Evolution of Air Operations in Chechnya
The current aviation grouping in Chechnya is relatively small and cannot compare with the forces concentrated in the conflict zone during the height of hostilities. At that time, it involved not only units of the local 4th Air Army from the North Caucasus Military District but also subdivisions of the Air Force Combat Training Centers, the State Testing Center, and even Long-Range Aviation.
According to official data, the First Chechen War involved forces from the 4th and 16th Air Armies, along with centrally subordinated units, deployed across twelve airfields. The grouping included three aviation divisions (10 BAAD, 16 NAAD, 1 SHAAD), two separate regiments (11 ORAAP, 535 OSAAP), as well as squadrons from seven other regiments, including the 4th TsBP, the 929th GLITs, and three heavy bomber regiments of the Long-Range Aviation.
The total number of aircraft and helicopters in the units involved in the then-“measures to restore constitutional order” reached 515. The current campaign has involved no fewer parts and units of the Air Force and Army Aviation.
With the declaration of its “final stage” by the summer of 2000, the presence of air forces in Chechnya was limited to a pair of mixed Mi-8 and Mi-24 helicopter squadrons from Army Aviation, deployed at Khankala and Grozny-Severny airfields (the former city airport and DOSAAF school base). For “maintaining order,” as needed, frontline aviation aircraft from nearby North Caucasus Military District airfields are also involved, primarily Su-25 attack aircraft from Budyonnovsk and Mozdok.
Pilot Identity and Aircraft Customization
After the well-known militant raids on Kizlyar and Budyonnovsk, the defense of surrounding airfields was properly strengthened. Previously, parking areas and garrisons lying in the bare steppe were covered only by a checkpoint at the entrance and sparse barbed wire.
Around the airbases, block posts were deployed, concrete block bunkers were set up, armored patrols were introduced, and, as a mandatory measure, ditches were dug around the perimeter—a simple and reliable way to obstruct any movement in the steppe. These measures affected not only the border airfields of Stavropol Krai, Krasnodar Krai, and Dagestan but also garrisons in the Volga region, whose remoteness could not guarantee protection from sabotage.
These precautions were not the only ones. Squadrons and regiments coming in shifts from distant districts began to be widely involved in combat operations, with measures taken to conceal their “return address.” The dust from blown-up houses in Russian cities had not yet settled, and no one wanted to bring the war home.
These were not idle fears: as soon as ubiquitous journalists reported on the family of Su-24 navigator S. Smyslov, shot down in November 1999 and who escaped captivity, suspicious guests visited them with a warning that it was better for the pilot not to return home, and for his relatives to move far away from their own house. Radio intercepts also confirmed that pilots, who caused a lot of trouble for the militants, remained their primary enemies. After this, the hostile attitude towards TV cameras, and even refusal to pose, no longer seemed like over-caution.
Most participants in the current campaign already have more than one war under their belt, having previously served in Chechnya, participated in “hot spots” of former Soviet republics, and been in Afghanistan (where, again, many served multiple times). The reason for this was the recent shortage of skilled pilots capable of performing combat missions in complex conditions—a unsurprising phenomenon given the meager flight hours of today’s “youngsters” who, upon graduating from flight schools, are forced to settle for mere hours in the air with rare exercise completion. Meanwhile, experienced pilots and technical staff are leaving, exacerbating the problem each year.
As for “anonymity” in the Chechen war, knowledgeable pilots had an understanding of the real hunt for conspicuous aircraft since the times of Afghanistan. Even then, special forces helicopter squadrons removed their tail numbers that revealed the aircraft’s affiliation.
Unfortunately, the validity of these concerns was tragically confirmed: on January 12, 2000, during landing, the Mi-8 of Hero of the Soviet Union N.S. Maydanov came under ambush fire and was machine-gunned. The firing was aimed precisely at the cockpit, where the commander himself died at his post, and the navigator was seriously wounded. Bullets also hit the flight engineer, who nevertheless managed to land the helicopter.
