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He left his home in Wellington to defend Ukraine from Russian invaders. In this story, he shares his first impressions of Ukraine, the support of friends and his beloved, his adaptation to war, and the invincible spirit of the Ukrainian people. "I'm fighting here so you don't have to fight at home."

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A note from Ukraine’s Recruitment Center for Foreign Volunteers:

Details can be found at website: https://joinuarmy.org/en/ or visit the following social networks: ✅ facebook - https://bit.ly/41S8Kgw ✅ Instagram - https://bit.ly/3XQHtKc ✅ TikTok - https://bit.ly/4iRmGOI ✅ X - https://bit.ly/3SkSyQE

The country’s Foreign Recruitment Center, a new structure recently launched by the Ukrainian Ministry of Defense, is focused on the full integration of the new soldiers, and as such has published “Ukraine Quick Guide.” While meant for foreigners who have enlisted in the Armed Forces of Ukraine, it is also a handy booklet for those looking to learn some Ukrainian culture, history, and language.

You can download it at the MoD’s official foreign recruiting website: JoinUArmy.org

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It’s been a while... again. Despite my departure from the Main Directorate of the Defense Intelligence of Ukraine, I never stopped assisting structures tasked with defending the sovereignty of Ukraine. I am now splitting my time between different groups, including the Ministry of Defense’s Foreign Recruiting Center, and another slightly more well-known organization, which gave me this nifty medal last week:

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Shortly before receiving the small token of gratitude, I had been in Brooklyn, New York, visiting with indicted FSB asset Nomma Zarubina. There was some controversy over the time we spent together; however, what happens in Brooklyn between a woman charged by the US for lying to them about her contacts with Russian intelligence agents and a former member of Ukraine’s GUR, stays in Brooklyn…for now.

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Oh, and speaking of charges, in June, the Kremlin’s Kangaroo Court sentenced me to 20 years in prison. To that I say, “Catch me if you can.”

And to cap it off, a few days ago, I celebrated my fourth birthday at war. I’m 48 now, and Victory is STILL Ukraine.

The question is: Should Fareed Zakaria and CNN be giving time to this man?

The answer is simple: No.

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In case you missed it, The Explainer highlighted a secret US expedition to Greenland in 1952:

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In the spring and summer of 1952, a U.S. Army Transportation Corps team embarked on a daring expedition across Greenland’s vast ice cap. Documented in the rarely seen 1953 Army film ICECAP, this Cold War-era mission was more than a feat of endurance—it was a strategic scouting trip to identify potential base locations closer to the Soviet Union. This post revisits the forgotten footage and uncovers the geopolitical stakes behind one of America’s iciest military operations.

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In case you missed yesterday’s The Explainer, you can watch it below:

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In case you missed yesterday’s The Explainer, you can watch it below:

Please share this time capsule so the world never forgets just what Stalin and the Soviet Union tried to deny ever happened.

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Chapter 5: From the Static

Kyiv, Ukraine

Beneath Podil’s cracked streets, the team worked, hoping for any moments of quiet, however brittle and temporary. Under the muted sounds of a city moving into its fourth year of full-scale war, Kyiv’s nights bristled with a cacophony of muffled horns and groaning trams bleeding into the atmosphere of Kostiantynivska Street, two blocks up.

Dmytro Hrytsenko leaned over the map table, his knee tapping beneath—a habit he couldn’t shake—fingers tracing red lines frayed at the edges, snaking north from Volgodonsk under a bulb’s stuttering glow, each mark a nerve Lis had threaded into his skull before her feed cut. Cargo shipped west. Army trucks. No destination.

Korol slouched across, another cigarette smoldering to ash between his fingers. Flecks of the burnt remains floated into a dusty metal tray, bent and nicked, scavenged from a wrecked café in Bahkmut. His gray beard, pungent and stained, hung wildly as his eyes latched onto a patch of crumbling, chipped plaster.

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Like the others, now stationed in Kyiv, he also knew Donetsk and Kharkiv, all the east really, and especially Russia; his broad frame shifted in a chair more suited to schoolchildren. In a rasping, circumspect voice, he offered, “She’s overdue—means agents got her, or she’s done. Gone.” He flicked the stub off from his fingers. “For good.”

“Or she’s holding,” Hrytsenko snapped. The tempo of the tapping found a rhythm, its pace increasing. He absently reloaded the screen, daring it to blink. “Lis doesn’t crack—basically Kovolov blood, his tool, his sharpest one. He molded her.” He went silent again, searching for meaning in her last words. They became heavier with each read-through: Unknown—likely fieldwork.

With a couple of crates substituting for a desk, Bilozir pecked at the keyboard, the massive screen reflecting back, peering through perpetually smudged glasses, he read off the responses coming in. “Twenty-two minutes,” he said, voice quick, flipping a page. “GUR’s got no one near Volgodonsk—SZRU’s silent. NIFC might bite if NATO’s still listening—”

“She’s out there,” Hrytsenko cut in, eyes tight, mind racing to her first drop eight months back—T4-phage diverted north, VBF-9 strain, armed—spotters confirmed it when he’d doubted her calm voice masking the risk.

Korol lit up another one, the tray clinking as he dropped his lighter next to it. “They cleared drives—Moscow’s call. GRU torched files like that in Donetsk—hit, then ‘oops.’ She’s bait or gone.” Hrytsenko’s jaw clenched; he remained silent, masking his disagreement and rising anger. A crackle flared from Bilozir’s radio—a faded Soviet relic, its casing worn from the moisture of the Dnipro—static spitting as he twisted the dial; no voice yet, just noise toying with the quiet.

Hrytsenko’s knee stilled, breath catching as he spun to it, the map’s lines and marks sharpening—Volgodonsk west. “NATO?” Korol asked, leaning forward. Pointedly pressing his cigarette forward, he repeated it as a statement. “NATO.”

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“NIFC call—patch it,” Hrytsenko ordered, voice steady, shoving the map aside as Bilozir punched a secure line, a faint buzz, then a voice breaking through—clipped, British: “Kyiv station, confirm—status? Ghost’s trail’s hot—Batumi’s lit up.”

