Hostomel: 3,502 Meters That Broke the “Kyiv in Three Days” Plan

On February 24, 2022, the three-and-a-half-kilometer runway of Hostomel Airport became the arena of a battle that would shape the fate of Kyiv’s defense.

Before the full-scale invasion, the Antonov State Enterprise International Airport, located near the picturesque town of Hostomel in the Kyiv region, served both as the home base of Antonov Airlines’ cargo fleet and as a testing ground for advanced Ukrainian aviation projects.

In many respects, it was a unique airfield. For years, however, its global renown rested above all on the legendary An-225 Mriya, the world’s largest cargo aircraft, which was permanently based there.

The airfield’s geography was another critical asset. On a traffic-free day, central Kyiv could be reached in roughly forty minutes by road. From the Belarusian border, a helicopter could cover the roughly one hundred kilometers in a straight line to Hostomel in just 25 to 30 minutes at cruising speed.

This strategically vital location — combined with a runway capable of handling heavy military transport aircraft — made the airfield an obvious priority target. On the very first day of the full-scale invasion, Russian forces attempted to seize these crucial air gates to the Ukrainian capital.

​Ukrinform spoke with servicemen of the National Guard of Ukraine who, on February 24, 2022, along the 3,502-meter span of the Hostomel runway, were the first to engage the enemy airborne assault and to frustrate the Russian command’s plan to capture the Ukrainian capital within days.

AT THE TIP OF THE MAIN STRIKE

On the night of February 23–24, 2022, Lieutenant Serhii Falatiuk, commander of a composite air defense missile platoon, was on duty with the alert forces of a National Guard of Ukraine unit assigned to protect a strategically vital facility — the Antonov State Enterprise airfield in Hostomel.

The National Guard’s Rapid Response Brigade “Rubizh,” in which Falatiuk served, was stationed near the airfield at the time. However, beginning in January 2022, the brigade’s principal units had been operating away from their permanent base.

They were first deployed to a training ground for combat coordination. Then, roughly a week before the full-scale invasion, they were urgently redeployed from firing ranges and training areas to the east, where the enemy’s main thrust was expected in the event of a major war. Consequently, the brigade’s most combat-capable elements met the outbreak of Russian aggression while on the move, leaving only a few dozen personnel at the permanent base — headquarters staff, logistics and support units, a limited number of contract servicemen, and approximately two hundred conscripts who were not assigned to combat duties in the Donbas.

Serhii, who had rotated to the Joint Forces Operation zone multiple times in previous years, was expecting to deploy east at any moment.

The war, however, rewrote those plans.

A TASTE OF ANXIETY

“February 23 is etched in my memory as a day of tense anticipation — a sense that something had to give,” the National Guardsman recalls. “Even after the Russian-Belarusian exercises near our borders officially ended and Moscow claimed its units were preparing to return home, we had no real confidence that this would actually happen.”

Particularly troubling were reports of a significant buildup of army aviation at Belarusian airfields, including the latest Russian reconnaissance and attack helicopters — the Ka-52 Alligator. Russian propaganda boasted about these heavily marketed rotorcraft as “flying tanks,” touting their exceptional maneuverability, survivability, and firepower.

Serhii Falatiuk

Serhii says that before taking up his shift, he once again walked his men through possible scenarios, reminding them how to identify enemy Ka-52s, Mi-8s, Mi-24s, and other rotary-wing aircraft. Only after that did he and his comrades depart in a Varta armored vehicle for their duty station at the airfield.

The armored vehicle functioned as a mobile command post, equipped with communications and surveillance systems, along with other essential gear. Although a sense of unease lingered in the air, few truly believed that anything would unfold that very night.

“Earlier that evening, everything was more or less routine. Our infantry were at their positions, and the air defense crews were at their combat posts,” Falatiuk recalls. “I was inside the Varta, beside the radio, receiving reports from observation posts and relaying updates to my superior on the situation.”

