How Ukraine is weaning herself off US military support

Ukraine’s strategic problem is straightforward. Washington’s control over the employment of US munitions has tightened: according to a Wall Street Journal report echoed by Reuters, the Pentagon has, since late spring 2025, subjected Ukrainian use of ATACMS against targets inside Russia to a case-by-case approval process that has in practice blocked such strikes. Kyiv’s answer has been to accelerate domestic programmes so that deep-strike options no longer depend upon foreign permissions. 

The centrepiece of this new autonomy is a long-range cruise missile dubbed Flamingo, developed by the Ukrainian firm Fire Point. President Zelenskyy confirmed successful tests and said mass production should start over the winter; reputable defence outlets describe a weapon intended to carry a warhead of roughly a tonne over ranges on the order of three thousand kilometres. The political significance is as striking as the claimed performance: a domestically controlled system capable of reaching strategic targets far inside Russia, and therefore beyond any external veto. 

Flamingo is not emerging in a vacuum. Parallel work has revived Ukraine’s short-range ballistic programme. The Sapsan (also known as Hrim-2) has, according to Ukrainian officials and independent reporting, completed combat testing near 300 kilometres and is moving towards serial production. Even if output begins modestly, a sovereign ballistic option alters the calculus: every additional domestic missile eases Ukraine’s dependence on ATACMS, both operationally and diplomatically. 

A third pillar is the Neptune family. Originally an anti-ship weapon, Neptune has been adapted for land attack; in August reporting, Ukraine unveiled an upgraded variant with a much extended reach, credited by open-source analysts with strikes on high-value Russian targets. The point is not merely technical. A successful land-attack Neptune reduces the marginal value of each batch of Western cruise missiles and offers Kyiv a longer lever over Russia’s rear. 

Air defence is following the same logic of substitution and layering. With scarce Patriots stretched thin and Russian missiles evolving, Ukraine is pushing domestic options on two tracks. First, classic surface-to-air missiles: officials signalled in late 2023 that the Koral guided-missile project was a priority, with public claims of engagement ranges beyond 100 kilometres in later statements; while technical details remain sparse and timelines uncertain, the trajectory is clear—replace some imported interceptors with Ukrainian ones. Second, mass interceptor drones: the government’s Brave1 innovation cluster is funding missile-and-interceptor projects, and Reuters has recorded an official push to scale cheap counter-drone systems that can be produced quickly and used liberally against Shahed-type swarms. An authoritative survey by the International Institute for Strategic Studies adds context: Ukraine’s ground-based air defence has evolved under pressure toward a heterogeneous, more localised model in which domestic production is a growing share. 

The industrial architecture behind these weapons is as important as the missiles themselves. Kyiv is attempting to move from boutique innovation to series production by pairing dispersed, hardened workshops inside Ukraine with co-production and supply-chain deals in Europe, backed by new grant lines under Brave1. This mitigates the risk that a single strike can collapse output and begins to align Ukrainian long-range warfare with a sustainable industrial base rather than ad hoc improvisation. It also creates a political dividend: when the decisive subsystems are Ukrainian, external partners may fund capacity without demanding a veto over targeting. 

None of this is effortless. Flamingo’s eye-catching figures are, so far, a mix of official hints and controlled disclosures; scaling any missile to hundreds per month demands engines, guidance electronics, propellants and test infrastructure resilient to Russian attack and to export-control friction. Sapsan must move from demonstration to dependable series output under wartime constraints. Air-defence projects must pass from brochure to brigade quickly enough to matter against Russian salvos that are themselves getting faster and more agile. And the economics are unforgiving: a domestic missile that is too expensive to build in numbers will not wean Ukraine off Western stockpiles. 

Even with these caveats, the strategic direction is unmistakable. A portfolio of home-grown cruise and ballistic missiles, complemented by indigenous air-defence layers, would restore agency to Ukraine’s campaign design. It would allow planners to synchronise deep-strike series against Russian refineries, rail hubs and bomber bases without pausing for allied deliberation; it would let air-defence commanders spend interceptors according to tactical need rather than political scarcity. In this sense, the domestic programmes are not only technical projects. They are constitutional acts of wartime sovereignty.

If they succeed, two things follow. First, Russian cost curves shift. A Ukrainian arsenal whose pacing items are built in Dnipro, Kyiv and Kharkiv raises the price of Moscow’s long war by forcing thicker air defences and deeper rear-area dispersal. Secondly, Western partners gain leverage of a healthier kind. Instead of rationing permissions for each strike, they can underwrite Ukrainian capacity with money, tooling and materials, confident that Kyiv will use her weapons to the full because they are hers to employ. That is how an army at war turns foreign constraint into national competence—and why Ukraine’s domestic air-defence and long-range missiles matter beyond the numbers on their data sheets.