Hrytsenko froze—Ghost, a codename NIFC had flagged months back, a shadow disrupting Kovolov’s runs, now tied to Lis’s silence. “Dark—twenty-two minutes,” he said, leaning into the mic, the bunker’s chill biting as he pictured her—Kovolov’s favored operative. “Last drop: cargo west, army trucks, no fix. Batumi—Ghost’s hit?” “Thermal’s weak—Volgodonsk fringe, small group, moving fast,” the voice crackled, static flaring. “Batumi’s a snag—Kavkaz Trans rig stalled, agents scrambled south. Ghost’s work—disrupted it, no-kill. NIFC has no ground-backing pursuit; we can spare it. Your call—pull her?”

Hrytsenko’s pulse amplified—Kavkaz Trans, Lis’s mark from eight months back, now tangled in Batumi, Ghost’s shadow—Agnes?—crossing her path. “No pull—she’s holding,” he said, fingers hovering over the keys, typing—*Volgodonsk west, Batumi snag, NIFC thermal*—sending it to GUR, SZRU, any line open, his knee tapping hard now. “Cargo specs—chemical?” “Unknown—trucks, no manifest,” the voice said, fading as sleet hissed louder. “They’re scrambling—drives wiped, Moscow’s spooked. Ghost’s hit threw them—could be her signal. Pull or push?”

“Asset had code if they closed—she didn’t,” Hrytsenko said, steady. “What’s moving—steel, oil, worse?” “Could be steel, could be worse,” the voice crackled, cutting out—“…lockdown logged… site-4…”—then silence, the buzz a hollow echo against the pipe’s drip. Hrytsenko’s mind raced—Lis’s tips: Taganrog parts, Tehran’s shadow, outlaw crude from Rostov’s tankers pooling south, blockchain ledger masking it all, now Batumi’s snag, Ghost’s hand—Agnes?—disrupting Kovalenko’s web. “Bilozir—dark pool feeds, now.”

Bilozir pivoted to the crates, glasses slipping as he hammered commands, the screen flickering blue against the gloom. “Spiking—hour back, Russian cash, no proxies yet. Matches her drop—westbound, fast.” Korol exhaled, smoke curling toward the vent. “They don’t scare—they hit, they kill. But spook they don’t. Donetsk—chemical slip, ‘accident.’ She’s caught or dead.” “She’s not bait,” Hrytsenko said, steady, eyes on the map—Volgodonsk west, Batumi south, a thread humming, her shadow dipping to and fro in the chaos. “Ghost’s hit’s our window—we need eyes—GUR, SZRU, NIFC, anyone.”

“GUR’s got no one,” Bilozir said, voice tight, flipping pages. “SZRU’s sipping vodka in embassies—NIFC’s watching us bleed unless it’s their fight.” “Patch NIFC again,” Hrytsenko ordered, the bunker’s chill pressing harder, Lis’s last words a weight—Hold. Stay quiet. Wait.—her echo a signal he’d chase with Ghost’s shadow or lose in Kyiv’s endless grind.

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In case you missed it, here is Chapter Four of Signals in the Dark:

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The footage above shows the peasant army under the control of *controversial Ukrainian insurgent Nestor Makhno, who at one point fought the Soviet Russian Bolsheviks, carrying out campaigns across southern Ukraine in 1919. In the clip, you can see that the Ukrainians were occasionally using only their bare hands.

*Makhno was an anarcho-communist who waged battles against multiple groups including the White Army, the aforementioned Bolsheviks, and the Central Powers.

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In case you missed it, here is an exclusive post explaining how Russians are carrying out genetic tests on Ukrainian children.

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Days before the beckoning of spring and just months after an ignominious retreat ordered by the Kremlin from the city of Kherson, a little-seen press piece put out by the Russian Interior Ministry in March of 2023 heralded the opening of a genetic research laboratory located in a still occupied part of Ukraine’s Kherson Oblast.

While Tass's coverage of the event mainly focused on the lab's supposed law enforcement benefits, the article's opening sentence revealed that the new facility would be focused on “allowing forensic experts to conduct DNA research.” The story was then filled with laudatory coverage of the men behind the opening before being bookended with an ending assuring readers that the genetic work “will also contribute to the replenishment of the federal database of genetic information.”

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The Federal Database of Genetic Information, an Orwellian turn of words befitting modern Russia, is part of what the Moscow Times referenced as Putin's drive to ensure all Russians have “genetic passports” by this year.

While forcing all Russians to submit their DNA to the state is draconian, this drive by the Kremlin to fully control every aspect of its citizens’ lives has now, new information suggests that thousands of Ukrainian children have been ensnared in this web as well.

Last November, the Defense Intelligence of Ukraine (GUR) received a report linking the Kherson Laboratory to actions almost 1500 Kilometers away in Sochi, Russia. A source stated that kidnapped kids from Ukraine’s occupied territories were being brought to Sochi at the direction of the FSB’s Unit 03110, with at least one of the State Security agents having been known to have traveled between Sochi and Ukraine before and after the 2022 full-scale invasion.

According to the informant, once at the compound known as the Bridge Resort, the captive children would undergo genetic testing similar to what was also known to be taking place in Kherson Oblast. While the so-called resort offers an array of amenities focused on kids, it also houses multiple medical clinics offering services such as plasma therapy and laboratory research. Conveniently, the headquarters of Unit 03110 is a five-minute drive away.

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And what is the purpose of bringing Ukrainian adolescents to Sochi to undergo such procedures? The answer lies in the former Olympic city's being home to the Putin-sponsored Sirius School for gifted learners. Behind the educational veneer, Sirius also serves other purposes, all of which are meant to advance Putin’s vision of “Russkiy Mir,” or what is known in English as Russia’s world.

