A Russian drone tore a hole in the shield over Chornobyl’s dead reactor. Now the G7 is paying to patch it.
The Group of Seven nations plans to allocate 260 million euros ($292 million) to repair the New Safe Confinement at the Chornobyl Nuclear Power Plant, First Deputy Prime Minister and Energy Minister Denys Shmyhal says.
The confinement, a 35-story steel arch sealing the reactor that exploded in the 1986 disaster, was damaged by a Russian drone strike in February 2025. Full restoration will cost at least 500 million euros, the European Bank for Reconstruction and Development (EBRD) estimates, so the G7 pledge covers just over half, leaving about 240 million euros still to raise.
Shmyhal calls the decision an important step toward restoring nuclear safety at the plant, which the Russian strike had compromised. The money will go to priority work, including resealing the structure and restoring its ventilation system.
“Thank you to France and personally to Minister Roland Lescure for leadership in mobilizing international support,” Shmyhal says, crediting France and the EBRD with co-chairing the effort.
The night a drone pierced the sarcophagus
The damage dates to 14 February 2025. A Russian drone carrying a high-explosive warhead punched a hole through the arch’s roof and ignited a fire in the cladding, breaching the structure’s seal and ventilation.
The attack caused a 15 m² breach in the inner and outer cladding and damaged around 200 m² of panels.
"It was a targeted Russian attack on the Chornobyl station with a drone that is an analog of the Iranian Shahed," Ukrainian President Zelenskyy said at that time.
A bill only half-covered, and a 2030 deadline
The G7 money closes only part of the gap. Partners must still raise roughly 240 million euros more, and Ukraine hopes to secure it at a donor conference in Paris co-chaired by Ukraine, France and the EBRD, Shmyhal says.
The clock matters as much as the cost. The work must be finished by 2030 to limit corrosion and protect the arch’s 100-year design life, the EBRD says, turning a repair bill into a race against the rust the strike set loose.
On a cold April morning in 1875, three men ascended into the sky above Paris in a balloon, hoping to push the boundaries of human flight. Their journey was a scientific expedition, an attempt to explore the upper atmosphere and venture into a realm where few human beings had ever been. But as their balloon climbed higher, the air grew thinner, the temperature plunged, and the simple act of breathing became a desperate struggle. What began as a daring experiment in the conquest of the skies would end in one of the most horrifying tragedies in the early history of aviation.
Depiction of Théodore Sivel, Gaston Tissandier and Joseph Crocé-Spinelli in Zénith's fatal ascent of 15 April 1875. "La Nature", 1 May 1875
The balloon, named Zénith, carried its crew into a hostile world for which 19th-century science had only begun to prepare. At ground level, the atmosphere seemed limitless. But at altitude, it revealed itself as an unforgiving environment where the human body could fail with terrifying speed. The Zénith expedition exposed the dangers of high-altitude flight, and left behind a grim lesson for generations of aeronauts who dreamed of going higher.
The aeronauts of the Zénith were Gaston Tissandier, a French scientific writer and balloonist; Joseph Crocé-Spinelli, a scientist and journalist; and Théodore Sivel, an experienced sailor and aeronaut.
Gaston Tissandier, born in Paris in 1843, was a scientist, author and enthusiastic aeronaut. He had a particular interest in meteorology and the scientific study of the atmosphere. His brother, Albert Tissandier, was also involved in aeronautics, and the two helped popularise ballooning as a means of scientific investigation.
Joseph Crocé-Spinelli, born in 1845, shared this interest in atmospheric research. He had participated in earlier high-altitude experiments and understood the importance of studying the composition and properties of the air. Théodore Sivel, born in 1834, brought considerable ballooning experience to the expedition. His practical knowledge complemented the scientific interests of his companions. It was under his guidance that Zénith was constructed.
Barely a month before the fatal flight, Sivel along with zoologist and physiologist Paul Bert, Joseph Crocé-Spinelli, Albert Tissandier, Albert's brother Gaston Tissandier, and Claude Jobert, successfully completed a long-duration flight lasting 24 hours and 40 minutes.
Encouraged by the success of the flight and the positive coverage in the press, the Société Française de Navigation Aérienne (SFNA) announced that it would organize a high-altitude ascent using the aptly named Zénith, a 3,000 cubic meter balloon owned by Sivel.