From the very beginning, painting over all individual markings—emblems, drawings, and tail numbers—became almost a mandatory rule before deployment to Chechnya. Nobody bothered much with matching paint to camouflage; everything was done quickly, and at best, tasty khaki or young green spots appeared on the sides, and if no suitable paint was at hand, then a radical black color—sometimes formless, and sometimes strict black rectangles and squares, in the style of Malevich (they say he drew ten versions of his famous painting, but nine of them simply didn’t work out).
For those who neglected to paint over numbers, the peculiarities of local operation helped—within a few months of work, the engine exhaust, which on “Eights” and “Twenty-fours” blasts backward and downward, right onto the numbers and stars, made them barely distinguishable. And the soot from the engines in Chechnya’s hot and dusty air became so thick as if local “bootleg” kerosene was used for refueling (incidentally, hunting for Chechen “entrepreneurs'” underground oil refineries remained one of the helicopter crews’ tasks—some field commanders had up to a dozen wells and “moonshine stills,” and undermining the “bandit economy” deprived them of funds necessary for war).
Among other main tasks were patrolling restricted zones with inspection of suspicious transport, escorting transport columns (introduced after almost regular attacks and shellings), air support for ground troops in operations and “sweeps,” and the mundane monotonous work of transporting and supplying units and outposts.
Technological Adaptations and Ka-50’s Combat Debut
Structural modifications before deployment to Chechnya came down to restoring the PKT machine gun mounts in the nose and aft hatch, developed “for Afghanistan” and well-proven (normally they were not used and awaited their time in the unit’s backyards). Simultaneously, the operation of self-protection systems with IR flares for the “Lipa” jamming station was checked for protection against MANPADS.
Ejector “ears” on the engine nozzles were not mounted, as they considerably “ate up” power, and the use of MANPADS, which caused the greatest concern, was extremely rare (the militants’ captured domestic “Strela” and “Igla” systems were prevented from being used against “their own” aircraft and helicopters by a safety interlock, and stingy field commanders were in no hurry to buy very expensive “Stingers” from the Arabs).
Painting over numbers and emblems was not a universal rule—some paid no attention to it, but in some places, going overboard, even stars were painted over (in one squadron, upon discovering helicopters “without kin or country” in the morning, the commander grumbled: “They gave paint to Pinocchio!”). At the same time, among “Chechen” helicopters, one could find machines that were not just conspicuous but provocatively unlike their counterparts due to their snow-white livery. These elegantly looking “Eights” by no means belonged to UN formations, despite the catchy “UN” letters on their sides (after all, the operation in Chechnya was not “peacekeeping” but “counter-terrorist”).
In due time, these machines happened to serve in various “hot spots” as part of UN contingents. Upon returning home and undergoing maintenance, helicopters with sufficient remaining lifespan became prime candidates for long-term deployments to Chechnya. No one was in a hurry to repaint them—UN service remained prestigious (and profitable), and with the current scarcity of everything, a rare regiment would find enough paint to restore the former “camouflage,” which was confirmed by worn and patched-up helicopters in faded, tattered camouflage, untouched “since birth”.
Where helicopters underwent the procedure of getting rid of their “birthmarks,” the issue was considered closed. However, what was necessary did not become sufficient, and after several months, new emblems and even proper names began to appear on the sides next to the recently painted-over ones. Perhaps the properties of the Russian soul, not inclined to merely follow orders (especially when given paint), manifested themselves, or perhaps the tedious daily grind of dusty field airfields demanded something to brighten the work, but one machine after another began to stand out with drawings reflecting the crews’ inclinations and local color. After all, aviators were not averse to leaving their mark, and far from the ever-watchful eye of superiors, it was easier to express oneself. Moreover, a dusty, soot-covered, tired machine just begs to be decorated in some way. Perhaps out of gratitude…
In the summer of 2000, on the “Eights” of the squadron in Grozny-Severny, the first modest emblem appeared, featuring a wide-eyed owl against the Russian flag with a shield in its paw and the inscription “OVE” (separate helicopter squadron). One of the machines, often used for courier tasks and passenger transport, received a concise sign with taxi checkers and a warning “No Benefits”.