In a February 2023 meeting, Maria Lvova-Belova (Russia’s Commissioner for Children’s Rights who the International Criminal Court has indicted) publicly gushed to Putin that since August 2022, Kremlin apparatchiks had launched “integration camp sessions” for teenagers from the new (and illegally) occupied regions​. The first few cohorts of Ukrainians to be cycled through the indoctrination system ran into the thousands. She then specifically tied Sirius to the efforts at brainwashing the vulnerable youth, proclaiming, “We involve our colleagues – Sirius, Russia – Land of Opportunities (youth platform) – everyone is helping.”

Sirius and the people of Sochi were directly involved in hosting and exposing Ukrainian teens to Russia’s “best” educational and career resources. Lvova-Belova characterized these trips as responses to the teens’ curiosity “to see what has appeared [in their lives] with Russia’s arrival,” but they clearly served a propaganda and assimilation function.​

Another documented example involving young people occurred in the summer of 2023: 33 students from Luhansk and Kherson regions were brought to Sirius University in Sochi for training. According to an official Sirius release, these were vocational college students who participated in IT workshops and a socio-cultural program on campus​. The program introduced them to “the latest achievements of Russian science and Russia’s cultural-historical heritage.”

The Russian organizers (Sirius, in partnership with the Kremlin’s “People’s Front” movement) described this as a project for “social and educational integration of college students from the new regions into the modern educational space.” This language suggests a structured effort to integrate Ukrainian youth into Russia’s education system. It also highlights that the trips were organized under official auspices – in this case, the All-Russia People’s Front (ONF) and Sirius’s foundation​– rather than any grassroots exchange. Notably, the head of Sirius, Elena Shmeleva, personally met with these students to discuss the “big challenges facing the country,” underscoring the political messaging built into the program.

Other Russian accounts indicate that teachers from occupied Ukrainian territories were also hosted at Sirius for training. For example, in summer 2022, 150 school teachers from the DNR and LNR visited Sirius to prepare to transition their schools to Russian curricula​. This aligned education in those regions with Russian standards (e.g., teaching Russia’s version of history).

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In parallel, Russian authorities have announced plans to replicate the Sirius model in Donetsk itself​. These official narratives all portray Sirius’s involvement as a benevolent outreach: providing gifted or war-affected Ukrainian children with education, “rehabilitation,” and “opportunities” in Russia. For instance, Putin publicly suggested Sirius create talent support centers in Donetsk and Luhansk, emphasizing that those children “really need this.”

Genetic laboratories, indoctrination camps, and the direct influence of the FSB. As the United States cuts funding focused on the return of these missing Ukrainian children, the world must stand firmer than ever and demand the return of these kids back to their families and friends in Ukraine. No society, especially that of Russia, should be built upon the minds and genes of Ukraine’s forcibly detained young people.

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In case you missed it, here was yesterday’s post on Ukraine’s Missing Children:

Please share and spread the word about this important message and work together to bring these kids back home to Ukraine -

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Here is the transcript of Congressman Don Bacon’s words from that day:

“OK, I was going to introduce the prosecutor. Ladies and gentlemen. So good to have you here today. You know, the invasion of Ukraine is a crime against humanity. We have so many different evidences of that. It's an unjust war, it's an unprovoked war. In fact, I studied the history of this region of Putin doesn't see the Ukrainians as individual people, their own nationality as a war against the people of Ukraine. And today we want to put a spotlight on one of these crimes against humanity and the fact that the Russians have kidnapped 16,226 I think I got that number right? Children and they've taken them from Ukraine, they put them in re education centers and then out to the families in Russia, away from their own families like foster care. And so these Children lose roots or connections with their real moms and dads, their family, they lose connections with their own country and they lose country with their own ethnicity and their culture. And this is really the intent of what Vladimir Putin is doing. The UN Human Rights Council has said this is a crime against humanity. And the International Court has filed charges against President Putin on this act alone.”

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If you missed yesterday’s story on why you never, ever trust Putin, you can find it here:

Chapter 4 - Storm Tide

Batumi, Georgia

It was a brutal, bone-rattling gauntlet—the escape from Tbilisi a five-hour slog along the Black Sea coast, Luka's driver weaving a battered Kamaz truck through backroads past Adjara's pine-clad hills. Checkpoints loomed every few miles, Georgian border guards slouched under flickering lanterns, Kalashnikovs dangling as they waved the truck through with a grunt at crumpled lari tucked into a cigarette pack, their shouts—"Shemogvdeg! Keep moving!"—lost to the gusts as they pocketed their earnings.

Beyond the end, past the cliffs, where the sea twisted into knots, the sky turned black as storm clouds invaded. The throaty roar of thunder and sharp cackle of lighting ripped through the night. Agnes braced herself in the cargo hold, floorboards snapping and creaking under her. Her fingers gripping at a coarse strap, each jolt of the chassis over a pothole added to the harshness of her predicament. Fumes from a gas can seeped up from a forgotten corner, mingling with the damp canvas tarp overhead and the briny tang slipping through a cracked slit—the Black Sea's breath pressing close, a relentless drumbeat beneath the storm's howl.

Crates shifted beside her, wooden edges scarred from rough handling, a faint Cyrillic stamp—Kavkaz Trans—peeking through the tarp's frayed hem, a thread tying Bandar Abbas's rail yard to Tbilisi's chaos and now coiling here in Batumi's rotting port. She traced the splintered grain with a gloved hand, mind flicking to Rustaveli's flares—protesters choking on tear gas, Kozlov’s dual hand steering Iranian arms and cracking skulls.

Ziyad sat across, arms folded tight, his patched jacket—frayed from Tehran's lockdown days—damp from Tbilisi's downpour, creaking as he shifted. His left eye twitched faintly—a flinch from protest cells where batons cracked bone, sharper now as tension climbed. He stared past the slit at pine shadows whipping by, fishing boats bobbing offshore like fireflies snared in the wet, jaw clenched hard.