At around 4 a.m., a position located slightly higher than the others reported over the radio that something had streaked toward Kyiv at high speed. Almost immediately afterward, a powerful explosion was heard from the direction of the capital.

To see what was happening with his own eyes, the officer climbed onto the roof of a nearby two-story building. The sound of missiles flying toward Kyiv was unlike anything he had ever heard — sharp, cutting, and ominous. The night seemed to shudder under the thunder of impacts, the horizon repeatedly flashing with fiery bursts as the strikes landed.

NO GOOD NEWS

National Guard conscript Dmytro Usmanov went to bed shortly after 10 p.m. on February 23. The next day, he and his comrades were scheduled to take up duty defending and securing Hostomel Airport.

Dmytro Usmanov

He had been performing his compulsory military service in the brigade since 2020, so routine duties and guard shifts were nothing unusual. Patrolling the grounds of the Hostomel airfield, however, was a new assignment for the unit. Only in early February 2022 did the management of the Antonov State Enterprise consent to a military presence on its premises — and even then, they categorically forbade the troops from establishing fortified positions in the surrounding area. The reasoning was straightforward: digging trenches or fighting positions could damage underground utility lines, and the risk was deemed unacceptable.

Dmytro served as the gunner-operator of the combat module on a standard BTR-3E, a Ukrainian-manufactured armored personnel carrier with which the brigade was equipped. His crew deployed on patrol every other day, relieving the previous shift.

Dmytro Usmanov, photographed just days before the invasion began

Usmanov, though he had asked his commander for permission to turn in earlier than the prescribed lights-out, lay awake for a long time — troubled thoughts would not let him sleep. Before that, he had called his parents in central Ukraine and urged them to prepare emergency “go-bags.”

Shortly after 4 a.m., the unit was put on alert. The men immediately rushed to the motor pool and their vehicles. At first, they assumed it was another exercise — there had been many in recent weeks. But as the crew readied their vehicle to move out, the commander relayed reports of missile strikes on airfields in Chuhuiv and other Ukrainian cities. Mobile networks were already being jammed by electronic warfare. Even so, from the fragments of information that filtered through, it was clear: there was no good news.

A REPORT NO ONE EVER WANTS TO WITNESS

At around 5 a.m., Usmanov saw an aircraft pass low over the unit — likely a Su-35 or another Russian jet. Moments later, a Russian cruise missile struck the parade ground near one of the barracks. Dmytro’s crew felt the blast from inside their armored vehicle as they were pulling out of the brigade’s control and technical checkpoint.

Upon reaching the airfield, the soldiers concealed their armored personnel carrier near the cargo checkpoint, using a tree line for cover. They dismounted and continued operating as infantry.

In the event of an engagement with enemy sabotage and reconnaissance groups, Dmytro recalls, they were well supplied: four magazines per rifle, additional loose rounds — up to four hundred per serviceman — and grenades.

After the missile strike on their unit, the National Guardsmen began driving trucks and other vehicles onto the runway to block it, preventing large military transport aircraft from landing.

Time seemed compressed. At one point, Dmytro heard the growing roar of aircraft — helicopters. His first thought was that they might be Ukrainian machines, or perhaps media helicopters filming the unfolding events. He climbed onto the armor of the BTR for a clearer view.

They were Ka-52s.

The first flew extremely low. Behind it, barely skimming the treetops, more “Alligators” surged over the tree line — one, then another, then a third.

Dmytro immediately understood his mistake: standing exposed atop the armored vehicle during an air assault was reckless. He dropped to the ground and sprinted toward the improvised position they had earlier prepared in the brush near the runway.

Russian Ka-52 “Alligator” attack helicopters

OPEN FIRE ON THE ENEMY AIRCRAFT!

After the explosion at the brigade’s compound, Serhii Falatiuk seized a brief lull to call his wife. “Take your things, get ready, and go to my parents in the Vinnytsia region.”