Neighboring Interior Ministry Aviation Mi-8s had a characteristic distinguishing mark in the form of a transverse white stripe on the tail boom. Among the “police” helicopters (which also included Mi-24s and Mi-26s), new, factory-fresh machines occasionally appeared in gleaming, fresh camouflage, especially contrasting with the “army men,” who had long given up dreaming of “new clothes”.
Some “Eights” stood out due to peculiar modifications. Factory specialists, on their own initiative, equipped and sent several Mi-8s to Chechnya with original systems tailored for local conditions. Helicopters fitted with the L-166 thermal direction finder with automatic IR flare deployment, were unsuccessful and remained in single units.
The faceted receiver block of the thermal direction finder, mounted under the helicopter’s belly, was too close to the ground during landings and quickly “went blind,” becoming covered with dust and dirt. Most importantly, the device, designed to react to flashes from MANPADS launches, responded with equal success to sun glare and any bright light (and at night, to the “cold” moon), “saluting” with a volley of flares. In the helicopter variant, the L-166 proved ineffective and was almost always turned off, especially after cases where equipment responding to sun “bunnies” scattered a fiery rain of flares haphazardly, threatening to burn down its own airfield.
Another system was intended to support night combat operations—a long-standing problem that could not be resolved in Afghanistan (due to low effectiveness and increased risk, night flights were repeatedly prohibited by command). Target illumination was performed by illumination flares, under whose “chandeliers” combat approaches were built, but their illumination time was limited to minutes, and the task of actually finding targets, the most difficult and responsible, was not solved at all—one had to rely on luck and on the enemy betraying themselves with campfire lights or headlights.
Kazan Helicopter Plant specialists equipped an Mi-8 with a night vision system featuring a high-sensitivity thermal imaging camera. Its receiver unit was mounted in a movable sphere to the right under the cockpit, and pilots received special goggles that displayed the terrain image. The system proved fully operational and received positive feedback, with pilots particularly valuing the ability for a 360-degree view—the rotating unit allowed monitoring the rear hemisphere, avoiding fire against the helicopter where it was least protected.
During its “testing” in Chechnya, there was an incident that nearly ended in an accident. An Mi-8 was approaching for landing in the mountains when on the ground, wanting to illuminate the landing site for the pilots, a pyrotechnic flare was lit. Its bright light, amplified hundreds of times by the goggles, hit the pilot’s eyes, instantly blinding him, and only the navigator’s assistance saved the out-of-control aircraft.
Mi-24 crews, not wanting to be outdone, decorated their helicopters with a whole set of drawings. The “striped ones” (this nickname stuck to the “twenty-fours” since Afghanistan, although their factory camouflage is actually formed by irregularly shaped dark green spots, nicknamed “shamrocks” and “amoebas” by the camouflage scheme developers themselves) displayed not modest emblems, but large, flamboyant images. One Mi-24P received a huge black arrow half the length of the fuselage, stretching from the stabilizer to the wing itself.
Another helicopter, a Mi-24V gunship, in confirmation of the nickname, was painted with transverse stripes encircling the tail boom. The black square that concealed the number was lost against their dark background. The stripes were painted freehand, without concern for correctness, and even the warning stencil “Danger” near the tail rotor was painted over. The helicopter immediately evoked associations: “Striped, like our whole life: a light stripe, a black one, and then… the tail!”. In everyday use, it was more often called “Perch,” and the nickname became established, replacing its call sign in radio communications between crews and flight control.