At approximately 11:35 a.m. on 15 April, Zénith lifted off from the gasworks at La Villette. They carried an array of instruments with them to study the atmosphere, including an aneroid barometer, a hygrometer and an electroscope. They also carried an oxygen-supply apparatus. Three small reservoirs containing a mixture rich in oxygen were attached to the balloon's basket. Rubber tubes and mouthpieces allowed the men to inhale the gas when required.
The crew understood that oxygen deprivation was one of the greatest obstacles to high-altitude ballooning. At lower elevations, the atmosphere supplied sufficient oxygen for normal breathing. As a balloon climbed, however, atmospheric pressure fell, making it increasingly difficult for the lungs to transfer enough oxygen into the bloodstream.
Diagram of the balloon's ascent from Paris to Ciron. Credit: Wikimedia Commons
The men had prepared for the dangers as best they could with the knowledge and technology available. What they could not fully anticipate was how rapidly hypoxia, the condition caused by an inadequate supply of oxygen to the body, could impair their judgement, coordination and consciousness.
By around one o'clock, according to Tissandier's later account, they had passed 5,000 metres. The atmospheric pressure had fallen substantially, and the temperature outside was below freezing. Their instruments were working, and they continued to monitor their physical condition.
As they climbed higher, however, the men began to experience symptoms of oxygen deprivation. At 7,000 meters, Tissandier recorded that Crocé-Spinelli and Sivel had become pale. He himself felt weak and tried inhaling the oxygen they carried, which briefly improved his condition. Sivel then turned to Tissandier and asked whether he would throw out some ballast in order to ascend higher. Tissandier, feeling lethargic because of the altitude and the freezing temperature of −10 Celsius, agreed to the proposal. Sivel proceeded to cut three bags of ballast and the balloon shifted to a quick ascent.
By the time that they reached 7,500 meters, Tissandier could barely move. He described feeling no pain at all, but ‘an inner joy’ and indifference to the increasingly dangerous situation. The lack of oxygen made him delirious. Increasingly debilitated, Tissandier's memory of the events from hereon became even hazier. He remembered trying to reach for the oxygen but unable to lift his arm. Then, looking at the barometer, he saw the pressure at 280 mm and tried to yell out that they had breached 8,000 meters, but the words did not come out from his mouth and he fell inert at about 1.30 p.m.
Sketch depicting Crocé-Spinelli and Sivel, having lost consciousness due to a lack of oxygen, and Tissandier, in the basket of the Zénith on 15 April 1875. Credit: Wikimedia Commons
At 2.08 p.m., Tissandier woke up and saw the balloon descending at a perilous speed. Gathering all the strength he could muster, he managed to cut off a bag of ballast to re-establish the equilibrium before passing out again. After a while he was shaken awake by Crocé-Spinelli, who asked to throw out even more ballast. Fading in and out, Tissandier saw Crocé-Spinelli throw out the respirator, blankets and more ballast, which caused the balloon to rise again.
Tissandier drifted in and out of consciousness. The effects of oxygen deprivation had left him confused and physically incapacitated, and the sequence of events could only be pieced together from his fragmentary memories.
When he regained consciousness again, the balloon was descending at terrifying speed. He tried to rouse his companions by calling their names and shaking them, but neither man responded. Sivel's face had darkened, and blood was visible around his mouth. Crocé-Spinelli, too, appeared lifeless.
The Zénith finally landed at about 4.00 p.m. in the plains near Ciron, 250 km from Paris. Local residents rushed to help the surviving aeronaut. Tissandier was severely weakened, bruised and suffering from the effects of his ordeal. His companions, however, could not be saved. Both Crocé-Spinelli and Sivel had died during the flight.
The deaths of Crocé-Spinelli and Sivel raised urgent questions about the safety of high-altitude ballooning. The crew had carried oxygen, understood the dangers of ascending too far and possessed considerable experience. Yet their precautions had proved inadequate.
The central problem was the physiological effect of low atmospheric pressure. At high altitude, the reduced pressure makes it harder for oxygen to pass from the lungs into the blood. The resulting oxygen deprivation can cause headaches, confusion, impaired coordination, loss of consciousness and, in severe cases, death.
