The massive power plants built during the Soviet era in Ukraine don't have a future. For the past five months, these concrete and steel behemoths swallowing mountains of coal have been slowly dying under Russia's repeated missile strikes. Visiting the inside of one of these fading creatures reveals a desolate scene: sheet metal and walls perforated by shrapnel, piles of rubble, savagely twisted metal tangles. The turbine hall, dozens of meters high, stretches the length of eight soccer stadiums and seems to go on forever. Punctured in several spots by Russian missiles, the ceiling lets in rays of blinding light in the middle of the day. "It's the first convertible power plant with a retractable top," quipped Oleg, the production manager. For security reasons, he was not allowed to give his last name or the name of the power plant. Even the date of Le Monde's visit must be kept secret. "The enemy is gathering all the information it can to identify weak points and continue their enterprise of destruction," continued Oleg, a combative engineer in his forties.
While remaining deliberately vague, the engineer explained that the plant has suffered "almost" 10 attacks, each time starting with drones, then cruise missiles and lastly ballistic missiles. "They [ballistic missiles] are the scariest because there are less than four minutes between the moment they're fired and when they strike, which means we don't even have time to run for cover." Oleg said that before the Russian invasion of Ukraine began, the plant psychologist used to be bored stiff in his office. These days, the waiting list is "as long as the one for toilet paper in Soviet times."
After each attack, the production manager and his men are the first to come out of the shelters to put out fires: "The fire department is five minutes away, but there's not a second to lose if we want to limit the damage." Their first priority is extinguishing everything flammable, such as lubricating oil, hydrogen (used to cool the generator) and cables.
The vast control room, undamaged by the attacks, looks like a museum framed by its antiquated instrument panels. The monitors and a computer storage cabinet signal are the only signs that this is indeed the 21st century. The system appears to be in working order, but the vulnerability of the plant's "brain" is obvious: Large tarpaulins hang over the control panels with bits of string. "There are holes in the ceiling, and rainwater is liable to seep through," noted Nikolai, the 60-something day shift manager.
You have 65.55% of this article left to read. The rest is for subscribers only.