For a long time, carrier ships have been the dream of sea power, the naval vessels that fly and can spread their power all over the world. Russia, in particular, was so mesmerized by the idea of building the next supercarrier that this imaginary project was followed by enthusiasm, pride, and a desire to overtake its great sea rivals. It evolved from a dream to a reality in the late 1980s with the Ulyanovsk, which would upgrade the Moscow navy to a blue-water navy. However, the ship was one of the most famous “what-ifs” in naval history instead of being transformed 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, and 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.
There is a more important lesson out there. Yet, without a contemporary aircraft carrier, Russia’s power to send its naval flotilla all over the earth remains limited. The goal may be to have access everywhere, but the reality is that the Russian navy is still constrained by geography, budgets, and technology.
The Ulyanovsk disaster is only one historical example of a situation where the military presence was extremely extended, which was later brought down by unexpected economic and political issues. In the Kremlin’s case, this broken vessel is not only a symbol of bygone ambitions but also a source of puzzling issues that Russia is facing in trying to have a genuine navy.