One particularly dangerous feature of hypoxia is that it can undermine a person's ability to recognise the danger. Someone who is becoming severely oxygen-deprived may lose the capacity to make sensible decisions or carry out the actions necessary to survive. For balloonists, that could mean being unable to operate oxygen equipment, monitor instruments or manage the balloon's descent.
The Zénith expedition also demonstrated that carrying oxygen was not enough by itself. The supply had to be accessible and usable under extreme conditions, and the crew had to be able to operate the equipment while suffering the effects of altitude. The ascent showed how quickly a scientific expedition could become an emergency when the human body began to fail.
The exact sequence of events cannot be reconstructed with complete certainty. Tissandier himself acknowledged that he had spent extended periods unconscious and remembered parts of the flight only imperfectly. Nevertheless, his testimony provided a remarkably direct account of the dangers confronting early high-altitude aeronauts.
Tissandier survived, but the loss of his companions was a profound personal blow. He subsequently documented the expedition and its tragic conclusion, helping preserve the details of the flight for other scientists and balloonists. His account remains particularly valuable because it records not merely the instruments' readings but the physical and mental collapse of the men who made them.
The tomb of Joseph Crocé-Spinelli and Théodore Sivel located in the Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris. Credit: Wikimedia Commons
In July 1952, reports of a railway disaster in Poland began circulating in the Western media. According to these reports, a Soviet military train derailed near the Polish town of Rzepin on 9 July 1952, killing around 160 Red Army soldiers who were returning to the Soviet Union. The train reportedly left the tracks between Rzepin and Boczów and plunged into a lake. What makes this alleged accident interesting is the uncertainty surrounding whether it actually happened.
The accident as reported by various western newspapers. Credit. Newspaper.com
On the morning of April 16, 1947, residents of Texas City, a busy industrial port on the Gulf Coast of Texas, watched smoke rise from a cargo ship moored at the docks. Fires aboard ships were not uncommon, and many people gathered along the waterfront to observe the firefighters at work. Few suspected that within minutes they would witness one of the most devastating industrial disasters in American history.
At 9:12 a.m., the French cargo vessel SS Grandcamp exploded with tremendous force. The blast shattered buildings, ignited refineries, hurled pieces of steel across miles of countryside, and killed hundreds of people. By the time the catastrophe ended, at least 581 people were dead and more than 5,000 injured. It remains the deadliest industrial accident in United States history.
More than a decade ago, a group of snipers shot up an electrical substation in Silicon Valley, striking power transformers and disabling the substation for nearly a month. The shooters were never identified; similar substation shootings, some by neo-Nazis, have taken place since. The longer Christopher Cox studies the American power grid—looking at aging infrastructure and ongoing transformer shortages, specialized manufacturing and rising demand, the massive energy consumption of data centers and whiplash usage of large language models—the more vulnerable it seems. “Somehow, we’ve made the industrial equivalent of a Fabergé egg the linchpin of our civilization,” Cox writes. “What would happen if someone started breaking them?”
The hope of restoring the grid would fade as fossil fuel supplies were exhausted, because so many utilities rely on them to “black-start” their generating units. A 2010 report called “High-Impact, Low-Frequency Event Risk to the North American Bulk Power System,” prepared by the Energy Department and NERC, condensed the entire disaster movie that would follow into a single paragraph: “The supply of food, water and fuel would degrade within days. The facile communication of information to the general population would be greatly complicated by the loss of cellphones, internet access and television. The economy would virtually shut down as electronic transactions could no longer be processed. After several days, widespread social unrest and confusion would ensue.” Thirsty, starved, dirty and surrounded by the useless machines we once depended on, we would be lucky if our misery ended at “confusion.”
In the early hours of April 27, 1865, a steamboat packed with nearly two thousand exhausted Union soldiers drifted northward on the Mississippi River. The American Civil War had ended and these soldiers who had survived battlefields, diseases, and some of the Confederacy’s most notorious prison camps were finally going home.
Shortly after 2 a.m., the vessel's boilers exploded with tremendous force throwing men into the river and trapping hundreds beneath collapsing decks. Flames engulfed the wooden steamboat. By the time the disaster was over, more than a thousand people had perished, making the Sultana tragedy the deadliest maritime disaster in American history. Yet unlike the sinking of the Titanic, it remains largely unknown today.
Sultana at Helena, Arkansas, on April 26, 1865, the day before her destruction. Credit: Wikimedia Commons
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