, NATO SIGINT systems operating from neighboring countries — all of this feeds a picture of the Russian military situation that Ukraine could not build alone. This intelligence sharing, discreet but crucial, is one of the least visible but most strategically important forms of assistance that allies provide. Without this view of Russian positions, the precision of Operation Polyphemus would have been impossible.

Electronic warfare as intelligence: locating by emissions

The location of Russian radars in the Bryansk region probably used a well-established technique: electronic intelligence. Radars emit electromagnetic signals that specialized sensors can detect, characterize, and locate with precision. Ukraine has developed significant SIGINT capabilities since the beginning of the war — notably by deploying drones equipped with sensors to map enemy radar emissions. These electronic intelligence drones fly high, out of range of many surface-to-air defense systems, and progressively build a precise map of Russian emission systems.

This map then enables strike planning: which radar to hit first to create the most exploitable gap, what sequence of destructions opens the optimal corridor, which electronic jamming systems to neutralize before sending the strike drones. This is engineering planning — rigorous, systematic, based on precise data rather than instinct. And it is precisely this type of planning that distinguishes an effective military operation from a series of opportunistic strikes. Operation Polyphemus is the consequence of excellence in electronic intelligence — an excellence that Ukraine has built, with allied assistance, on the basis of existential necessity.

Satellites see. RC-135s listen. SIGINT drones map the radars. And then the strike drones arrive. Modern war is first about information gathering. Polyphemus begins in an analysis room, not in a drone cockpit.

Victory is built in the blind spots of media coverage

Operation Polyphemus did not make global headlines with the same intensity as a ground offensive or a diplomatic agreement. It built itself in the blind spots of media coverage — in the technical reports of the Ukrainian Special Operations Forces, in the statistics of air defense systems destroyed, in the presidential confirmations of strikes on Dubna. But it is precisely there — in methodical, patient, invisible work — that victories are built in modern wars. Not in great tank battles. In radars that go dark one by one, in corridors that open silently, in teams that work in the shadows with the precision of clockmakers.

This invisible reality of the war in Ukraine deserves to be publicly recognized. It deserves the continued support of allies who understand what is at stake. And it deserves to be integrated into Western military doctrines, not as an anecdote from the Ukrainian war, but as a fundamental lesson on the nature of warfare in the 21st century. Polyphemus is blind. Ukraine advances. The outcome is not written. But the direction is clear.

What History will remember

When historians write about the war in Ukraine, they will note the initial resistance of Kyiv, the humanitarian convoys, the debates about weapons deliveries. But they will also note — I am convinced of this — the invention of an entirely new military doctrine under conditions of improvisation and survival. The Ukrainian Special Operations Forces, the Roni group, Operation Polyphemus — these names will become, I believe, references in military academies worldwide for decades to come. Because they represent something that only wars of survival can produce: military thinking without compromise, without institutional bias, without fear of radical innovation. A thinking forged in fire.

Polyphemus. A blinded Cyclops. A doctrine born from necessity. A war that plays out in the blind spots. I don't know how it ends. But I know that Ukraine, with little, has done what no one expected — and that this improbability deserves to be supported to the very end.

By Maxime Marquette, columnist

Editorial stance

I am not a journalist but a columnist and analyst. My expertise lies in observing and analysing the geopolitical, economic and strategic dynamics that shape our world. My work is to take political strategies apart, to understand global economic movements, to put the decisions of international actors in context and to offer analytical perspectives on the changes that are redefining our societies.

I do not claim the cold objectivity of traditional journalism, which stops at reporting facts. I claim analytical clarity, rigorous interpretation and a deep understanding of the complex issues that concern us all. My role is to give meaning to the facts, to place them in their historical and strategic context, and to offer a critical reading of events.

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Nature of the analysis

The analyses, interpretations and perspectives in the analytical sections of this article are a critical, contextual synthesis based on the information available, the trends observed and the expert comments cited in the sources consulted.

My role is to interpret these facts, to set them in the context of today's geopolitical and economic dynamics, and to give them a coherent meaning within the larger story of the changes shaping our time. These analyses reflect expertise built through continuous observation of international affairs and an understanding of the strategic mechanisms that drive global actors.

This article describes a documented state of affairs on its publication date, not a prediction: later developments may shift its outlook. No update is promised in advance; when an article is corrected or completed, the change is dated in the text.