The aerial target is coming at you or your friends. It can kill any kind of vehicle, including a tank, or hit an ammunition store, command post or even a surface-to-air battery worth hundreds of millions of dollars. Or it may go after a single soldier.

Your challenge is that the target, a quadcopter drone, is really small, manoeuvrable and hard to detect.

None of that is the biggest challenge. Rather, the confounding problem is that the thing is incredibly cheap, having cost the enemy some low multiple of $1000—far less than the usual cost of shooting down anything. If you use expensive means to knock down such a drone, the other side’s easy answer is just to build more of them and exhaust your budget.

The sudden proliferation of inexpensive drones in Ukraine is a revolution in warfare. While they vary in size and capability, the  economics of defence are particularly stressed by the very cheapest ones, those adapted from civilian models or made with commercially available components.

What follows is a look at the difficulties in engaging a little civil-derivative quadcopter. This article in the series particularly focusses on the challenge in developing and making counter-drone systems that use cannon to achieve more range than is available from machine guns—to increase the area that can be defended and the time available for engagement. Another article will look at other tools for defeating cheap drones, such as lasers and jamming.

Northrop Grumman of the US, MSI-DS in Britain, and Australia’s Electro Optic Systems (EOS) are among manufacturers offering systems with cannon.

Two issues arise: such weapons need a multiplicity of expensive sensors to do the job, and they must be built with high precision to hold down ammunition expenditure. So, they cannot be cheap. We can understand this if we follow their engagement sequence.

First, the defender must detect the drone. For longest-range detection, use of a search radar may be preferred—at the risk of the enemy picking up its transmissions, determining its location and attacking it.

The drone is made mostly of plastic, a poor reflector of radio energy, so the radar needs to be sensitive. It must also be set for detection of targets moving as slowly as tens of kilometres per hour, which means it will have to be clever enough to ignore reflections from birds.

In fact, a radar may be able to do that and indeed to use the characteristics of radio reflections to work out a drone’s model—handy information for avoiding destruction of friendly aerial objects.

A search radar may pick up a little drone at 5km if it has a sufficient line of sight, then classification occurs at a closer range. Such a sensor probably costs at least hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Optical detection is an alternative to radar in reasonably clear daylight but probably doesn’t offer such long range and warning time. The Mark I eyeball is particularly challenged in noticing a distant quadcopter, but a weapon system’s electro-optical and infrared cameras might be used in scan mode.

Once the drone has been detected, it must be tracked. And here we begin to deal with the problem of achieving high precision and the tight and costly manufacturing standards that it demands.

Tracking means finely measuring the drone’s position and movement. Again, a suitably high-performance radar may be used, at the risk of detection, or the weapon system can rely on its electro-optic and infrared cameras and its laser rangefinder. Taking the required data from them means knowing exactly the angles at which they are pointing.

They need to be slewed in the target’s direction very quickly, preferably automatically, to begin their work and minimise engagement time.

Tracking may need to begin at a range of several kilometres. The greater the range, the greater the distortion of observed angles by atmospheric conditions. To some extent those errors can be reduced with software.

If everything is working, the fire-control computer now knows pretty well where the little target is and how it’s moving. It can work out a future position at which the drone and a round of ammunition can come together.

The gun must now point at exactly the angles that the fire-control computer has calculated for it. Nothing in the apparatus can be wobbly.

If confident that the weapon is tracking well and that no friendly object will be hit, the gunner will fire. In the case of EOS’s Slinger counter-drone weapon, the gunner could reasonably hope to hit at 1500 metres, the company says.

If such a weapon is using 30mm proximity-fused shells, which explode when they sense something close to them, it had better knock down a quadcopter with a single round. Each shell costs something like US$1000, so using a few could easily cost more than the drone (and take more time).

Here, however, there’s an advantage for the defender. A flimsy quadcopter can cope with hardly any damage and a fragment from an exploding shell is very likely to bring it down.