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"He’s strangling Tbilisi," he said, voice low, roughened by sleepless nights and Isfahan's shadow. "Protests—kids bleeding—and he's still moving crates. My parents—if Tehran's feeding this—"

"Focus," she cut in, tone steady despite the ache in her legs, coat stiff with dried salt and rain. Giorgi's frayed page burned in her pocket—Kavkaz Trans routes, Iranian drones, and shells for Georgian Dream, not Ukraine's fight. "He's not here—Batumi's his choke point. We find the trucks, we find him."

The truck slowed, tires crunching gravel as it rolled into Batumi's port outskirts. A warehouse district slumped along the docks, where waves slammed the break wall, shaking the air and drowning the groan of rusted cranes swaying like skeletal arms in the wind. The driver cut the engine, his notched ear—scarred from a Poti bar fight—catching faint light as he lit an L&M, exhaling a plume into the hold.

"Off here—don't linger," he growled, his eyes flicking to the rearview before turning away. The ember was a lone spark as he muttered, "Batumi's got ears, and they don't sleep."

Stepping onto the slick pavement, the sea's crash swallowing their footsteps. Their steps bringingt them across gravel strewn with broken glass, splintered crab traps, and abandoned fishhooks. The air stung with brine and rust, cargo containers stacked like decaying sentinels—faded reds and blues peeling into the night, seaweed clinging where tides had crept in, the reek of rotting kelp mixing with diesel from idling rigs. The warehouse sagged ahead, its roof buckled by years of storms, corrugated steel warped where salt spray gnawed it raw, a floodlight flickering over puddles rippling with oil slicks.

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Giorgi leaned against a desk inside, exhaling smoke toward a cracked skylight, letting in slivers of rain. His scar introduced itself under the dim bulb—a holdover from Sukhumi's fall when the civil war turned his village to ash. His leather jacket hung loose, patched from Caucasus runs, rakı dripping anise onto concrete littered with fish scales and ash.

"Thought Tbilisi's dogs chewed you up," he rasped, voice rough with tobacco, dark eyes narrowing as he straightened, the desk creaking like a ship settling in the tide.

"We're not here for tea," Ziyad snapped, boots scuffing the floor, tension coiling as he squared his shoulders, jacket creaking. "What's loaded—give it up before Moscow's enforcers kick in the door."

Giorgi's smirk expanded. His gaze locked onto Agnes, and he approached her with grudging respect. "He's got spine now—might keep him breathing," he said, stubbing his cigarette slowly, embers hissing in rakı. Are you vouching for him, Schmidt, or is he just baggage?"

"He pulls weight," she said, nodding curtly, shadow stretching as rain tapped the skylight, coat dripping onto concrete. "You're here, not Istanbul—chasing what?"

"My brother's routes," he said, voice hardening as he slid a manifest across, tapping it with a calloused finger scarred from wrenching crates. "Kavkaz Trans shipments—stalled here since Tbilisi's protests clogged the roads. Iranian haul—drones, shells—bound for Georgian Dream's hands, Russian agents tailing him tighter each trip—if they grab him, I'm burying the last of my kin."

Her gut twisted—a dual game: arms from Bandar Abbas to Tbilisi's regime and the crackdown choking Rustaveli's streets. "He's cracking heads too?" she asked, leaning in, the paper's ink smudged under the bulb—Kavkaz Trans routes east, heavy specs.

"Whispers," Giorgi said, pouring rakı, glass clinking as he slid it over—a test she ignored. "Tbilisi's riots—riot gear, hired fists—his style, keeping the regime's grip while his crates roll. Oil's part of it—gray market crude from Russia, slipping sanctions through here."

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Ziyad snatched the manifest, breath catching as he scanned it, phone trembling in his other hand. "Crypto ties it— Euros bind it, Tehran to Tbilisi. Oil from Russia. My family's in the crosshairs if this blows back to Isfahan."

"From Russia?" she pressed.

"Tankers out of Rostov—crude rerouted here, then south," Giorgi said, sipping rakı, anise cutting the air. "Georgian Dream skims it—and then the payouts commence. Tehran's drones piggyback the chaos."

"Where's the stack?" she asked, rising, coat brushing the desk's edge.

"Dockside, third row past the trawler hulks," he said, boots scuffing as he stood, unease flickering in his eyes. "My brother's hauling tomorrow—if those shadows sniff it, he's in a ditch," and with levity added, "and I really don't hate him that much."

The storm's fury intensified as Agnes led them toward the docks. Rain lashed in horizontal sheets, driven by winds whistling through the crevices between and around the stacked containers. Floodlights flickered, threatening to surrender to the gale, their uncertain glow turing shadows into threats. Waves crashed over the break wall with ever mounting violence, soaking containers two dozen meters inland.

Agnes crouched behind a trawler hulk, its weathered hull a jagged shield, eyes scanning the cargo stacks. Three Kavkaz Trans rigs stood exactly where Giorgi had pointed in the back row, their tarps whipping loose, steel casings glinting beneath. A broad-shouldered figure in a dark coat circled the nearest rig with practiced calm. He paused, flicking on a flashlight. The tool's beam penetrated the elements to inspect the load.

"Kozlov’s agent," Ziyad whispered, his eye began twitching, the pace quickening as he pulled his phone out. "Crypto transfers spiked ten minutes ago. They're moving tonight."

Headlights blazed at the dock's far end, a sedan easing through the storm with deliberate slowness. Its beams swept the loading area, briefly pinning them in harsh light before continuing their scan.

"Down!" Agnes hissed, yanking Ziyad behind a crate stack as a shot pinged off metal nearby, the echo sharp over the sea's roar. She shoved Giorgi toward the dockside door—"Split—now!"—weaving through the container maze, waves drowning their sprint across wet concrete strewn with fish bones and broken nets.

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Ziyad hacked his phone as he ran, breath ragged. "Tracking's jammed—rerouted north," he gasped, stumbling over a cable, sleeve snagging before he tore free. Agnes looped a rusted chain around a loose container door, yanking hard—Iranian drone parts spilled, wings clattering in the wet—a decoy to slow the pursuit. Shouts in Russian—"Gde oni?"—faded as shadows tripped over the scatter, pursuit faltering in the storm's din.