In contrast, another “striped one”—a cannon-equipped Mi-24P—carried dynamic diagonal stripes. Not limited to flashy paint, it was adorned with light “lightning bolts,” “diamonds,” and “clubs” with the inscription “Ace” in street graffiti style. The helicopter, however, was better known as “Pikur,” after the famous “Kursk Beer” in the Chernozem region, recalling home (incidentally, among the products of this brewery, there is also a variety called “Nostalgia”). A corresponding inscription commemorating the Millennium “2000” was emblazoned on the left side.
The squadron also had its own “Black Shark”—an Mi-24P with an image of a toothy predator, obviously inspired by the famous film (even though the main character of that aviation action movie was another combat helicopter, the Ka-50, whose impressive aerial shots contributed to the film’s popularity). The Mi-24P also stood out with bright yellow “eyed” dust protection device covers on the engine intakes, designed to deter birds.
The real “Black Sharks” did not keep them waiting—in November 2000, a pair of Ka-50s from the Combat Training Center in Torzhok arrived in Chechnya. One of them was the very film hero, who debuted in the movie. The distinguished “five” (experimental prototype No. 05, manufactured in April 1990, tail number 015) starred in the film almost ten years ago, but what was to be done if, since then, barely a dozen Ka-50s had joined “our regiment”?
The Ka-50s were intended for combat testing in the North Caucasus Military District a year prior, at the beginning of the Second Chechen Campaign. However, paradoxically, their participation in a tender for supplying fire support helicopters to the Turkish army hindered their acquisition of combat experience and reputation as a battle-proven machine. Prospects looked promising, even for establishing licensed production and global sales, which led the company to avoid risking a potential Ka-50 loss. The defeat of even one helicopter in combat or an accident due to a banal malfunction (in war, as in war) would inevitably cause undesirable repercussions, undermining their position in the tender and playing into the hands of competitors.
By autumn, it became clear that the fate of the Turkish tender was practically predetermined (and considerable money for helicopter modifications, according to the constantly changing customer requirements, had been frankly extorted by backstage organizers from the impoverished design bureau). There’s no evil without good, and lost time could be made up for—to put the helicopter, created for that very purpose, to the test in combat. The selected pair of Ka-50s underwent overhaul and fine-tuning (with the participation of factory specialists) with a special emphasis on armament and the targeting complex. The provocatively black “cinematic” color of the “five” immediately after filming was changed to the former standard camouflage in two shades of green with blue undersurfaces. Before deployment, the camouflage on both machines was refreshed, and incidentally, the numbers and stars were painted over—either to mislead the enemy regarding the number of Ka-50s that had arrived, or simply out of overzealousness, “by inertia”.
The Ka-50s arrived in Chechnya under their own power, making the flight with the help of external fuel tanks and making three intermediate landings en route. The pair was accompanied by a transport-combat Ka-29, modified accordingly. Unlike standard production machines, it was equipped with the I-251V “Shkval-V” search and targeting complex, identical to that installed on the Ka-50. Television and laser equipment was mounted in the nose section, a television indicator and control means for the observational-search system were installed in the cockpit, and in the voluminous cargo compartment, KZA blocks were placed to monitor its operation.
“For Chechnya,” PPI thermal flare dispensers were installed on the sides of the Ka-29; however, in haste, this was done awkwardly in the area of the landing gear struts, where access to them was inconvenient, and they were too high to reach from the ground. Be that as it may, the newcomers made their combat debut on their 18th anniversary. The Ka-50s were involved in performing the usual tasks of the helicopter grouping in Chechnya—patrolling, fire support, and especially “free hunting” with independent target searching. All flights were carried out in pairs, most often with a Ka-29 as the leader, performing the functions of a guidance and target designation helicopter. Acting as a “commander’s vehicle” with a multi-person crew and equipment unified with the Ka-50, it ensured reconnaissance and enemy search. The enemy immediately noticed the appearance of the new machines: radio intercepts recorded militant reports about unknown helicopters flying over the Chechen foothills, and field commanders were strongly advised to exercise special caution and not to show themselves upon their appearance—apparently, under the impression of that same well-known film.