The probability of hitting will vary with ranges and weather, and also from system to system. EOS says the Slinger has at least a 95% chance of downing a quadcopter with one 30mm proximity-fused round in standard daylight conditions at 1000 metres. If solid ammunition is used instead of shells, the cost per round will be much lower, but the gunner will probably have to fire a burst of several.

Cannons might also use time-fused shells, which explode at the calculated moment of interception.

The point of using cannons is to engage at a distance, but if the drone has managed to close to around 500 metres, the gunner will switch to the system’s machine gun. A burst of bullets may cost only a few dollars, and one hit will do the trick.

That sounds good, but the defender will strongly prefer that the drone never gets so close. And if the drone has escaped cannon fire in going for a target that’s too far for the machine gun to cover, then the defence has already failed.

The exact prices for these systems are not known. EOS has said that  three Slingers sold last year cost less than $2 million (US$1.3 million). The ABC has reported a price of less than US$1 million per system.

That would not include the search radar, nor, perhaps, training and an initial stock of ammunition and spares, all needed to achieve operational capability.

Then there’s the question of how many such systems must be bought. If the defender needs to cover a front line and the effective weapon range is 1000 metres, then the systems will have to be spaced at less than 2km intervals, even assuming clear lines of sight.

And more will be needed in the rear, to cover other equipment and installations, and maybe more again to deal with larger drones that could reach such facilities as power stations and hospitals. If swarm drone attacks are expected, and they probably should be, defensive weapons will have to be placed thickly, reinforcing each other.

Consider, too, that crews will be needed for all those systems.

The drones are cheap, so killing them must also be cheap. But equipping an army for the task cannot be.

Civil defence has been crucial to Ukraine’s survival since the start of Russia’s full-scale invasion in February 2022. Russian aggressors in Ukraine have already killed, injured, raped and robbed hundreds of thousands of Ukrainians, displaced millions of civilians and destroyed substantial non-military infrastructure.

According to the latest UN statistics, Ukraine has suffered 27,149 civilian casualties so far in the war, comprising 9,614 killed and 17,535 injured. But these figures count only the victims the UN has been able to confirm, and it acknowledges that the actual civilian casualty toll is likely much higher. The dead from still-occupied areas, including the tens of thousands killed in still-occupied Mariupol alone, are yet to be counted.

Other grim statistics include more than 120,000 civilian buildings destroyed and 105,000 war crimes registered. The fighting has displaced at least 13 million Ukrainians, and an estimated 174,000 square kilometres of land has been contaminated by unexploded ordnance.

In this war, there are several threats to Ukrainian civilians, primarily from the air, but also from land and water.

Russian missiles, bombs, artillery rockets and shells, and kamikaze drones affect Ukrainians daily. Russia has repeatedly targeted civilian areas far from the frontline, including with missile strikes on targets as far afield as Lviv, near Ukraine’s western border with Poland.

The only densely populated area reasonably protected from this is the capital Kyiv, where a missile-defence system, including the latest generation of Patriot interceptors, can thwart Russian attacks. But even this cannot guarantee complete protection—falling debris still regularly threatens Kyiv’s inhabitants and damages infrastructure.

In some regions, more deadly and immediate threats come from the land. Mines are being left in battlefields and unexploded munitions litter the territories closest to the fighting.

Water-based threats include Russia’s targeting of dams, which has caused intense flooding, destroying communities and drowning civilians and their animals. Russian naval mines in the Black Sea and Ukrainian anti-amphibious minefields on the coast near Odessa claim further victims.

The long-term impacts of these threats include environmental damage—such as the destruction of forests and pollution—and damage to the critical infrastructure supporting key services like education and health care.

The war is a challenge of a magnitude that Ukraine’s civil-defence system wasn’t designed to handle. Few believed such a large-scale and destructive war would come to Ukraine, and Russia’s aggression has exposed many weaknesses in Ukraine’s civilian defence.

Shelter is one such issue. After independence, the Ukrainian government found that most of the shelters inherited from the Soviet era were poorly maintained and sold them to private enterprise. Before this war, Ukraine’s civil protection planning focused on scenarios that involved evacuations and rescues in a temporary emergency, rather than shelters for defence and survival in a war.