She dragged Ziyad under a crane's arm, its rumble cloaking their halt. Her pulse was steady despite burning cramps coursing in both her legs. Still, she cradled her knife, holding it firmly—another of Laszlo's lessons entrenched in, guiding her during moments of stress. Giorgi vanished left, wrench glinting as he waved, "Dock end—go!"—slipping behind a rust-red container.

A second agent emerged from the sedan—lean, radio crackling at his hip: "Tam kto-to!"—Makarov drawn, barrel glinting as he aimed toward the rigs. Agnes edged forward, ten meters off, mist and rain her shield. "Ziyad—net," she ordered, nodding at a frayed tangle by his feet. He hurled it—scarred strands arcing through the drizzle, snagging the agent's legs as he stumbled, pistol skidding across slick concrete, a curse—"Chert!"—lost to the waves.

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Giorgi's brother burst from the warehouse, cap low, wrench in hand, staggering toward the rig as headlights swept him. The first agent spun, flashlight jerking, barking into a radio: "Gruz gotov—dvigat'sya." Cargo's ready—move it. Agnes lunged right, kicking a loose net into his path—frayed strands tripping him as his shot cracked wide, splintering a crate. Ziyad tossed a broken plank—its edge smashing the agent's knee, flashlight shattering against a stack.

"Drive!" Agnes barked, yanking Giorgi's brother up—his face pale, wrench clattering as he stumbled to the cab. The engine coughed to life, a roar against the storm's wail, the tarp flapping loose to expose steel casings—shells, not drones, Tehran's lethal hand. Ziyad stomped the radio—static dying in a crunch—breath heaving as he gasped, "They're blind—go!"

Headlights flared—the sedan reversing, tires spinning on wet gravel as agents scrambled back, shouts swallowed by the din, pursuit faltering. They darted behind the trawler's wake, weaving to and fro, the sea bellowing as Agnes scanned the haze—Volgodonsk's echo ever louder, Kozlov’s game tightening, a thread she'd sever or die chasing.

The rig rolled out, tarps sagging, casings clinking faintly, Agnes steadying Ziyad in the cab as Giorgi's brother gripped the wheel, the night's chaos a jagged shroud behind them.

They lurched west along Batumi's coast road, the engine’s guttural growl against pushing back against the storm's wail. Tires grinding over wet gravel, windshield smearing with grit as the wipers threatened to give way.

"Never, they're never done," the brother muttered, knuckles digging into the wheel. His voice was tight as he nudged the rig around a bend, pine branches scraping the cab. A wrench lay wedged next to the seat.

Ziyad leaned forward, phone trembling as he scrolled, his eyes squinting under the flare of the screen's light. "Monero's spiking—the cash, pooling south. They're close.”

"Steady," Agnes cut in, clamping his wrist, eyes locked on the road ahead—the sea's edge a gray blur below. "Jam it again—buy us time."

He swiped frantically, breath hitching. "Rerouting north—false ping's fading, but it'll hold a minute." A casing clanked loose behind, thudding against the rig's frame, its tarp sagging under the gale.

Headlights flared closer, and the sedan surged through the mist, its bulk steady on the narrow track beams, catching the rig's edge as gravel sprayed under its weight. A shadow leaned from the passenger side, pistol glinting, a sharp crack splitting the night—glass shattered above Agnes's head, the side mirror exploding into shards.

"Left!" she barked, shoving Giorgi's brother's arm—the rig veered onto a fisherman's path, tires skidding as it hugged the cliff's drop, sea foam streaking the dark below. The sedan followed, engine roaring, a second shot pinging off the cab's frame.

Agnes kicked the door open, wind tearing at her coat as she leaned out. A knife slashing a frayed tarp tie—canvas flapped free, whipping into the sedan's path, tangling its wheels. The vehicle swerved, tires screeching, headlights jerking wild as it fishtailed toward the cliff's edge.

Ziyad hurled a loose plank from the cab—its scarred edge arcing through the rain, smashing the sedan's windshield with a crack. The driver cursed—"Chert!"—as the vehicle spun, gravel flying, then stalled, beams askew in the fog.

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"Floor it!" Agnes snapped, slamming the door as Giorgi's brother gunned the engine. The rig surging forward, chassis groaning under the load—shells too heavy for drones, Tehran's steel tied to Rostov's crude, a haul Kozlov wouldn't let slip. The track shrank, pine brushing the sides, the sea's hum a steady drone as headlights faded behind, pursuit swallowed by the storm.

She steadied her breath, knife still in hand, mind racing—the agents, they would regroup, but the rig was theirs for now. "Where's this headed?" she asked, voice low, eyes on Giorgi's brother.

"Poti—safe drop if we make it," he rasped, glancing at the rearview, the night's chaos a jagged shroud receding. "That guy got eyes everywhere—won't stop 'til he buries us."

"Or we bury him," she said, tone a blade, Volgodonsk's echo pulsing louder in her skull—a thread she'd sever or die chasing.

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In case you missed it, here is Chapter Three of Signals in the Dark -

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(If you appreciate Political.Tips: help contribute to my writing through PayPal or by subscribing now - Please like, share, and comment on this post; your feedback matters.)

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Refuting Russia's Claims: Kherson, Zaporizhzhia, Donetsk, Luhansk, and Crimea

By Sarah Ashton-Cirillo

In this latest media blitz by White House envoy Steve Witkoff, the world is being asked to swallow once more the bitter pill of Vlad Putin's geopolitical landscape of lies as the Kremlin is peddling an attempt to rewrite borders and history, asserting claims over the Ukrainian territories of Kherson, Zaporizhzhia, Donetsk, Luhansk, and Crimea. Yet facts, international law, and global consensus refute these assertions unequivocally.

