In a long period of time, carrier ships were the dream of sea powers, the naval vessels that could fly and thus spread their power all over the globe. Russia, in particular, was so fascinated by the idea of building the next supercarrier that this fictive project was not only followed with enthusiasm, but also with pride and the desire to overtake its great maritime rivals. It turned from a dream into a late 1980s reality with the Ulyanovsk, which would have raised the Moscow navy to a blue-water navy. But the vessel was actually one of the most famous “what-ifs” scenarios in the history of the Navy, instead of being converted into the latter.

The Ulyanovsk began construction in 1988 at the Mykolaiv shipyard, Ulyanovsk—official designation Project 1143.7—intended to be the first Soviet carrier on par with the American behemoths of the day. Whereas the Admiral Kuznetsov employed a ski-jump to take off, Ulyanovsk employed steam catapults, which could safely carry heavily loaded aircraft.

Almost 80,000 tons long and 324 meters, she would have been as big as the largest carriers in the world. Her nuclear power plant, with four reactors driving four turbines, produced a speed of 30 knots and a range limited only by the crew’s endurance.

The flight deck of the ship would be able to accommodate up to 70 aircraft: Su-33 fighter, Yak-44 early warning aircraft, and Ka-27 helicopters. The ship would also have substantial missile equipment consisting of P-700 Granit missiles, S-300 anti-aircraft systems, as well as some close-in weapon systems.

The term was straightforward. Ulyanovsk was more than a warship—it was a statement that the Soviet Navy could now challenge the carrier strike force of its adversaries. To Moscow, it was a badge of political presence and one of military necessities.

Fate, however, had other plans. The Soviet Union disintegrated at the time the carrier was breaking through. By the beginning of 1992, only a quarter of the ship had been constructed, and Moscow and Kyiv’s new governments had little money—or inclination—to finish it.

The expenses had increased far beyond early estimates to the billions. Economic survival now being the priority, the incomplete hull was ordered to be broken down into scrap metal. Soviet supercarrier dream expired on February 4, 1992, on the cutting room floor of a shipyard.

Waves of Ulyanovsk’s collapse still echo. Russia’s only carrier, the Admiral Kuznetsov, is now infamous for breaking down. Refurbishment fires, catastrophic crane collapse, and routine engine breakdowns have dogged the ship. Even when sailing, Kuznetsov has a tug escort attending it—insurance against early failure in the middle of the ocean. For most sailors, to work on the ship is now gallows humor, more ordeal than privilege.

But the idea of the Russian supercarrier persists. Designs for new classes, from the nuclear-powered Shtorm to concept designs connected with the navy’s modernization program, surface sporadically. But they remain on paper, hobbled by budget limitations and shifting strategic priorities. Ulyanovsk is a metaphor—and not a metaphor of what was built, but of what was lost.

The larger lesson is there. Without a modern carrier force, however, Russia’s ability to project its fleet across the globe is still restricted. Ambition may speak of worldwide reach, but nature is a navy bottlenecked by geography, budgets, and technology.

The Ulyanovsk disaster is a lesson of history: even the farthest-reaching military ventures can be undone by economic downturn and political turmoil. For Russia, this unfinished carrier is a city of broken dreams, and to the surprise challenges of sustaining real maritime power.

Maybe the F-117 Nighthawk is just the most interesting and weird plane in history. In 2008, the US Air Force took it out of service with “The Stealth Fighter” as its successor, but the F-117 is still flying silently on missions that keep it viable well into the 2030s. Its weird and secretive past has made it a symbol of the most modern technology, but the question of whether it is still on its way not only depends on the recognition of the past but also on the capability and adaptability.

The Nighthawk’s heritage reaches back to the post-Vietnam War years, when the United States searched for methods of outwitting increasingly advanced enemy air defenses. Lockheed’s Skunk Works, in utmost secrecy, built the aircraft using tried-and-true parts—T-38A Talon engines and a fly-by-wire system from the F-16—as a foundation for a new approach to stealth.

Its flat, angular design was designed to scatter radar waves. Combined with special radar-absorbing coatings applied to the plane, its radar cross-section was said to be the size of a marble. It first took to the skies in 1977 and entered service in 1983, though not before the public would catch a glimpse of it five years later.