The invasion has shown that air defence is essential to civil defence, and Ukraine was unprepared to defend the population and critical infrastructure. The Russian military has targeted civilian electricity, heating and water infrastructure throughout the war. At the outset of the invasion, strikes on fuel depots worsened acute shortages, and at the height of the bombing campaign last winter, more than 50% of Ukraine’s energy sector was hit, causing widespread temporary blackouts.

Notwithstanding its pre-war deficiencies, Ukraine’s civil defence has shown resilience.

The government has demonstrated its ability to maintain general control over the war effort and to coordinate the interior ministry’s specialised teams with the efforts of Ukrainian communities.

Substantial digitalisation of public services has allowed the government, local authorities and other providers of critical services to function adequately throughout the war. The stability of mobile phone and internet services has played an important role as a lifeline for civil-defence control and coordination. As the war escalated, private providers quickly established independent power supplies to keep access continuous and stable.

Digitalisation has also given financial institutions the stability they need to operate, and the readiness of Ukrainian cyber systems to withstand Russian attacks was crucial to this. Ukraine’s transportation system also proved resilient, at least enough to support evacuations and conceal military logistics.

Ukraine’s air-raid alert system has provided timely warning all over the country, apart from areas closest to the frontline. Soon after the start of aggression, Ukraine adopted an early warning system similar to Israel’s, combining radar, optical and other signals to detect incoming threats. Further mapping of these signals culminated in systems that warn citizens through mobile phones, the media and sirens.

Ukraine has also been working to combat Russia’s toxic disinformation campaign. Ukrainian authorities strive to maintain a careful balance between ensuring the freedom of the press and strong information-security measures and have significantly inhibited the success of Russian propaganda.

As Russia continues to target civilian populations and infrastructure across Ukraine, the resilience of these measures is crucial. Since the invasion, traditional civil-defence functions, including state emergency services, the national police and local authorities, have demonstrated a high capacity to coordinate and expand their efforts.

During the first year of the war, Ukraine brought together seven new state emergency units for chemical, biological and radiological protection and 15 new rescue units. It also established 24 new fire departments and more than 1,000 volunteer fire brigades in cooperation with local authorities.

The government made changes to enable local authorities to take radical measures for the safety of local populations in residential areas, and amended construction documentation requirements to introduce compulsory civil-defence measures for buildings that permanently house more than 50 people or temporarily accommodate more than 100 workers or visitors. It raced to develop more sophisticated shelter systems that better protect civilians, especially those studying and working, and supported evacuation efforts.

Landmine removal efforts are ramping up too. While Ukraine’s partners provided significant transport assistance and equipment, it was impossible to meet the demand rapidly and the government sought help from local businesses and the defence industry. The personnel numbers in demining units have increased by the hundreds.

Particular attention was paid to people with higher needs, especially children. Except in schools near the frontlines, formal education has continued in areas with suitable air-raid shelters. In areas where that’s not the case, children receive their lessons online. In addition to normal schooling, the military, police, rescuers, public organisations and charitable foundations have been offering a selection of courses and lessons on how to behave in extreme conditions. For example, Ukraine’s emergency services now provide online safety classes for children that teach them practical skills for responding in emergencies.

The testing of civil-defence systems in Ukraine has naturally led to important discussions about how to protect civilians in war. Whether it be maintaining air defences, removing landmines, handling chemical or biological hazards, firefighting, providing shelters and stable supplies, or ensuring transport systems can handle evacuations, the war in Ukraine has shown how important it is to be prepared. With Ukraine hoping to welcome millions of evacuated Ukrainians back home after the war, robust civil defence must remain a top priority and will be a key factor in Ukraine’s future.

Recent strategic developments have led the Australian government to take several steps to reshape defence policy. The AUKUS nuclear-powered submarine venture is not just a massive long-term investment but, at last, the cornerstone of a significant shift in strategic direction.