Since Ukraine's independence in 1991, the world has recognized its sovereignty within clearly defined borders—including these five disputed regions. Ukraine's territorial integrity is cemented in international recognition and, potentially even more importantly, explicit Russian commitments. Among these are the 1994 Budapest Memorandum, which saw Russia pledge to respect Ukraine's 1991 sovereign borders in exchange for the dismantling of its sizeable nuclear arsenal, and a "Friendship Treaty" between Russia and Ukraine, dating to 1997, that saw Russia acknowledge Ukraine as an equal sovereign state, reinforcing the legal inviolability of its territory.

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These assurances, along with the respect for international norms and the rule of law, were shattered in 2014 when Russia swept in and occupied Crimea and then staged an illegal referendum conducted under military duress. The global community overwhelmingly rejected this so-called vote, which was dismissed as illegitimate due to it being held at gunpoint rather than under free, democratic conditions.

Following the Moscow regime's brutal blueprint, Russia instigated conflict in the Ukrainian oblasts of Donetsk and Luhansk, fueling separatist entities that lacked international legitimacy. February 2022 saw this aggression escalate dramatically when the Kremlin initiated a full-scale invasion of Ukraine, seizing parts of Kherson, Zaporizhzhia and expanding its reach in Donetsk and Luhansk in a genocidal frenzy accomplished through methods such as rape, torture, and the use of chemical weapons. Sham referendums were quickly orchestrated in the areas under Russian military occupation, their outcomes predetermined and designed solely to mask territorial aggression.

Claims of annexation originating from Moscow after the February invasion were universally condemned in the months following these initial and laughable pronouncements. The United Nations nearly unanimously denounced Russia's actions as violations of international law, calling for immediate reversal. The European Union and NATO followed suit, with the "latter labeling" the votes as "sham referenda," and many individual nations joined this chorus, imposing sanctions and affirming Ukraine's territorial rights. Furthermore, based on the principle of no decisions without considering that only Ukrainians can have the final say over their nation's future, the country's constitution is enshrined with the directive that any territorial changes require nationwide approval, not fraudulent regional votes orchestrated by an occupying force.

Putin's narrative, in which he claims to protect Russian-speaking natives of these regions, amplifies his imperialistic ambitions. The Russian dictator often laments the collapse of the Soviet Union and, in comments, has offered a revealing and entrenched deep-seated revisionist intent, exemplified by aggressive rhetoric towards Moldova's Transnistria, threats directed at the NATO member Baltic nations, and ongoing actions in Georgia.

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Despite the messaging from the Trump Administration that has propagated Putin's falsehoods, the international community sees clear. Russia's claims on Kherson, Zaporizhzhia, Donetsk, Luhansk, and Crimea were founded through the illegal use of force and built up as a pyramid of falsehoods. The world knows the facts are these: Legally, historically, and morally, the five regions mentioned by Witkoff are regions unequivocally Ukrainian.

Although the world refuses to validate Putin's aggressive expansionism, recognizing that the battle for these territories is not merely Ukraine's fight but one for the very soul of the free world is key. This is a stand for the principles of sovereignty and self-determination. Ukraine's peace and salvaging of the global order rests on this foundation, and it must not only be accompanied by words but also concrete and decisive actions of all nations and people willing to understand that trusting Putin is to cast darkness upon humanity.

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In case you missed yesterday’s post - Chapter Three of Signals in the Dark, you can catch up on my serial novella here:

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Gonzalo Lira, Russia and the Truth:

Late last week, I saw a post from Kim Iversen, host of the Kim Iversen Show and a person with a history of seeing her work end up on Russia Today, asking for any interested and interesting guests to appear on her program this week. Despite knowing her long history of criticizing me, I reached out with an offer to join her, specifically in hopes of refuting the ongoing narratives among Russophiles and others on the fringe right regarding the cult of martyrdom that rose around Gonzalo Lira after his death last year.

As some may be aware, in 2023, I actively participated in the investigation into him, including testifying at his trial, and was, at one point in 2022, accused of murdering him. With my knowledge of the case, combined with no longer serving in the Defense Intelligence of Ukraine, along with the recent flare-up in publicity about the Lira case, I knew the time had come to pull the veil back and explain the truth around Gonzalo, and where better to present this new information than directly to an audience of his core supporters.

Below are two clips from my appearance on Iversen’s program. In them, I explain that Gonzalo Lira was actively trying to trade sensitive information related to Ukraine’s war efforts to officials in Russia in exchange for a television program or documentary. Furthermore, I also made it known that he had active plans to go to Russia to facilitate these media projects.

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You can watch the entire episode featuring my guest spot on Iversen’s show here: In addition to delving into the Lira saga, we also speak about my role as Sergeant in GUR, my views on Snowden, and much more.

As mentioned above, please comment and let us know what you think!

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(Signals in the Dark is my way of presenting my fact-infused fiction to readers who understand the world is on fire and wish to immerse themselves in it. I ask that if you appreciate my work, please help contribute to my writing through PayPal or by subscribing now. - Please like, share, and comment on this story and every chapter from Signal's in the Dark. Your feedback matters.)

Istanbul, Turkey |

Sheets of rain produced a glazed sheen over the cobblestone paths of Beyoğlu. Salt carried through from the Bosphorus, mixing with noxious fumes escaping from Istiklal Avenue's taxis, met to produce a provincial odor some locals found endearing. A ferry's horn blew forth, spreading wistfully across the darkened waters, the sounds of the sea enveloped by its bellowing. Coming closer to shore, bouncing off sagging Ottoman facades where laundry lines drooped with wet kilims, swaying faintly as the wind tugged at their fringes. Agnes Schmidt, her boots silently slipping over the slick stone, half-heartedly took in the Pide vendors' calls—"Gözleme, sıcak!"—beckoning from unseen street corners, while others sellers were on full display, braziers glowing across allys, neon hanging on windows and doors, casting fleeting halos on the wet pavement as she ghosted past, a shadow floating in Istanbul's restless sprawl.

