Ukraine Waited for 200,000-ton Ship to Be Filled with Oil – Then 1,200kg of Bombs Hit the Port
At exactly 100 a.m. local time on September 13th, 2025, at Primorsque Oilport, the largest energy export gateway for Moscow on the Baltic Sea, two giant tankers, Kustoau and Caillun, were entering the final stage of their fueling operation. Under the glare of industrial lights, hundreds of thousands of lers of crude oil surged through enormous steel pipelines pumped straight into the cargo holds. Each ship had a capacity of more than 120,000 short tons, the equivalent of millions of barrels, and a single load like that was enough to sustain Russia’s strategic export flow for days. to Moscow. They were not merely two ships, but floating vaults, keeping the very heartbeat of the national economy alive and ensuring energy contracts with Europe and China did not break. To Ukraine, they were the single most ideal targets across Russia’s entire energy export chain. Strike here. It’s nothing less than a gash into the veins of Russia’s gasping war machine. And within just a few hours, a black gold treasure worth over 200 million USD will erupt into an unquenchable fireworks display. At 1:15 a.m., from a covert launch site in northern Ukraine, the first Leot 96 UAV screamed into the night like a ghost. Every 10 seconds after that, another took off. Within 7 minutes, the entire formation of over 40 UAVs had left their rails. They were like a pack of trained suicide hounds programmed days in advance. Each carrying a warhead of nearly 65 lbs of PBX12, a thermoplastic polymer explosive variant with superior penetration, all directed at a single objective Primorque oil port. Rather than flying straight in, the swarm split into three main axes, forming a tactical pinser designed to deceive radar and fracture Russia’s air defense response. Center axis 20 UAVs hugged the rail corridor via Belgarod Veronz flying under 656 ft completely avoiding ground radars. East axis 10 UAVs routed via Tambov Ryazon skirting areas hosting S400 and Pancier S1 batteries around Tula the no-fly high priority zone for Moscow. West Axis 10 UAVs followed the Bellarus border using terrain masking and deep forests to evade long range POSnuk and Nebo M radars. The entire UAV formation was controlled through the Skynode S platform, a low-level artificial intelligence system integrating computer vision, highresolution infrared cameras, and real-time digitized terrain maps. Even if GPS signals were jammed by the adversary, LUT’s sky node automatically switched to inertial/loized navigation using imagery streamed from onboard cameras to match against the digital map. Power lines, transmission towers, forest contours, drainage channels, all were mapped by the AI as vital navigation landmarks. No radio signals were emitted. No remote control chatter was required. And that is why Liuti becomes a nightmare. It is effectively immune to Russian electronic warfare. At 3:41 a.m., as the swarm closed on the URV area, roughly 140 mi from the Lenengrad border, Ukraine suddenly activated a Trump card that had been hidden since the start of the operation. From a control center near Karkiv, a Ukrainian low Earth orbit reconnaissance satellite was steered into action. This was not a routine spy satellite. It had been modified to carry a false reflection module specialized to jam radars. Its sole function temporarily neutralize the relay radar chain along the Smealinskar Nogarad line. This was the critical early warning belt in northwest Russia. The line that allows the Russian military to detect threats from Bellarus, Ukraine or the Baltic. Over the next 7 minutes, Podsnuke, Gamma DE, and even NABO M radars were forced to process dozens of false returns from an electronic cloud moving in parallel toward the northwest. While Russia scrambled over the sudden flood of red blips on their screens, 40 real Lebouti UAVs slipped quietly beneath the sky, straight toward their true objective, the strategic Primorque oil port. At 4:00 a.m., after nearly 3 hours of terrain hugging flight, the entire UAV formation had closed to the Gulf of Finland approaches, less than 95 miles from Primorsque, when five UAVs from the center axis unexpectedly peeled off the main formation and simultaneously swung their noses up, climbing rapidly to 16,400 ft, turning themselves into bait in the sky. Each was fitted with a cluster of radar reflective panels and a signal emulation transmitter accurately simulating the radar signature of a high alitude strike package. In the eyes of Russian radar, these were no longer UAVs, but a real threat. At 48 a.m. on the radar screen at the Levo Early Warning Station in Nogarod region, five unusual returns appeared. The returns were clear, stable, and exhibited strong reflectivity. Immediately, the alert level in the area was raised to level one. Within less than 2 minutes, the sensor panel at the local air defense command concluded. Unidentified targets, slow speed, low altitude, but with unusually high radar cross-section, likely reconnaissance UAVs or