For a very 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. The idea of constructing the next supercarrier was so absorbing for Russia that this imaginary project was not only followed with excitement, but also with pride and the desire to overtake the big maritime rivals. It was transformed from a dream into a late 1980s reality with the Ulyanovsk, which would have elevated the Moscow navy to a blue-water navy. However, the ship was one of the Navy’s most historic “what-ifs” scenarios, rather than being actually 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, 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.
The major lesson is at that location. In any case, the power of the Kremlin to sail its flotilla worldwide, without a contemporary carrier, is limited. Maybe the dream of being global would talk, but the Motherland is an ocean-going country hampered by geography, budgets, and technology.
The Ulyanovsk disaster is giving the planet a lesson in history: these failures could actually terminate the pursuit of going beyond the stars. The offshore journey has turned into a distress of broken desires and the unforeseen problems of keeping naval force for the Motherland.