She'd cut her teeth here when Crimea fell to Moscow's grip, a young German agent coming up under the cautious gaze of Laszlo, her jaded Hungarian mentor. Learning to dodge intelligence tails through these backstreets under his tutelage, his gravelly voice barking orders as she'd fumbled her first drop, a lesson in survival etched deep, though as close it was, Laszlo managed to ensure she didn't get the boot by Brussels. Now, three years into Moscow's genocidal invasion of its neighbor, Istanbul had twisted into a smuggler's knot, its docks and warehouses a crossroads for the conflict's underbelly. Whispers and rumors reached Agnes, wedging into her analysis, forcing her to decipher fact from fiction and, most importantly, accepting that fact and fiction changed rapidly—Russian oil docking at the Golden Horn, probably false, tankers slipping past sanctions with forged papers, their hulls heavy with crude fueling Moscow's war machine; cluster munitions bound for Ukraine's frontlines, staged here, funneled through Turkey's porous borders to blast Russian trenches apart.

Tonight, she chased a lead: a shipment too quiet, too heavy, flagged two nights back by a rattled contact—a Rostov tip scrawled on a bar napkin, passed in a shaky hand—the same hand that pulled her from a Kharkiv basement as artillery punctured the city in the invasion's early chaos, his hoarse shout a debt eternal. Hrytsenko's crew might've caught its echo in Kyiv, a thread snaking from Bandar Abbas's rails through Rostov's haze to coil here, a puzzle she meant to crack.

Her coat hung damp, hem brushing her calves as she moved, fingers grazing the lockpicks in her pocket—Laszlo's gift from Budapest when Crimea's fall sparked Balkan tensions, his laugh a rough counterpoint to tumblers clicking as she'd mastered vanishing into a city's cracks. His blood had stained her hands in Ukraine's east, a smear on shattered concrete after Kovalenko's men hit, shots cracking the night as she froze, too raw to act. At the same time, Laszlo's chest heaved its last, Kovalenko's silhouette fading into the smoke. That moment—his eyes locking hers, dimming as blood pooled—ignited her hunt, carrying her from Kharkiv's ruins to Istanbul's fog, Kovalenko her compass through the war's shadowed edges.

Damp rot ate the cafe's walls, its door creaking as the hinges fought back against Agnes' efforts to enter. Tobacco haze stung her eyes, thick with burnt coffee and a whiff of sumac from a simmering pot, a cook muttering over a dented stove. A neon Kahve Dünyası sign buzzed green above cracked tiles, flickering like a dying pulse. Ziyad hunched in the back, shoulders tight over a glass of cold çay, fingers sketching nervous arcs beside an ashtray brimming with stubs, his patched jacket—frayed from Tehran's lockdown days—draped loosely over a frame whittled by sleepless nights.

He glanced up, eyes sharp beneath fatigue, voice rasping like sand over stone. "Took your time."

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She slid into the wicker chair across from it, its creak slicing through Sezen Aksu's mournful notes from a tinny radio. "You're spooked," she said, leaning forward, elbows on the table, damp coat brushing the edge. What's got you?"

He slid a creased paper across the scarred wood, hands steady despite a tremble betraying the strain in his jaw. "Not a favor—my hide. Cluster munitions stacking in Karaköy—Russian plates, Taganrog markings, headed for Ukraine. FSB's buying deep, whispers say gray market oil's docking too, tankers creeping in under the fog. My parents in Isfahan—if Tehran's pinned for this, they're leverage, looms gathering dust."

Her jaw tightened—Taganrog, near Rostov, a hub she'd tracked since Kharkiv's spring offensives, shells tearing through mud and bone. "Where's it dropping?" she asked, voice low, eyes flicking to the paper's smudged ink.

"Karaköy warehouse, fish market end—tonight," he said, rubbing a scar from Tehran's protests, a jagged line twitching with each word. "They're onto you—FSB's circling tighter than last time. No telling who's really behind the holding the haul—watch your step."

"They'll have to catch me," she said, tone honed from Balkan nights, a steel edge forged by necessity. She folded the paper, tucking it into her coat. "You holding up?"

"Barely—paranoia, it seems to flow through me," he said, a faint smirk tugging his lips as he tapped the ashtray, ash scattering like dust over a grave. "You?"

"Enough." She stood, chair scraping the tiles, shadow stretching toward the door. "Stay low—track the Monero. I'll signal from Karaköy."

He nodded, eyes darting to the window where rain streaked the glass, distorting a streetlamp's glow. "You're walking into a net," he muttered, fingers curling around the çay glass.

"Maybe," she said, pausing at the threshold, hand on the doorframe. "But I've slipped worse."

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Outside, drizzle gleamed with fish-scale flecks from Galata hawkers—"Taze balık!"—their voices a low hum against the patter on tarp roofs. Despite dodging a small simit cart, sesame-crusted rings scattered across the wet stone. She cut south, each step bringing the air heavier and closer, one Renault's distinctive silhouette idling too still at the corner, engine growling beneath the city's din. Her hand brushed her knife—Laszlo's last lesson, grip worn from close calls—as she slipped past a fish stall, vendors' haggling drowning her steps, FSB's gaze sliding past her, blind in the fog.

On Karaköy's docks, dulling lamps modeled the moisture pooling on them, the sour tang of fish guts cutting the night as creaking ships swayed against their moorings, crab traps clanking faintly on salt-crusted decks. A muezzin's call drifted from a minaret, veiled by the growl of a truck idling beyond the pier. Agnes ditched her pursuers among the city's trams, slicing through late-night crowds. She felt it, though, the FSB's net tightening— a skin-crawling sensation honed from dodging Balkan tails alongside her mentor, learning the art of feeling as opposed to what the books incessantly spouted.

She hugged the edges, coat sodden, breath briefly visible in the chill as she scanned for tells—a worker stalling too long by a crate, a van's exhaust curling too steady in the mist. A set of picks pressed her palm—a trick from the Caucasus when Crimea's fall sparked border games, a tool that'd sprung her from one Azerbaijan safehouse with seconds to spare.