small aircraft, commitable to engagement. A firing order was issued at once. Two Pancier S1 batteries in Yaroslav launched simultaneously. Four 57E6 missiles streaked into the sky. From Cherovitz, an S400 battery fired 248 N6E missiles, Mach 6, covering the entire target intersection. Just 40 seconds later, all five returns vanished from the radar screens. Thermal data recorded multiple fragments falling into the forested area north of Nogarod. From the command post, the announcement confirmed five high alitude intruding targets neutralized. No ongoing threat. But the Russian officers did not know that they had just shot down five sacrificial decoy UAVs pre-programmed by Ukraine to be expended at this moment. The remaining 35 LUT UAVs skimmed close to the ground. Each was spaced 650 to 980 ft apart, maintained an altitude below 330 ft, emitted no signals, and returned no radar echoes. The entire operation relying on terrain mapping and inertial navigation. At 4:17 a.m., the central UAV formation crossed Lake Ilman and pushed into the corridor between Nogarod and Lennengrad. On Russian groundbased radar screens, everything remained utterly silent. No alerts were triggered. Beneath that veneer of calm, a nightmare was quietly closing in. At 4:22 a.m., the Western Wing approached the southern edge of the Narva Gulf, an area nominally covered by early warning radar posts and Pancier batteries of the Lennengrad military district. A faint blip began to appear on the Vyborg Air Defense Command screen. The data was unclear. A fuzzy target, low speed, intermittent returns. An officer warned it could be a flock of migrating ducks or a low-flying stealth target, but no one had yet given the order to open fire. The engagement order was being delayed. Nobody wanted to press the button first for something that might be a radar illusion. At the same time, the 10 eastern UAVs crossed the Oenega Lake area and approached the Petro Zavadsk Vyborg rail line, one of the logistic arteries leading straight to Primorsque. The lead UAVs used a real-time terrain synchronization algorithm, constantly matching sensor data to a 3D map to slip through GPS dead zones that Russian electronic warfare teams had erected along the route. Infrared cameras picked up glints from radar towers, and the AI instantly adjusted course, avoiding each watch point as if it had flown the line hundreds of times before. At 4:27 a.m., when the first UAVs were less than 25 miles from Primorsque, Russian ground radar began to register real contacts. Numerous small targets hugging the surface, moving at moderate speed, converging from three different directions. At the air defense command near Vyborg, the duty lieutenant colonel finally ordered situation level two. Activate Pancier S1 expand monitoring sector to the southeast and the coastline. But it was already too late. By the time the Pancier radars swept the southeast sector, the three UAV formations, center, east, and west, were simultaneously closing in from all directions. This was no longer a single strike. It was a timed encirclement down to the second. Within 45 seconds, Baltic air defense controllers confirmed the worst. The entire UAV formation was heading straight for the Primorsque port, Russia’s second largest oil export hub. Six Pancier S1 batteries were immediately ordered to fire. From the coastal woodline, the launch tubes rose like angry serpents and then simultaneously spat 57 E6 missiles roaring through the night sky. In the skies, the remaining 35 UAVs split into three prongs, each kept an altitude under 200 ft, weaving between container yards, coastal rail lines, and prochemical complexes. All were coordinated under the principle of the swarm. Each UAV an independent entity, yet also part of the whole, constantly sharing flight data, adjusting its bank angles to match the leader ahead, and evading threats through Skynode synchronized algorithms. By this moment, Russia’s last defensive layer began to respond. Operators on a Pancier S1 battery shouted as the one RS2E radar finally locked multiple targets. In less than 90 seconds, 25 UAVs were destroyed, half shredded by 30 millimeter autoc cannons as they closed under 656 feet. The rest intercepted by 57 E6 missiles at close range. But the final 10 UAVs were unlike any that had come before. They were the Alpha Wolves, each assigned independent targets, unique flight algorithms, and carrying heavy payloads reserved for killing blows. Now they simultaneously activated their terminal attack mode. Primorsque oil port had only minutes left to survive. At 4:44 a.m. the last 10 Lebouti UAVs dropped below 165 ft, skimming the sea surface to hide within clutter reflections as their Skynode S navigation suite autonomously redistributed their final attack routes based on preloaded target data. They did not strike the same point. They divided the critical nodes of Primor’s entire operating chain. The first two dove straight at the port’s operation center, which controlled all loading schedules, fueling processes, and satellite routing. Instead