When it eventually did see action, the F-117 lived up to its legend. In missions that ranged from Panama to the Gulf War, it proved that it could strike heavily defended targets with unparalleled accuracy. During Desert Storm, the planes escorted only a small percentage of all missions but destroyed a large share of primary targets, without losing a single aircraft or even taking combat damage. Nighthawk’s ability to penetrate air defenses and strike specific targets was a milestone in the way wars could be fought: fewer aircraft, greater accuracy, and much less exposure for pilots.

But with the advent of military aviation, the limitations of the F-117 grew more and more impossible to ignore. It was not particularly fast, nimble, or multirole-capable, and newer aircraft like the F-22 and F-35 were both longer-range and more flexible at performing stealth missions. Still, the Air Force found new uses for the Nighthawk. Instead of retiring it completely, the service reoriented it into missions where it could still excel.

Nowadays, the F-117 is mainly used as aggressor planes, simulating against stealthy adversaries to conduct training exercises. It has radar and infrared signatures that are effective in simulating how detection systems and fighter pilots respond to low-observable targets. It’s also an effective test platform for new stealth coatings, avionics, and mission systems, which helps in research for the next generation of aircraft. With relatively quick modifications—termed T-2 changes—the aircraft may be converted to accommodate test missions, offering engineers and tacticians a flexible, cost-effective platform.

Also pragmatically, it’s a good idea to keep the Nighthawks in the air. Using these retired fighters for training protects the Air Force from risking expensive and short-handed F-22s or F-35s in high-stress practice. It also keeps current generations of experience flying and maintaining first-generation stealth technology—experience that still has use as newer designs emerge.

The majority of the remaining F-117s are stationed at the out-of-the-way Tonopah Test Range in Nevada, a location famously linked to secret projects. The Air Force has progressively disassembled the fleet over the years, gifting some of the aircraft to museums and scrapping a few annually. Nevertheless, some remain flight-capable under firm maintenance contracts. Existing plans maintain a component of the fleet operational through at least 2034, with no intention of returning them to combat service.

One of the newer advancements in its longer service life is its compatibility with the KC-46 Pegasus air refueling tanker. This makes it possible for the F-117 to execute longer, more sophisticated missions during training and testing. The KC-46 has itself been receiving upgrades to enhance its vision and refueling capabilities, allowing it to service a variety of aircraft, legacy platforms like the Nighthawk included.

The rationale for keeping the F-117 aloft isn’t merely about keeping history alive—it’s about meeting today’s needs. As nascent programs like Next Generation Air Dominance move forward, the demand for realistic, stealthy targets and trustworthy testbeds has grown. The Nighthawk’s consistent signature and versatility make it a trustworthy resource in sensor verification, tactics enhancement, and testing materials under controlled conditions.

Finally, the F-117’s legacy is guaranteed. It was the first operational stealth fighter in the world, the pioneer that changed the character of war. Now, it lives not as a front-line combat plane, but as a bridge between yesterday’s innovation and tomorrow’s advancements—proof that in flight, yesterday’s game-changer can still influence tomorrow’s victory.

There are occasions when, for a few minutes only, the changed nature of air warfare is very clearly shown. Such a case happened in 2013 above the Persian Gulf when two Iranian F-4 Phantom combative aircraft were suddenly met with one of the most technologically advanced and lethal aircraft of the U.S. Air Force, an F-22 Raptor. By no means involved in combat, the incident changed a usual patrol into a demonstration of the stealth and superior technology.

It began with an MQ-1 Predator drone conducting its mission in international airspace, 16 miles off the coast of Iran. To the two Phantom pilots who had detected it, the slow, unarmed drone was a tempting target.

The Phantom, which in the 1960s had been the symbol of American aviation excellence, was no longer the future of flight, but it was still more than enough to shoot down such a target. What the pilots did not realize was that Lt. Col. Kevin “Showtime” Sutterfield was within eyesight, piloting an F-22 Raptor undetectable to their radar.

The Raptor crept closer stealthily, flying under the Phantoms until Sutterfield was close enough to examine their planes up close with his own eyes. In a scene out of a movie, he slid past the front plane—close enough to look in the cockpit—before activating his radio.

“You really oughta go home,” he said matter-of-factly. That did it. The dynamic was suddenly reversed. The Raptor had all the advantage, and the Phantom crews well knew it. Without a struggle, they retreated.

