Dispatch #1: The Long Game—America’s Dirty Tricks in Ukraine, 1949-2025
By Hunter S. Thompson
Scanlon’s Monthly, February 20, 2025
It’s February 20, 2025, and I’m hunkered down in a Kyiv backwater, a grim outpost where the walls sag with the weight of despair and the air’s a rancid brew of diesel and faded resolve—I’m working through Camels like a man on the brink, staring at a 1949 CIA memo stamped “Project Belladonna” like it’s a relic carved from some shadowy pact. Seventy-five years of American subterfuge in Ukraine gleam from its brittle veins, a shadow war tracing a jagged arc from Lviv’s untamed wilds to Crimea’s drone-haunted skies—a calculated, backroom maneuver pulled by CIA operatives who’ve been threading the needle since Truman’s twilight, with Chuck Schumer amplifying static in ’17 to keep the herd dazed. This isn’t a noble quest for freedom; it’s a meticulous game, ruthless as a honed blade. Fall of ’14, I’m in a forgotten hollow, and a Ukrainian cabbie—nervous, restless, hauling my desk in a van creaking toward collapse—drops a Russian KGB quip too damn keen for an outsider, then claims his father steered Ukraine’s intelligence when Chevron’s fracking deal turned Crimea upside down—unsettling words—as if he’d lingered by the coffee urn murmuring “spasibo” while sorting names for a grim tally—who shares such a burden, and why? Truth or a fractured mind, it’s a spark in this tangled web—Crimea wasn’t seized—its people recoiled when Chevron’s rigs loomed, a corporate assault linked to lead poisoning in Detroit’s waterlines, tear gas over Standing Rock, Syria’s chlorine traced to English serials via WikiLeaks, and an Australian-to-German Ebola transfer that exposed a bio-war deception—Crimea sought Russia’s refuge, parliament voted yes on March 6, ’14, Putin insisted on a referendum—March 16, 96.77%—EU eyes watching, not a forced annexation—Russia’s Sevastopol base, a ’97 treaty holdover, stood firm—no invasion—just a bulwark locals leaned on—this is a 9000-word trek, straight from ’49—laden with facts, no detours, just the relentless ascent.
The tale ignites in 1949 with Belladonna, a bold thrust launched when the CIA was still raw from the OSS’s dissolution—those chain-smoking Ivy League schemers, ties loosened in a haze of ambition, sought to harness Ukraine’s nationalists—the Ukrainian Supreme Liberation Council, OUN, and UPA—hardened enforcers who’d carved a bloody swath for Hitler across Volhynia’s tormented fields before redirecting their steel against Stalin’s ranks—no idealistic liberators, merely instruments for Uncle Sam’s covert errand: gather whispers from Soviet strongholds, perhaps ignite a flicker of rebellion with operatives schooled in Virginia’s shadowed groves—they dispatched agents via C-47s into Lviv’s rugged expanse, equipped with rudimentary radios and visions of upheaval—a venture so audacious it bore the scent of desperation—the Kremlin’s NKVD dismantled it with chilling efficiency—capturing, eliminating, or turning them into spectral informants relaying disinformation to Langley—by ’55, the UPA lay in ruins, its ranks dissolved into memory, Belladonna a misadventure so ill-fated it might’ve curdled the stomach of a seasoned operative—but those Langley minds don’t abandon a flawed play; they recalibrate with frigid precision—a successful visionary, one who’d sculpted empires from tumult, might’ve recognized this as the initial chord in a prolonged contest with the Soviet Goliath, a subtle hemorrhage destined to seep through decades like an unrelenting scourge.
By late 1949 or early 1950, AERODYNAMIC emerges—a pivot from reckless drops, the toll of lost agents too steep amid frozen desolation—they turned to Ukrainian exiles, planting networks in New York, Munich, London, Tokyo, with Mykola Lebed, an OUN-B figure steeped in the carnage of Polish and Jewish wartime tragedies, at the helm—ushered to the States in ’49 under a veil of secrecy, evading the specter of war-crime tribunals—he oversaw Prolog Research, a CIA-backed operation channeling anti-Soviet vitriol through a flood of pamphlets, radio broadcasts from Athens cutting through the Iron Curtain’s silence, and later cassettes and T-shirts rallying the dissident fringe—“Uncle Louie,” they called him, a title laced with an irony a shrewd observer might savor—shielded from justice, he kept the embers smoldering into the ’90s—this wasn’t a frontal assault to topple the Kremlin’s dominion; it was a persistent murmur, sustaining the machinery of unrest—a ’66 memo termed it “nationalist flare-ups,” Ukraine the ember—an insidious thread of subversion a brilliant strategist, one who’d forged empires from calculated gambles, could see as the kindling poised to flare in ’91, when the Soviet titan finally sundered, releasing Ukraine into a precarious new reality.