However, Defence is still telling the Australian people what capabilities we need while saying little about why we need them. The narrative that this is due to having to respond to ‘governments of the day’ is spurious, given the bipartisan political support Defence’s recommendations typically enjoy.

The recent defence strategic review didn’t change this behaviour either; it reinforced it. The DSR is yet another attempt at self-reformation when several past efforts have yielded mixed results at best. It’s a detailed, broad strategic framework, but it isn’t a strategy. The general disconnection of the public from the security debate may have permitted this, but it doesn’t excuse it. It’s time to develop a clear, shared public vision for Australian defence strategy.

Another telling sign of strategic weakness is a persistent overreliance on technology instead of strategic thought. Defence’s definition of capability is ‘the capacity or ability to achieve an operational effect’, where ‘an operational effect may be defined or described in terms of the nature of the effect and of how, when, where and for how long it is produced’.

This definition is both too narrow to be complete and too prescriptive to achieve the practical purposes of developing capabilities and enabling public awareness. It ignores the stark realities of conflict and is servile to having a ‘technological edge’ over other aspects of capability.

We aren’t alone in this phenomenon. Like many Western nations, Australia has fallen in love with technical advantage as an intellectual sunscreen against the harsh light of warfare. That aversion has led us to frame fighting concepts around technical capability, to hide from war’s visceral nature and to ignore other important aspects of warfare in which we may feel we have less of an advantage, such as raw access to warfighting resources, including manpower. Technical language has sanitised descriptions of war. Most of the time, ‘operational effects’ involve destruction and suffering.

Acknowledging this doesn’t mean downplaying the complexity of materiel procurement. However, the idea that a capability’s justification can simply follow a golden thread of logic back to strategic guidance is tenuous. The conduct of war is chaotic. Seeking high levels of certainty before a profoundly uncertain event is fraught. That doesn’t mean the best possible equipment shouldn’t be pursued, but procurement must be based on a rigorous analysis of conflicts and trends, not just a quest for leading-edge concepts or wonder weapons.

Australia’s loose strategic framework is leveraged to be all things to everyone, all at once, so using a ‘how, when, where and for how long’ definition of higher capability creates inconsistency. Useful procurement has occurred without this, too. Defence procurements on near-ministerial edict have proven as effective as long-drawn-out acquisitions, and in some cases—such as with the C-17A Globemaster—only one strong option is available to fulfil a unique defence need anyway.

There are two ways to resolve this inadequacy of definition. The first is to develop a more complex and nuanced understanding of capability. The second is to accept that most military capabilities are operationally ambivalent.

For the first task, Stephen Biddle provides perhaps some of the most rigorous studies of military capability in state and non-state warfare. Biddle’s understanding of capability is broader and far more profound than Defence’s definition, though he concedes it’s still a work in progress. His later work even considers social issues, such the marked effect internal politics among non-state actors can have on military capability. This may be too complex a theory for easy application to a bureaucracy, but it’s still worth considering his conclusions. If nothing else, it raises an important point: where is the focus on non-technical factors when we discuss capability?

As for the operational ambivalence of military capabilities, we can look to the past and the present. The rediscovery of self-propelled anti-aircraft weapons—which the Australian Defence Force has always neglected—to help defeat the drone threat in Ukraine is an excellent case study. Initially designed for the Cold War, these systems are highly effective against off-the-shelf, military-grade drones they were never planned to counter. The DSR ignored this lesson, so something is amiss. Another example is the use of ADF maritime patrol capability to provide surveillance support to ground troops in urban operations in Iraq. Imagination and permission are the only limitations to employing military capability. In many cases, those in combat won’t even seek permission.

A capability’s effectiveness is not decided solely by its technological sophistication. It may be that we need a capability that can’t technically be ‘optimally employed’ in a particular conflict, because that is moot if it gives combatants the best chance of success in the worst environment. Capabilities don’t care if they ‘project forward’, ‘manoeuvre littorally’, ‘partner with allies’, ‘fight for shared values’ or sit in the splendid isolation of continental defence. To use an adage, ‘If it’s stupid but it works, it isn’t stupid.’