That brief conversation told us all about the F-22’s real potential. It’s not another fighter plane—it’s a completely different style of dominating the skies. Its stealth capabilities, razor-sharp angles, and cutting-edge sensors provide it with the power to suddenly materialize out of thin air, dictate the terms of engagement, and then disappear into thin air without ever being seen.

To that, add its thrust-vectoring engines and supersonic cruise capability without the use of afterburners, and the Raptor is not only stealthy, but quicker and more agile than almost anything currently in the air.

For Iran, the meeting was a grim reminder of the weakness of its Phantom fleet. Those planes, which were delivered in the late 1960s and early 1970s, were state-of-the-art when they arrived. Decades of ingenuity—improvisational fixes, replacement parts, and upgrades—have sustained them since.

But even the finest refits can’t hide the reality that they are products of an earlier era of flight. They were born during an era when stealth existed only as a concept and well before pilots were able to depend on integrated computer screens within helmets.

That small Gulf confrontation was more than a footnote; it underlined the disparity between yesteryear’s machines and stealth jets today. The Raptor’s actual strength wasn’t sheer speed or ammo—that was its psychological dominance over the combat scene before the other side ever had a clue. That psychological blow can be just as lethal as any missile.

To the military commanders, the moral is plain: the greatest power is determining the rules of the fight well ahead of the enemy’s knowledge about it. That day across the Gulf, Sutterfield’s unobtrusive “You really oughta go home” was more than an admonition. It was a message to every pilot flying outdated hardware in a new battlefield: at times, the most effective strike is the one you never have to make.

The Littoral Combat Ship, or LCS, was originally touted as the naval war of the future—a sleek, modular warship designed to carry out everything from minesweeping to anti-submarine warfare at a fraction of the cost of what traditional ships would have required. Two decades on, though, the LCS program is a cautionary tale: visionary on paper, expensive in reality, and leaving the Navy with an inconclusive legacy.

The US Navy started the LCS program in the early 2000s, at a time when the Navy fleet was shrinking, and the retirement of numerous Cold War-era ships was imminent. The concept was straightforward: design a small, multi-mission combatant that could be quickly and cheaply made, take over the low-end missions while the larger ships concentrate on the high-end wars. Defense officials were aiming for a target price of roughly $400 million per ship—about one-third of an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer.

The unique feature of the LCS was its modularity. In addition, the ships were designed with a minimum number of crew members, which is less than half of the standard frigate; thus, the vessels relied on automation and the use of unmanned vehicles. As then-deputy defense secretary Bob Work stated, the concept was daring and unproven, a complete departure from the usual naval ship design.

But the desire to push forward outpaced available resources. The Navy steamed ahead with the LCS to production before there was a complete plan, bypassing many of the customary testing and evaluation phases. The first LCS went into service in 2008, years sooner than the typical Pentagon acquisition schedule. Bryan Clark of the Hudson Institute says the Navy’s urgency to innovate left few with the stomach to say “no” to added requirements as the program grew more complex.

Issues soon arose. The mission packages, long espoused as the LCS’s signature strength, were complicated to implement and frequently behind schedule. The anti-submarine package encountered sonar deployment problems, minesweeping systems fell behind schedule, and hull designs experienced transmission problems and cracking under high speeds—a critical issue for vessels designed to be fast-moving. Efforts to cycle specialized crews between ships also didn’t pan out, detracting from operational effectiveness.

The costs escalated way over what was originally projected. Although the Navy was aiming to stay within the $250 million limit for each of the ships, the actual cost went beyond $500 million for each vessel, and that with no account taken for the expensive mission packages. The administration that was backing the idea of these ships financially went along with the plan to buy in bulk both the Freedom and Independence classes. But because of the following troubles, such as technical issues, maintenance difficulties, and performance problems, the program would eventually face very bad consequences. By the time it came to 2016, there was only one solution left, which was a complete inspection due to the continuous failures of the engines; however, the program’s fame was already affected.

During that time, the strategic landscape was shifting. The LCS was designed for near-shore “brown water” operations, but China’s expanding anti-access, area denial capabilities made those missions more and more perilous. Several LCSs were retired after fewer than five years—far less than their planned 25-year life.