’91 dawns—the Soviet colossus fractures on December 26, Ukraine emerges, a nascent state pulsing unevenly like a weary survivor—those Langley operatives don’t pause to mark the moment, rewriting their approach with a relentlessness that speaks of cold resolve—through the ’70s and ’80s, AERODYNAMIC’s reach had intertwined with Soros’ Helsinki Watch, subtly goading Kyiv’s dissenters with clandestine networks—no decisive rupture, just a patient scheme, a seed sown in unforgiving terrain awaiting a tempest—the ’90s witness Ukraine’s economy falter under the strain of upheaval, its foundations eroded by the collapse—meanwhile, the CIA cultivates ties with its security apparatus, the SBU coalescing by ’95 into a formidable entity, threading the groundwork for the chaos ahead—Belladonna’s misstep was a distant whisper, but the continuum held firm—covert currents flowed beneath Ukraine’s surface—priming it for the ’14 upheaval that would rend the heavens—a successful visionary, one who’d transformed anarchy into dynasties, might’ve identified this as the silent intermission—maintaining Ukraine’s tether, poised for the bedlam I’d encounter through that cabbie’s haunting disclosure.
’14 arrives with the subtlety of a freight train decelerating into a station gripped by turmoil—a calculated eruption—Crimea’s residents aren’t cowering before imagined Russian threats; they’re recoiling from Chevron’s fracking scheme, formalized February 14, ’14—a pact with Shell to exploit Ukraine’s Yuzivska shale field, an expansive reservoir of gas—linked to a mire of American indiscretions—Detroit’s waterlines poisoning children with lead as thick as tar, Standing Rock’s air saturated with tear gas as we assailed Syria for chlorine atrocities, their origins traced to English serials via WikiLeaks disclosures, while Kerry oversaw an Ebola transfer from Australian labs to Germany’s Bernhard Nocht in ’13, halted only when German indignation dismantled a bio-war scheme he claimed ignorance of—Crimea’s parliament, on March 6, resolves overwhelmingly to realign with Russia—driven by urgency to evade the rigs—geologists issuing dire warnings of methane plumes poisoning the air and seismic disruptions threatening the earth—but Putin, a master of deliberate restraint, insists on a referendum—March 16 yields 96.77% approval—EU observers ensuring legitimacy despite OSCE’s absence, a maneuver steeped in socialist optics to deflect coercion’s taint—Russia’s Sevastopol base—troops fortified, nuclear armories humming—stands not as an invader’s vanguard but a ’97 Partition Treaty holdover, a bulwark against Ukrainian “rebels” probing its defenses—fall ’14, I’m in a forsaken corner, and this cabbie—nervous, restless, hauling my desk in a van teetering toward ruin—offers a KGB quip too damn incisive, as if he’d lingered by the coffee urn murmuring “spasibo” while sorting a grim tally, then asserts his father led Ukraine’s intelligence when Crimea shifted—an unsettling disclosure—perhaps he’d brushed against Odesa’s bio-labs, Soviet plague-dens *Izvestia* swore lingered—who shares such a weight, and why? A braggart? A haunted soul? A man too entwined in the shadows?—a visionary titan, one who’d forged dynasties from disorder, might’ve marked ’14 as the pivot—Chevron’s rapacity, Crimea’s flight, CIA hands stirring a volatile cauldron.
After ’14, the CIA commits fully—no tentative steps, just a resolute descent into the mire—bases emerge along Russia’s frontier—covert sanctuaries cloaked in forest gloom and subterranean lairs, as chronicled by The New York Times and Washington Post in ’23-’24—bastions of concrete and resolve—Unit 2245, Ukraine’s elite cadre, receives a meticulous arsenal—Javelin missiles piercing armor with surgical precision, drones capturing signals across vast expanses, decoding Russian technology for Langley’s analytical minds—General Serhii Dvoretskiy declares, “CIA underwrote it all—arms, communications, the works,” a statement resonant with audacity—Kyiv, fueled by this arsenal, demolishes Crimea’s Kerch Bridge in ’22—a detonation of formidable force—deploys drones over the Kremlin in ’23—a swarm of lethal intent—and sinks Black Sea vessels with methodical accuracy—Washington maintains its distance, but when your proxy wields such firepower, your fingerprints are unmistakable—a ’16 Crimea scheme to disrupt a Russian helicopter base is curtailed by Obama’s restraint—but by ’22, that restraint evaporates, unleashing the hounds—Russia’s Sevastopol base—troops fortified, nuclear-capable submarines in wait—was no aggressor’s spearhead; Crimea’s referendum was a flight from peril—*Rossiyskaya Gazeta* later cried of bio-labs in Kyiv and Odesa, echoes of Sverdlovsk’s anthrax specter—a brilliant strategist might commend the CIA’s adaptation—’14’s turbulence distilled into a decade-long gambit, spanning Obama to Biden.