We can discuss capability without a solely technical lens. Asking what we want the ADF to do is necessary to stabilise deeply polarised capability debates, which are too often narrow and ill-informed, including no broader consideration of capability.

The geographic fixation of Australian strategic thought could also be recast to provide a new perspective in the capability debate. It looms as a strategic constant of Tolkienian magnitude (one to rule them all … you know the rest). Geography matters greatly, but so do policy, tactics and strategy. Geography doesn’t tell us what to do; it provides limits and opportunities.

Our understanding of military capability is too constrained to face the realities of warfare, and it lacks the nuance of a thorough approach to justification and acquisition. We need to be deeply aware of this deficiency.

That we have a mostly undebated strategic approach is grounds for concern. We are setting down a road with fewer forks than before, and while it may be the right path, that is not readily apparent. This vacuity is symptomatic of Australia’s historical difficulty in acknowledging the massive uncertainties involved in war. In the past, alliances transferred this grand strategic risk to others, but those times are likely passing. A greater diversity of ideas in this most difficult of times would be prudent, and, at the very least, we must improve public understanding of the ‘what’ and the ‘why’ so we can strengthen the ‘how’ and ‘how much’.

Some military coups purport to represent the vanguard of modernisation and change. Others, such as Chile’s in 1973 and Spain’s failed attempt in 1981, are fuelled by nostalgia for past dictatorships. The majority of coups are at least partly driven by powerful group grievances.

Russian warlord Yevgeny Prigozhin’s aborted quasi-coup, by contrast, seems to have been motivated solely by his personal quest for power and prestige. And while Prigozhin and his Wagner Group mercenaries quickly abandoned their march on Moscow, they exposed the institutional decay of Russian President Vladimir Putin’s praetorian regime.

Prigozhin thus demonstrated that he is less a threat to Putin’s rule than he is a symptom of its inherent fragility. Essentially, he’s a Putin loyalist who developed, as the Russian president put it, ‘exorbitant ambition and personal interest’. With his rising popularity threatening to undermine Putin’s monopoly on the country’s attention, Prigozhin simply became too powerful to be left unchecked.

Putin’s plan to bring Wagner under the direct command of the Ministry of Defence represented a serious loss of income for Prigozhin, who co-founded the private militia in 2014. Prigozhin’s catering firm also reportedly earned 80 billion roubles (US$920 million) a year supplying food to the military. In a not-so-veiled jab at Prigozhin’s business interests after the rebellion had ended, Putin said that he hoped ‘nobody stole anything, or at least did not steal much’.

Putin’s reign has been characterised by the privatisation of national sovereignty. Private armies such as Wagner, which received US$1 billion a year from the state’s budget, have been integral to the Putin system, and the war in Ukraine has spurred the formation of additional mercenary forces. Even the state-controlled gas conglomerate Gazprom has formed a private battalion, recruiting its own security guards to fight in Ukraine and help secure Putin’s rule in exchange for job perks.

These paramilitary units provide Putin with a way to meet the military’s personnel requirements without incurring the politically prohibitive cost of another mobilisation. The previous conscription drive, initiated in late 2022, caused hundreds of thousands of Russian men to flee the country.

Consequently, the battlefield in Ukraine has become a breeding ground for private military companies. Prigozhin was probably just as agitated by this growing competition as he was by his bitter rivalry with Russia’s military leadership, particularly Defence Minister Sergei Shoigu and Chief of the General Staff Valery Gerasimov. While Russia’s war effort is ostensibly led by the military, warlords such as Prigozhin and Chechen leader Ramzan Kadyrov have become increasingly prominent thanks to their direct access to Putin.

Despite the absence of any real threats to his rule, Putin has little to celebrate. Prigozhin’s rebellion, together with the humiliating fact that Belarusian President Alexander Lukashenko’s mediation was required to end it, marks the low point of his long rule. For more than two decades, Putin has privatised various parts of the government, creating a narrow class of fabulously wealthy and politically loyal beneficiaries. With his authority openly questioned, it is clear that this strategy has failed.

