The wind blows cold through Kyiv tonight, February 20, 2025, and I’m sipping truth from a cracked glass, peering at a 1949 CIA memo titled “Project Belladonna.” It’s a ghost note in a 75-year ballad of American subterfuge in Ukraine—a tune that started with desperate men dropping from the sky and ends with drones buzzing over Crimea. This is no tale of freedom’s triumph; it’s a dirge for sovereignty, played by the CIA’s invisible hands while senators like Chuck Schumer sang loud distractions in 2017. I’ve walked the digital frontier, seen power’s mask slip in cyberspace, but this is older, earthier—a long, slow waltz of control. Let’s step into the shadows and hear the song.

Belladonna bloomed in ’49, a dark flower in the Cold War’s dawn. The CIA, still humming with OSS echoes, reached for Ukraine’s soul—tattered nationalists, the Ukrainian Supreme Liberation Council (UHVR), remnants of the OUN and UPA who’d danced with Nazis before turning their knives on Stalin. These weren’t saints; they were killers with a cause, and America wanted their rage. The plan: drop agents into Lviv’s wilds, armed with radios and hope, to spark a fire behind Soviet lines. It was a fool’s chord—the Kremlin’s hounds caught them quick, snapped their necks or turned them double. By ’55, the UPA was dust, Belladonna a wilted dream. But the song didn’t end; it shifted key, a quiet riff building under the static.

Then came AERODYNAMIC, ’49 or ’50, stretching into the ’90s like a tape loop that wouldn’t break. No more skydiving martyrs—too much blood on the snow. The CIA tuned to exile voices, Mykola Lebed chief among them, an OUN-B butcher smuggled to New York in ’49, past the ghosts of his Polish and Jewish dead. He ran Prolog Research, a front pouring out anti-Soviet psalms—pamphlets, radio waves from Athens, later cassettes and tees. From Munich to Tokyo, they sang of Ukraine’s fire, codenamed “Uncle Louie,” safe from war-crime claws under Langley’s wing. A ’66 memo called it “nationalist flare-ups,” a flicker to keep the Soviet beast restless. It didn’t topple towers, but it strung a wire through time, humming till ’91 when the USSR cracked open.

Ukraine stood alone in ’91, and the CIA didn’t miss a beat—they rewrote the score. Through the ’70s and ’80s, AERODYNAMIC’s threads wove into Soros’ Helsinki Watch, whispering dissent in Kyiv’s streets. It wasn’t victory; it was patience, a seed waiting for rain. Then 2014 crashed in—Russia snatched Crimea, stirred Donbas, and the spooks struck their loudest note yet. The New York Times and Washington Post, digging in ’23-’24, found the roots: twelve secret bases along Russia’s edge, hollowed out in forests, buried deep, paid for with CIA coin. Unit 2245, Ukraine’s sharpest blade, learned tricks—Javelins, drone snags, cracking Russian tech for Langley’s coders. General Serhii Dvoretskiy sang it plain: “CIA gave us the tools—guns, comms, the lot.” This ain’t Belladonna’s stumble; it’s a symphony, a decade rising from Obama to Biden.

The chorus got wild—Kyiv, armed with CIA lessons, hit bridges in Crimea, sent drones over the Kremlin, sank ships in the Black Sea. America claimed innocence, hands off the triggers, but when your pupil’s painting the sky with fire, the teacher’s shadow looms. A ’16 Crimea plot—blowing a Russian chopper nest—died under Obama’s leash, but by ’22, the leash was ash. Schumer’s ’17 cries—“proven Russian ties!”—kept the spotlight elsewhere. Trump’s Ukraine mutters, thin as a broken string, touched a nerve he couldn’t tune: the U.S. was deep in this dirt, not his election myth. The song’s louder now, but its roots are old.

Flash to ’17—Schumer, Senate Minority Leader, belting out Russia’s ’16 sins. The spooks swore Putin hacked the DNC, spun trolls, cozied up to Trump’s crew—some bones to chew, no ballot-box coup. Schumer didn’t care for proof; he craved volume. March 2, Sessions’ Russian chats leak, and Schumer’s on the floor, demanding blood. Trump tweets March 4—Obama tapped him, pure madness—and Schumer smirks on MSNBC, “The spooks got six ways from Sunday to sting you.” Trump’s boys strum back: Manafort’s $12.7 million from Yanukovych, a CrowdStrike fable. Schumer brushes it off—“Ukraine’s ties ain’t nothing to Russia’s noise,” or close, per a barstool bard, Deep Throat II. The press chased Russia’s echo; the CIA hummed low.

That hush was the melody. By ’17, Ukraine’s bases were budding, training grounds alive. Schumer’s Russia howl—true or not—veiled the crescendo. Trump’s Ukraine riff, off-key, grazed a truth he couldn’t play: America’s hands were in the mix. Deep Throat II whispers the bridge: “Belladonna didn’t fade—it grew. Ukraine’s the stage, Russia’s the foil, and we’re the band.” He’s half-right. Belladonna’s ’49 bust fed AERODYNAMIC’s slow burn, primed ’91’s shift, and roared after ’14. Seventy-five years—stutter start, steady pulse, fierce now.

The verses align: Belladonna gambled on nationalists, lost the bet. AERODYNAMIC strung exiles along, kept the tune alive. Today’s ops—bases, sabotage, proxies—are the finale, less about Ukraine’s soul than choking Moscow’s breath. Schumer’s ’17 horn buried it; Trump’s fumbling plucked at it. The press, blind bards, followed the loudest wail. By ’25, it’s clear: Ukraine’s a pawn, not a prize. The CIA’s played this since ’49—new titles, old rhythm. Deep Throat II’s lyric—“Project” dies, “Operation” lives—might be saloon poetry, but it fits: Belladonna wilted, something else bloomed, and we’re here.

I’ve roamed cyberspace’s wilds, seen power’s code unwind, but this is analog, primal—a 75-year dance of shadow and steel. The lesson’s old as liberty: when suits shout of foreign foes, watch the quiet hands. Belladonna fed Ukrainians to the void for scraps; AERODYNAMIC strung exiles on promises; now it’s bases and blood for leverage. Schumer missed the beat—or ignored it. Trump stumbled close but fell flat. The CIA keeps time, and Ukraine pays the toll—75 years deep. This song’s no anthem; it’s a warning, echoing from ’49 to now.
- JPB