Experts calculated that the premature retirement accounted for about $7 billion in lost service time, not counting billions more in operating expenses that the Navy saved by retiring the ships.

For others, the choice to cut losses was painful but necessary. Former naval officer Bryan McGrath said maintaining the ships in commission would have been more expensive and less effective, especially in a possible high-end war. The American Enterprise Institute’s Mackenzie Eaglen noted the high yearly operating expenses—about $70 million per vessel—as another basis for why early retirement was financially astute.

However, the program was not a complete failure. The minesweeping package did finally achieve operational status, and in doing so performed a world-first by employing unmanned vehicles to sweep out minefields.

In the end, the LCS saga is a lesson that navy innovation is an exercise in balance, between striving for what is best and staying grounded in reality. Without hard testing, precise requirements, and an open mind to change in the face of changing threats, even the best ideas can become costly lessons. As one congressional staffer explained it, the Navy might have caught on to the LCS’s faults too late, but learning from them will be essential for what comes next for the fleet.

The Zumwalt-class destroyers, from the very beginning, remained a mystery to the U.S. Navy. Designed to be quiet, multi-purpose surface combatants with the latest technological advancements, their whole concept was to change the way wars were fought at sea. Unfortunately, they have gained notoriety along the way for an array of issues, ranging from crazy expensive, a heavily downscaled fleet, and only partial success with their main weapon—the 155mm Advanced Gun System. The advanced ammo was incredibly expensive, which made these giants look like they had no visible primary weapon—or, if we consider the time when this happened, no recognizable mission, at least.

Now, however, the Zumwalts are getting a dramatic second act. The Navy has decided to turn them into the first U.S. surface ships capable of launching hypersonic missiles, a move that could finally make these destroyers strategically relevant. This isn’t just a surface-level upgrade; it’s a fundamental rethink of how the Navy approaches power projection, deterrence, and surface combat in the modern era.

The modifications are extensive. The previously dominant Advanced Gun Systems at the bow of each ship are being replaced to accommodate four huge launch tubes. Each tube, Navy program manager Capt. Clint Lawler stated, is 87 inches in diameter and can triple-pack Advanced Payload Module canisters, each of which carries three Intermediate-Range Conventional Prompt Strike (IRCPS) hypersonic missiles.

That translates to a Zumwalt-class destroyer being able to carry up to 12 hypersonic weapons. It takes massive structural modifications, such as extracting deeply embedded gun mounts, bolstering bulkheads, and embedding new fire control and combat systems to handle hypersonic strike missions.

The missiles themselves are an advance in technology. They were developed collaboratively with the U.S. Army; the CPS missile of the Navy has a common boost-glide vehicle with the LRHW of the Army, Dark Eagle.

The weapons are boosted into flight by rocket propellants to a speed of more than Mach 5 before the separation of the glide vehicle, which flies toward its target through high unpredictability. The marriage of hyper speed and agility makes hypersonic missiles very hard to detect or intercept, perfect for attacking high-value, time-sensitive targets deep within hostile territory.

It makes sense strategically. Hypersonics reduce time-to-target and provide survivability at long range against sophisticated defenses. In an era where competitors such as Russia are building their hypersonic arsenals and heavily investing in anti-access/area-denial (A2/AD) systems, being capable of delivering swift, hard-to-halt attacks from stealthy platforms is a huge plus. The Zumwalt’s low radar profile and sophisticated communications capabilities make it particularly good at entering hotly contested zones and delivering devastating strikes before adversaries can respond.

Challenges, however, remain. The Navy’s aggressive schedule for fielding hypersonic missiles on the Zumwalt has already been running behind in testing and integration. “The Navy has yet to identify test conditions and associated test resources that will be evaluated across the three CPS phases to adequately assess lethality and operational effectiveness in the threat-contested environment,” officials observe.

With only three vessels in the class, all equipped with special hardware and software, these ships will be expensive and challenging to maintain and upgrade. Standardization of radar and combat systems is currently discussed as a means to ease maintenance and integration.

In spite of these challenges, the Navy is pressing ahead. USS Zumwalt has already back to the water following a 14-month refit, with its new hypersonic launchers installed. USS Lyndon B. Johnson is coming on stream with hypersonic capability from day one, while USS Michael Monsoor will get its upgrades in a future modernization program. Budget reports suggest an unambiguous commitment to fielding hypersonic weapons on all three ships within the next decade.