Moments later, he received word over the radio that Ukrainian jets would be operating toward Chornobyl and that a secure air “corridor” over Hostomel had to be ensured for the incoming strike aircraft. Soon, the sharp roar of jet engines cut across the sky. Yet the lieutenant, who had stepped out of the armored vehicle, caught another sound beneath it — lower, heavier, unmistakably the thrum of helicopters.

He reported it up the chain of command. The response came back: the sky was clear; radar showed no aerial targets other than Ukrainian Su-25s that had just flown out to strike enemy columns.

“But that sound couldn’t be mistaken — I could clearly hear the rotor blades of a large helicopter group,” the officer recalls. “And then I saw them. Ka-52s. Their silhouettes are distinctive — unlike anything else.”

From beyond the tree line, skimming low and using the terrain for concealment, the first group of six “flying tanks” emerged. They advanced in combat formation, their noses painted a characteristic blue; the lead helicopter bore a gray and dark-olive fuselage. There were no markings indicating Ukrainian aircraft on any of the machines.

The enemy helicopters circled the airfield, methodically scanning the runway, buildings, and defensive positions. It was a reconnaissance pass — an effort to identify and, if necessary, suppress the air defenses before landing airborne troops.

When the lead Ka-52 slowed and hovered over the runway, Falatiuk gave the order to open fire and was the first to press the trigger of his MANPADS.

The initial attempt failed. The aging Soviet-era Igla did not respond: the helicopter was too close, the seeker failed to acquire the target, and the missile did not leave the launch tube. But as the aircraft passed directly over Serhii’s position, he let it go by, pivoted, and fired in pursuit.

This time, the system worked as intended. The seeker achieved lock, the launch charge ignited, and the missile shot out of the tube, streaking toward its target…

Wreckage of a destroyed Russian helicopter

THE FIRST ONE — DOWN!

The Igla struck a pod of unguided rockets. The helicopter began to trail smoke, burst into flames, and, as if tucking in its tail, peeled away for an emergency landing in a field beside the runway.

Almost instantly, the remaining enemy helicopters unleashed heavy fire across the airfield. Administrative buildings, technical facilities, identified air defense positions, and armored vehicles all came under attack. After expending their initial salvos, the “Alligators” banked and returned on another combat run, employing their full onboard armament in an effort to wipe out the Ukrainian defenders’ positions. During this phase of the engagement, Serhii brought down a second Russian helicopter.

Its crew was far less fortunate than the first. The supposedly “invulnerable” Ka-52 detonated midair and crashed near one of Hostomel’s new residential developments.

Other members of the air defense platoon — MANPADS operators and crews of ZU-23-2 anti-aircraft guns — poured sustained, devastating fire into the attacking force.

According to Serhii Falatiuk, Ukrainian Guardsmen destroyed six enemy helicopters in that battle: five with man-portable air defense systems and one with anti-aircraft gun fire.

NOT A ONE-SIDED GAME

Dmytro says he can no longer say with certainty who fired first after the order was given. But he vividly remembers the moment when one of the Ka-52s erupted in flames and began to lose altitude.

“Morale soared instantly,” Usmanov recalls. “We realized this wasn’t going to be a one-sided fight.”

Trailing the attack helicopters, Mi-8 transport helicopters carrying airborne troops were already closing in on the airfield. There were roughly twenty of them — dark-green, easily recognizable transports bearing obscure “V” markings on their fuselages. Red stars were visible only on the undersides of one or two aircraft. As became clear later, the Russians had deliberately obscured most identification markings to confuse Ukrainian defenders. The landing operation was covered by another wave of attack helicopters — Ka-52s and Mi-24s — more than a dozen aircraft in total.

“They must have truly believed we’d welcome them with open arms — like liberators, with flowers,” Usmanov says. “I distinctly remember them smiling and waving as they flew past. That’s exactly where we aimed — straight into the open side doors with our small arms.”

Alongside four comrades nearby, Dmytro opened fire on the airborne troops as they disembarked from the Mi-8s and immediately engaged the defenders of the airfield in close combat.