of a perpendicular run, one pulled a sharp climb from the left, then plunged nose first into a second floor window identified as housing the main server cluster. The blast all but severed Primorsk’s brain. As flames burst from the upper floor, two other UAVs simultaneously struck the tanker Kusto Mordor at the southern pier. The first slammed into the engine room, wiping out the power station and halting the oil pumps midflow. The second came from starboard, ramming the main intake pipe, triggering a secondary explosion. Unfinished crude spilled across the pier, igniting in less than 6 seconds. At 4:45 minutes and 12 seconds, two more UAVs locked onto the tanker Caillun, an Afroax class vessel like Custoaring to connect its intake line for the final transfer. The first tore into the intake valve control room, the second into the forward operations cabin. A fire column nearly 100 ft high roared from the deck, a death torch against the Baltic Knight. As flames spread along the key, three more UAVs swung toward pump station number two, the hub regulating more than 35% of Primorsk’s total export throughput. The first destroyed the main pressure compression array. The second punched through the roof into the flow control regulator, and the third tore into the input signal receiver. Within just 0.8 seconds, pressure across the pipeline network surged beyond safe limits. Then a thunderous blast ripped apart the pumping station’s roof. Black smoke, scorching heat, and twisted steel fragments clawed into the sky. Primorsque had lost its pump station. In just 2 minutes, the last 10 UAVs had struck the port’s vital organs. Two super tankers of over 120,000 short tons ablaze. The central pumping station obliterated. All power and coordination systems cut. Fires raged out of control. When firefighters arrived, temperatures at the pumping hub exceeded 1,830° F. With no options left, authorities were forced to seal off the entire port. Satellite imagery showed Primorsque as a blazing scar more than one mile long with two core infernos and four secondary fires. Russia later confirmed at least two tankers destroyed, the main loading line to offshore vessels halted, internal power grids damaged, and fuel exports through Primorsque disrupted for days. Under the shock of the strike, all tankers in the Primorsque Gulf were ordered to withdraw immediately, triggering cascading logistical delays. The international oil market wavered slightly on the news. Evidence that Primorsque was not just technical infrastructure, but also a financial and political lynch pin. On the morning of September 17th, Russia’s Ministry of Defense officially admitted that Northwest air defenses had intercepted a long range UAV attack near Primorsque while insisting that most targets were neutralized. No details were given about the actual damage to the port. Yet within hours, international OSENT channels, including geoconfirmed, had geollocated the strike area through nighttime satellite imagery, thermal readings, and telegram videos. Western analysts concluded this attack marked a breakthrough in both range and precision for Ukraine’s UAV force. This was no random tactic. It was a textbook execution of modern drone warfare. swarm division, electronic jamming, deception, and simultaneous strikes from multiple vectors. The same playbook Ukraine had used to annihilate S400 radars at John Koy and Sevastapole. The raid cemented a strategic shift in modern war. With only a few dozen lowcost UAVs, each priced between $30,000 and $100,000, Ukraine pierced one of the densest air defense belts in northwest Russia. Meanwhile, Russia expended surfaceto-air missiles worth hundreds of thousands of dollars a piece, deploying wide forces, and still failed to stop the main blow. The failure at Primorsque showed that even the most heavily guarded civilian infrastructure is not immune to UAVs when an adversary fuses AI, swarm logic, and tactical precision. Above all, it sent a message to the world. If Primorsque can be hit, nowhere else is safe.
At exactly 01:00 a.m. local time on September 13, 2025,
at Primorsk oil port—the largest energy-export gateway for Moscow on the Baltic Sea—two giant tankers, Kusto and Cai Yun, were entering the final stage of their fueling operation.
Under the glare of industrial lights, hundreds of thousands of liters of crude oil surged through enormous steel pipelines, pumped straight into the cargo holds.
Each ship had a capacity of more than 120,000 short tons (≈109,000 tonnes), the equivalent of millions of barrels—and a single load like that was enough to sustain Russia’s strategic export flow for days.
To Moscow, they were not merely two ships but floating vaults, keeping the very heartbeat of the national economy alive and ensuring energy contracts with Europe and China did not break.
To Ukraine, they were the single most ideal targets across Russia’s entire energy-export chain.
STRIKE HERE! NOTHING SHORT OF A CUTFLOWS THROUGH THE GASPING WAR MACHINE OF RUSSIA.
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