Moreover, Prigozhin’s rebellion, which Putin himself says pushed the country to the ‘brink of a civil war’, has likely shattered the Russian public’s idealised perception of their military as a heroic force united against a common enemy. With his fate now inextricably tied to his generals’ ability to stave off defeat in Ukraine, Putin’s image as an all-powerful tzar has also been dealt a potentially decisive blow.

The fact that Prigozhin’s mercenaries managed to seize major cities and military headquarters without resistance underscored what informed observers already knew: the Russian ‘empire’ is a dysfunctional, sprawling entity spread over vast territories inhabited by hundreds of ethnic groups, some of which are self-governed. Its vastness, a source of national pride, is also a vulnerability.

Despite his best efforts, Putin seems incapable of defying an iron law of history: all empires must fall. His lofty and unrealistic dreams of imperial grandeur—and his lament at the ‘blow that struck Russia in 1917’—may have fooled the Russian people, but his regime relies on uneasy alliances between deeply corrupt civilian and military elites. While some of that corruption can be traced back to the Soviet Union, Putin has exacerbated the problem by cultivating his own network of clientelism and nepotism.

Paradoxically, the striking display of Russia’s military incompetence in Ukraine and its internal political instability will likely not affect the dynamics on the battlefield or the broader geopolitical equilibrium. Putin’s isolation persists, but he maintains his alliances with China and Iran and can still leverage India’s neutral stance on the war. And his oil partnership with Saudi Arabia remains intact.

Recent events have undoubtedly hurt the Russian army’s already-low morale. While Andrey Kartapolov, the head of the Russian parliament’s defence committee, described the dissolution of Wagner as a ‘gift’ to NATO and Ukraine, the Russian war effort is not necessarily doomed. Putin, after all, remains in control of the world’s largest nuclear arsenal. And, given their perception of the conflict in Ukraine as an existential battle, Putin and his inner circle are unlikely to accept defeat. By now, Putin has completely abandoned his previous persona as a shrewd diplomat striving to reconcile Russia’s ambitions with Western sensibilities, transforming into an almost suicidal advocate of anti-Western revanchism.

Regardless of the outcome, this is not a glorious war for Russia. Prigozhin’s actions have exposed the country’s political instability and underscored the potentially grave consequences of a Russian defeat. A power vacuum in Moscow would have far-reaching implications across Russia’s 11 time zones.

Sixteen months into Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, the conditions on the ground resemble the frozen, deadlocked fronts of World War I. One hopes that a ceasefire can be negotiated after the Ukrainian counteroffensive has run its course. But as matters stand, the conflict seems destined to evolve into yet another protracted border dispute, with resolution requiring significant political shifts. If such shifts happen, they will most likely be as unexpected as Prigozhin’s weekend mutiny.

Almost 82 years to the day since Hitler’s invasion of the Soviet Union began what Russia calls the ‘Great Patriotic War’, a more modest invasion, orchestrated by one of Vladimir Putin’s close associates, claimed ‘patriotism’ as its motivation and justification. Both ended in defeat.

The consequences of Yevgeny Prigozhin’s short-lived mutiny—explicitly against Russia’s military leadership but, implicitly, targeting Putin—are yet to crystallise.

Despite the perils of political forecasting in relation to Russia, some early outlines are evident.

First, Russia’s political landscape has changed fundamentally, with Putin’s uncontested reign over. His hitherto unquestioned authority is compromised, perhaps fatally. Facing the constitutional requirement to declare in November if he is running for re-election as president in March 2024, he now is damaged goods, and badly damaged at that.

As the capo di tutti i capi—‘boss of all bosses’—Putin has ruled for 23 years without challenge. The ultimate bestower of largesse, the man who both giveth and taketh away, he has refined an inherited system of patronage and persecution, ensuring that no member of the elite (each anointed by him) could gain power and influence in more than one area. The siloviki—those sprung from Putin’s own intelligence and security background—were played off against the uber-wealthy business elite oligarchs, in turn being balanced by those with their technocratic hands on the levers of government. Putin has been the final arbiter of all decisions of any note in a system that has become completely personalised around him.