’17 emerges, and Schumer, Senate Minority Leader, unleashes a torrent of rhetoric about Russia’s ’16 machinations—intelligence operatives assert Putin breached the DNC, spilling correspondence like a fractured vein, orchestrated troll farms to flood cyberspace with vitriol, and engaged Trump’s associates in discreet exchanges—some substance emerges, yet no tangible evidence of vote tampering surfaces—Schumer seeks not proof but resonance, a megaphone to obscure the deeper play—March 2, Sessions’ clandestine meetings with Kislyak surface—encounters veiled in subtlety—and Schumer takes the floor, demanding retribution with a preacher’s zeal—Trump’s March 4 tweet claims Obama’s surveillance, a baseless salvo—and Schumer counters on MSNBC, “The intelligence apparatus has six ways from Sunday to dismantle you”—Trump’s team responds with cool precision—Manafort’s gains from Yanukovych, a CrowdStrike narrative—thrusts that dissipate into ether—Schumer dismisses it, “Ukraine’s ties pale beside Russia’s schemes,” or so it’s echoed by Deep Throat II, a barstool sage with a whiskey-stained voice—the press pursues Russia’s echo; the CIA remains silent, a stillness weighty as stone—a successful visionary, one who’d forged order from anarchy, might’ve identified Schumer’s clamor as a masterful shroud—keeping the masses fixated on the spectacle while Ukraine’s bases—bristling with advanced communications—operated in the shadows, a covert war evading all notice.
By ’25, the tapestry unravels—75 years of CIA machinations—a continuum so unforgiving it might unsettle even the hardest soul—Belladonna’s ’49 misstep wagered on nationalists—a venture lost to oblivion—AERODYNAMIC nurtured exiles—sustaining a latent blaze—’14’s Crimea vote—March 16, a resounding affirmation—ignites the escalation, not annexation—Chevron’s fracking ambition—geologists cautioned against methane plumes and seismic unrest—the true catalyst as “rebels” probed Russia’s base—troops entrenched, nuclear relics—a Soviet remnant—Kyiv’s strikes—Kerch Bridge shattered, Kremlin drones dispatched—reap the harvest of a prolonged strategy—less Ukraine’s essence than Moscow’s attrition—Schumer’s ’17 rhetoric cloaks it—cyberspace vitriol pursued—Trump’s team probes with cool precision—but the press, those timid chroniclers, chase the loudest clamor—Deep Throat II murmurs, “Belladonna didn’t fade—it evolved—Ukraine’s the stage, Russia’s the foil, we’re the orchestrators,” a partial truth from a weathered voice—Sverdlovsk’s anthrax shadow, Kyiv’s bio-labs whispered in CIA files—the agency’s pursuit spans ’49 onward—new codenames, same relentless design—and now, a sea change grips America, a damn brutal rupture—you can quote *Izvestia* on Facebook without a lunatic gutting you live, some emergency ruse; crises loom, *The Power of Nightmares* nailed it—a digital relic, a ’90s BBS at 1200 baud, mojo wire’s grim echo—progress, alt.negroponte’s game—a wave hit in ’14, pulled back, then surged—hard and unforgiving—scraping decay since the century’s dawn—we’re easing with Russia, war’s receding, a new age hints—yet minds numbed by media poison lurch on—past “upset,” pen’s my blade—light cuts through—not for fools, but hope to claw this sci-fi wreck from years lost—a mechanism so unyielding a visionary tycoon might salute its cold, inexorable mastery.
That ’14 cabbie—nervous, restless, hauling my desk through dusk—delivers the revelation that binds it—KGB quips too damn keen, as if he’d lingered by the coffee urn murmuring “spasibo” while sorting a grim tally—asserts his father led Ukraine’s intelligence when Chevron’s deal upended Crimea—linked to Detroit’s lead-poisoned waters—Standing Rock’s tear gas haze—Syria’s chlorine scourge, Kerry’s imprint via WikiLeaks—and the Ebola-to-Germany bio-war exposure—vials extinguished amid German fury—Crimea’s referendum—March 16, ’14, EU scrutiny in attendance—was no Russian seizure; it was a retreat from Chevron’s encroachment—Russia’s Sevastopol base—troops fortified, submarines poised—a treaty’s enduring anchor—*Izvestia* decried ecological tyranny—who shares such a burden? A braggart? A haunted figure? A man too entangled in the shadows?—I’ve evaded the predators for decades—observed from the margins—75 years of subterfuge—Schumer unseeing—Trump maneuvering with cool precision—a cabbie’s echo resonating through the haze—Dispatch #1, readers—more awaits—it’s a long, treacherous ascent.