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Ahead sat the warehouse. Squat and exposed, its location on the water's edge, dock and all, and the ingress and egress that went with it made it a single bulb flickering over the entrance like a smuggler's beacon. She slipped through a gap in the chain-link fence, dodging a stray cat lapping at fish scraps, its hiss swallowed by the fog as she stepped inside. The air hit hard—oil, tobacco, a sharp bite of rakı threading through the damp rot of weathered planks.

Crates towered within, stamped Kargo: Tiflis in peeling Cyrillic, Kavkaz Trans logos curling at the edges like old wounds. Giorgi sprawled at a desk near the back, rakı bottle half-drained beside crumpled manifests, his scar glinting under a swaying bulb—a memento from a Georgian civil war blade when Sukhumi fell to shellfire. His leather jacket hung loose, patched from Caucasus runs, a grunt escaping as he exhaled smoke toward the cracked skylight, rain tapping its jagged edges.

"Thought the fog swallowed you," he rasped, voice rough with tobacco, a smirk tugging his lips.

"Thought Batumi pinned you," she said, stopping short, eyes sweeping the stacks. "What's here?"

"Money," he said, boots thudding as he swung them off the desk, wood creaking under his shift. "Crates tonight—my brother's hauling for Kavkaz Trans. FSB grabs him; I bury kin—war took the rest when Sukhumi burned." He poured rakı into a chipped glass, anise cutting the air, and slid it toward her—a test, a truce. "Stirring trouble again?"

She ignored the glass, stepping closer. "Show me the haul."

He led her through the maze, boots scraping concrete littered with fish scales and ash, loose chains clinking off rusted beams overhead. She knelt by a fresh crate, wood damp from the docks, and pried at a corner with her knife—Laszlo's blade, edge-nicked from years cutting through locks and lies. The lid creaked open, revealing steel casings glinting under dim light—cluster munitions, markings in Cyrillic faint but clear: Taganrog stamps, pre-communism's fall, relics feeding Ukraine's scarred fields.

"Cluster bombs," she murmured, breath catching as she traced the script, Kharkiv's shattered outskirts flashing—shrapnel tearing through mud and bone from Russia's unmitigated use of them against both civilians and soldiers.

"Shells, fuses—old Soviet stock," Giorgi said, arms folded, scar tightening as he squinted at the haul. "Bulgarian, Turkish maybe—leftovers, staged for Kyiv's trenches. Taganrog marks are ancient—pre-'91, the Union's last hurrah, before dreams collided with the reality of communism's fall. And the rest—" He jerked his chin toward a row. "It's still coming in, cash and every other financial instrument. They aren't bankrupted yet."

Her gut twisted—Rostov's echo, the train from Bandar Abbas rolling north, Hrytsenko's red lines tracing west. "Oil?" she pressed, rising, coat brushing rust as she straightened.

"Whispers," he said, glass clinking as he sipped. "Tankers docking quiet—The FSB, they like'em both—munitions, of course, but fuel, fuel pays the bills." He paused, eyeing her. "You got a buyer in Kyiv for this?"

"Not yet," she said, voice low, fingers flexing around the knife's grip. "Who's funding it—crypto?"

Giorgi snorted, setting the glass down with a thud. "Monero, probably—or some splicing, spinning and pooling shit. Untraceable unless you've got a wizard. FSB hates it. They can probably crack the wallets, but I'm guessing they would rather burn the docks than let it slip away. My brother heard rumors in Poti—payments gathered in Tbilisi, maybe Iranian shipments rerouting through Georgian Dream's hands."

Her pulse quickened—Ziyad's turf, his Monero crack clicking into place. "Georgian Dream?" she asked, leaning in, crate's edge digging into her thigh. "Pro-Russia bastards—why Iran?"

"Rials, Rubbles, Euros, and favors," he said, leaning back, chair groaning. "Tehran's got drones and shells—some say they're slipping extras to Tbilisi's regime, keeping Moscow sweet while the West blinks. My brother's seen trucks—Kavkaz Trans rigs—headed east from Batumi, too heavy for just oil."

"Who's driving them?" she pressed.

"No names—just routes," he said, tension coiling in his broad frame as he glanced toward the door, fog thickening beyond like a shroud. "Kavkaz Trans hires ghosts—my brother's one, and they've tailed him since Poti, FSB calm, too damn still."

"Crypto's the leash," she muttered absently, her mind darting back to Ziyad's hands, laden with fear, his parents' fate dangling at the whim of the Ayatollah's secret police. "Tether, Monero, or whatever else, now it can all be masked — the oil, the bombs, the Georgian payoffs."

Pausing to pinch some snuff between his gum and lips, Giorgi took a moment to savor the nicotine hit. His eyes narrowed. "You're betting on that coder, huh? Better hope he's fast—Iran knows the Russians play all sides, and Tbilisi's eating it up."

"Markings," she snapped, cutting through, hand out.

He passed a frayed page from the desk, scowling as he stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray, embers hissing in spilled rakı. "Stirring a hornet's nest, Kovács. That coder you run with—he'd better be good."

"Calluses, he's got the calluses," she said, pocketing the page. Her eyes flicked to the door as a truck's rumble grew louder outside. Wondering if Hrytsenko might be tracking this—Taganrog steel to Rostov, crypto veiling Iranian shipments through Georgia, a vein pulsing toward Kyiv's war.

Outside, fog blurred lights, fishermen's yells—"Balık, taze!"—clashing with trams groaning two streets over. She slipped into a shack across the lot—once favored tools and fishnets piled up, knotting the floor—and crouched low, watching the car from earlier prowl past, tires screeching on wet gravel, missing her again in the haze.

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Kovalenko's web stretched tighter than she'd thought—Taganrog steel, Iranian arms, crypto trails winding through Tbilisi to Georgian Dream, and, of course, it intertwined with the desires of his masters in Moscow. She slipped the manifest into her coat, Laszlo's knife steady in her hand. Layers within layers, each pointing toward Kovalenko's game of steel and shadow—the maze only growing denser, time only growing shorter.

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In case you missed it, here is Chapter Two of Signals in the Dark -