Once hailed as a cautionary tale of ambition run amok, the Zumwalt-class destroyers could yet discover their mission. By adopting revolutionary strike technology and redefining the surface combatant role in future naval warfare, the Navy is wagering that these massive stealth ships will take their rightful place as a key component of 21st-century maritime power.

The A-10 Thunderbolt II, or Warthog, is not just any military aircraft. Since the 70s, it has been gaining the love of the pilots and the soldiers for its indestructible design and its infamous 30mm cannon, which could destroy tanks in a jiffy. The Warthog has been singled out for being tough, dependable, and a rescuer in battle;e, hence, it has been the go-to aircraft for close air support engagements. Nevertheless, the Air Force is now making a move, after a lot of debate and quite a few years, to retire the old plane rapidly. It is not about taking a single airplane out of the sky; rather, it is a sign of the military’s change in the way it deploys air power.

The retirement is happening quicker than many expected. The Air Force plans to retire all 162 of its remaining A-10s by the end of fiscal 2026, which is two years ahead of the original schedule, at a cost of around $57 million. In 2024 alone, nearly 40 A-10s were sent to the aircraft “boneyard” in Arizona — more than double the number retired the previous year. By late 2024, half the fleet was already in storage, most of them no longer flyable.

Congress had been stubbornly opposed to phasing out the Warthog, but that opposition has faded in recent years. The 2025 defense bill reduced the minimum number of A-10s that need to stay in service from 135 to 96, which is a sign of priorities shifting. The 2026 budget by the Air Force also envisions phasing out hundreds of aircraft across the board, and the A-10 phaseout has gotten the most notice.

So why retire a popular plane like the A-10? Short answer: War is changing. The A-10 excels in low-level, lower-intensity wars, but Air Force officials say it would have trouble in the next war, when advanced air defenses will make the skies much more deadly. The military is shifting its attention to stealthy, multi-role fighter jets and unmanned systems that can survive those harsher environments.

That being said, the plan hasn’t been controversy-free. The F-35 Lightning II is the Warthog’s replacement, at least in theory, but few believe it can replace it entirely. Detractors argue that the F-35 is lighter on weapons, lacks the A-10’s mythic cannon, and isn’t designed for the close, low-altitude sorties that made the Warthog legendary.

Tests have indicated the two planes are fairly equally matched in close air support, and F-35 pilots don’t receive the same specialized training in this capability, which troubles some experts about losing that specialized skill set.

The retirement is already being felt by Air Force units. The 354th Fighter Squadron at Davis-Monthan, which had housed many of the A-10s, has closed and retired all 36 of its aircraft. In Maryland, the Air National Guard’s 175th Fighter Wing is converting from A-10 flying to cyber warfare — a move that has angered local leaders and veterans who worry it will pull off experienced pilots and damage community ties.

Davis-Monthan Air Force Base itself is changing. Formerly shorthand for the Warthog, it’s now preparing for special operations and newer airframes such as the OA-1K Sky Warden and MC-130J Commando II. The base will also see the EA-37B Compass Call electronic warfare aircraft. Pilots and aviators are transitioning to platforms such as the F-35, with commanders emphasizing that planes come and go, but good people never do.

Even with the retirement plans, A-10s remain in combat. In early 2025, the 124th Fighter Wing sent a few Warthogs and hundreds of personnel to the Middle East to support missions against ISIS and close air support for Iraq and Syria. The planes have also been used in Yemen strikes, showing that they still have a use, even though their days are numbered.

Looking ahead, the priorities of the Air Force are clear. The 2026 budget slashes F-35 purchases from 74 to 47 planes, while investing billions in 21 new F-15EX Eagle IIs and the creation of the next-gen F-47 air superiority fighter. There are also major investments in stealth bombers, advanced missile systems, and drone tech. The future will be about being adaptable, stealthy, and staying ahead with the most advanced tech.

Bidding adieu to the A-10 is more than sending an airplane into retirement — it’s ending a special chapter of air combat history. The Warthog’s reputation for ruggedness, firepower, and close air support won’t soon be forgotten, despite the Air Force looking towards the future with whatever comes next.