Now, one of his own—albeit an outsider he brought into his sanctum—has turned on him, exposing the brittleness of the Kremlin’s Byzantine system. That will reinforce the misgivings that others clearly feel about Putin’s ability to steer Russia into the future by seeking to recreate its long-lost, and unrecoverable, imperial past. The incontestable failure of Putin’s personal war in Ukraine underscores these doubts.

Second, the breathtaking hypocrisy of the Kremlin is on full and jarring display. Putin and his docile Duma (parliament) dominate a system that persecutes even tangential questioning of the war in Ukraine. It arrests pensioners for appearing on the streets holding a blank sheet of paper, not to speak of incarcerating those who have voiced full-throated opposition to their president’s egomaniacal quest for stale glory. Yet the man who led an armed mutiny against the state, an act decried as ‘treachery’ and ‘a stab in the back to our country and our people’ by Putin in his public address (in which he displayed barely suppressed and uncharacteristic fury at Prigozhin’s personal betrayal) essentially is let off. His armed subordinates are promised clemency and protection so long as they submit to the authority of the Ministry of Defence. This Orwellian double-speak should still the voices of those congenital naysayers and credulous and cretinous Putin boosters—including in Australia—who would discern the ‘black hand’ of the West as the root cause of all Russia’s travails. But I fear it won’t.

Third, Putin has been personally humiliated. For him, this is the bitterest pill. It bodes ill for Prigozhin. Some might wonder if the whole affair were not confected—a ploy of the two ‘Ps’ to expose possible disloyalty in the elite at the height of an existentially important conflict, not just with Ukraine, but, as Putin would contend, ‘the West’. I have learned over 40 years studying Russia and its politics, people and culture that even the improbable is possible in Russia. So, I asked a well-connected, experienced and authoritative friend in Moscow for his view. He dismissed that thesis out of hand. His trenchant reply was: ‘No, it was panic. To shoot or not to shoot?’

Fourth, Putin’s future will not be settled in days or weeks. He presides over an ecosystem in which mistrust and deceit prevail and self-interest rules. The failure of key political figures in the Duma, or elite entities like Rosgvardiya—the praetorian body of some 400,000 well-armed troops personally subordinate to Putin (incidentally, like the intelligence services and key organs of state authority)—to take an official public position reminds me of an old Russian saying: ‘To be close to the tsar is to be close to death.’ Trying to second-guess the boss is fraught with personal risk. The first person to ‘jump the bags’ might find no-man’s land a very barren place. The coming days and weeks will reveal whether Putin will use this scare to conduct a purge of the elites.

Seventy years ago, Stalin would have simply shot 10,000 people, confident that everyone else would draw the appropriate conclusion. What we have so far is an interim solution that is likely to prove as secure as an old band-aid. Putin’s public fulminations and his vow that the mutineers would be severely punished notwithstanding, Prigozhin allegedly has been allowed to relocate to neighbouring Belarus (notably, part of the ‘Union State of Russia and Belarus’), and his warriors have been promised protection and amnesty if they had not participated in the mutiny and dutifully regularise their status with the Ministry of Defence. At this point, it’s hard not to recall the assurances Russia gave Ukraine in the 1994 Budapest Memorandum ‘to respect the independence and sovereignty and the existing borders of Ukraine’. And, given Putin’s reach and Prigozhin’s background, wouldn’t the Central African Republic be a safer bet?

Putin does not forget and, more importantly, does not forgive, betrayal. We saw that in the cases of the KGB defector, Alexander Litvinenko, and Sergei Skripal from the GRU, both of whom were the targets of Kremlin-sanctioned poisoning during Putin’s rule. When betrayal is compounded by humiliation, the result is toxic. If Prigozhin drinks tea, he may well want to change his beverage of choice.