What remained of a Russian helicopter after being shot down

THAT’S HOW WAR UNFOLDS…

In the course of repelling the assault, Dmytro Usmanov says he emptied five or six magazines and even passed one to an RPK machine gunner whose ammunition had run dry sooner.

But as their own rounds began to run out, fragmented radio traffic made it clear that the main force was initiating a withdrawal. Acting on orders, their driver-mechanic managed to extract the BTR — which they had earlier concealed — from under fire.

Dmytro and three other servicemen, however, were unable to reach the vehicle in time. They made the decision to break out on foot, moving through wooded strips toward the village of Ozera, with the intention of regrouping with their unit.

The notorious Hostomel airborne landing

In one of the guard huts, the men reloaded and continued advancing in bounds from building to building. By then, Russian airborne troops were already storming the administrative facilities on the airfield grounds. Other paratroopers were sweeping the perimeter, steadily closing in on Usmanov’s group — though without direct visual contact.

Just as it seemed they were about to break away, another group of Russian paratroopers appeared ahead of them, as if emerging from the ground. To evade Ukrainian anti-aircraft fire, Mi-8 pilots had inserted them away from the main assault force. That chance convergence — as so often happens in war — sealed the fate of Dmytro and his comrades. All four conscripts were taken prisoner.

VALOR

Russian airborne troops were landing roughly 150 meters from the positions held by Falatiuk’s men, and a firefight erupted.

The defenders maneuvered between buildings, established all-round defense, and coordinated their actions by radio. Yet the enemy’s air superiority was undeniable. When the officer reported that ammunition was running low, his superior ordered him to break contact and withdraw his men.

In the second half of the day, National Guard units received orders to pull back to more advantageous defensive lines. The withdrawal took place under sustained enemy fire. Some servicemen had to move out on foot, as vehicles had become easy targets for hostile aircraft.

Nevertheless, the fighters of the “Rubizh” brigade — the vast majority of them conscripts — accomplished their primary mission with honor. The Russians failed to seize the airfield in a swift assault. Owing to the resistance of its first defenders, the runway was later pounded into a cratered “lunar landscape” by Ukrainian artillery and fighter aircraft, rendering it unusable for heavy transport planes.

As later emerged, around fifteen Russian Il-76 military transport aircraft carrying the main airborne force and armored vehicles, after taking off from Tula, were forced to divert and land at Mazyr in Belarus. This effectively nullified the central pillar of Russia’s plan — to thrust from Hostomel into Kyiv with powerful, mobile, and well-prepared forces.

Mriya: The Dream That Lives On

The fighting for Hostomel continued until the end of March, and the airport remained under Russian control for a significant period. Yet the strategic initiative had already begun to slip from the enemy’s grasp in the very first minutes of that battle — when a small group of Ukrainians stood their ground and did not lower their weapons.

Perhaps that is why Kyiv withstood the initial hours of the full-scale invasion: those 3,502 meters of runway at Hostomel became not a springboard for an assault on the capital, but a line the Russians failed to breach.

P.S. Dmytro Usmanov spent more than a year in enemy captivity. Despite the inhuman torture he endured in a Russian prison, he returned to service after a prisoner exchange and received a commission as an officer. Lieutenant Usmanov now continues to fight with the 4th Rapid Response Brigade of the National Guard of Ukraine “Rubizh,” which has become his second family.

P.P.S. For Serhii Falatiuk — now a captain — the war also continues. Decorated with the Order “For Courage,” 3rd Class, he has since downed two more enemy aircraft in eastern Ukraine — two Su-25 jets.

Yet when he recalls February 24, 2022, he does not speak of awards. What remains etched in his memory is the dim morning light over the Hostomel runway, the roar of helicopters overhead, and his own clipped command over the radio: “Open fire on the enemy helicopters!”

For him, the full-scale war began with that order. And with the gunfire and explosions that echoed across the Hostomel airfield that tragic — and heroic — morning began the unraveling of the myth of “Kyiv in three days.”

Ivan Stupak, Kyiv

Photos via Ukrinform and publicly accessible sources