The first attack would be very alarming. We would be inexperienced.
Long before a drone reaches the skyline of Tallinn or Riga, the window for meaningful defense has already closed — a truth that retired Estonian General Martin Herem has drawn from repeated study of Ukraine's embattled cities. Writing for The Baltic Sentinel, Herem argues that the Baltic states face a structural vulnerability: unlike Ukraine, which built its air defenses incrementally as the threat evolved, Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania would absorb Russia's full current production capacity from the very first strike. The lesson is not merely military but civilizational — that the protection of a city begins not at its walls, but a hundred kilometers into the countryside, in the quiet fields where decisions made today will determine who survives tomorrow.
- Russia now produces roughly 200 large drones and 10,000 small drones daily — a volume that could send 150 to 160 large drones toward Estonia alone in an opening strike, with no grace period to adapt.
- Unlike Ukraine, which learned its defenses through years of painful trial and error, the Baltic states would face the full weight of that arsenal on day one, with no accumulated institutional knowledge to absorb the shock.
- Firing at drones over populated areas risks turning friendly fire into a second catastrophe — rounds that damage but don't destroy send wreckage into apartment buildings, which is why interception must happen far outside city limits.
- Critical infrastructure — substations, power plants, command centers — must be hardened now with concrete, sandbags, and HESCO barriers; a protected substation requires ten or more strikes to destroy versus one or two for an unprotected one.
- Herem calls for immediate threat assessments, pre-positioned air defense systems two to five kilometers from targets, and joint civilian-military command posts empowered to issue shelter orders before drones ever reach the city.
By the time a Russian drone appears over Tallinn, the moment for defense has already passed. That is the central warning retired Estonian General Martin Herem has brought back from Ukraine, where he has traveled repeatedly to study how cities endure when the sky turns hostile. His conclusion is stark: the Baltic states are not prepared for what a coordinated Russian drone campaign would look like on its very first day.
Ukraine had time — years of incremental adaptation, learning which defenses worked and which failed as the threat slowly escalated. Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania would have no such luxury. Russia currently produces around 200 large drones and 10,000 small drones daily. If that capacity were directed at the Baltic states, Estonia alone could face 150 to 160 large drones in an opening strike. The math offers no comfort.
Herem's proposed defense operates in concentric zones. The outermost layer, stretching roughly a hundred kilometers from the border or coast, relies on interceptor drones and mobile heavy machine-gun teams tasked with destroying incoming weapons before they reach populated areas. Closer in, defensive systems are positioned at trajectory convergence points. Only then do specific targets — power plants, substations, command centers — receive point defense. Tallinn's protection, in this model, would begin in eastern Estonia and along the coast. The city itself would have little or no air defense within its boundaries, because firing at drones over apartment buildings risks turning missed or damaged weapons into falling debris. In Ukrainian cities, such firing is generally prohibited. The moral and legal responsibility, Herem argues, remains with the attacker.
For infrastructure operators, the work is concrete and immediate. Small drones can be caught with fishing nets. Long-range Shahed-type weapons require hardened barriers — concrete blocks, sandbags, HESCO walls around substations and power plants. Ukrainian experience shows that a protected substation may require more than ten strikes to destroy, compared to one or two against an unprotected target. Air defense guns must be positioned two to five kilometers from their targets; firing closer is nearly useless against a diving drone that, even if damaged, can still glide onto its objective.
Russia's targeting hierarchy, drawn from its Ukrainian campaign, moves from command and control to energy infrastructure, then water and heating, then deliberately residential buildings and hospitals — chosen to overwhelm the entire system simultaneously. Herem has visited more than ten drone-strike sites in Ukraine and found that direct fatalities are often surprisingly low. The real danger is smoke: people trapped in burning buildings, killed not by blast but by carbon monoxide and cyanide from burning plastics. Basements offer genuine protection. A drone striking a rooftop does not automatically kill everyone inside — but if fire spreads unchecked, smoke becomes the weapon.
The urgency is compounded by what happens if the war in Ukraine ends while Russia retains its current production capacity. Six months of accumulation at that rate would create an arsenal of enormous scale. There is still time to prepare — but only if threat assessments begin now, materials are calculated and stockpiled, and joint civilian-military command posts are established to make shelter decisions based on real-time radar and acoustic tracking. The first attack will be alarming regardless. How alarming depends entirely on what the Baltic states choose to do before it arrives.
By the time a Russian drone appears over Tallinn's skyline, it is already too late. The decision to shelter, to defend, to intercept—all of it must happen far beyond the city limits, in the forests and fields of eastern Estonia, along the coast, in the first hundred kilometers where incoming weapons can still be stopped. This is the hard lesson that retired Estonian General Martin Herem has carried back from Ukraine, where he has traveled repeatedly to study how cities survive when the sky becomes hostile.
Herem's warning is blunt: the Baltic states are not ready for what a coordinated Russian drone campaign would look like. Ukraine developed its air defenses gradually, learning as the threat evolved. Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania would face the full shock on day one—the accumulated volume of Russia's current capability, but without the experience to manage it. Russia can now produce roughly 200 large drones daily, along with 10,000 small drones across its entire front line. If that production capacity were turned toward the Baltic states, Estonia alone could absorb 150 to 160 large drones in an opening strike, with hundreds of small drones following. The math is unforgiving.
The defense must begin with a clear-eyed threat assessment. Herem emphasizes that companies and infrastructure operators cannot simply build walls and hope. They need to understand what actually threatens them in their specific location, then calculate precisely what materials are required, where those materials come from, how long construction takes, and what it costs. Small drones—the kind that can reach about twenty kilometers from a front line—can be caught with fishing nets, even ordinary gill nets. But the long-range attack drones, the Shaheds and Gerans that Russia has been using against Ukrainian cities for months, require different logic. These cannot be netted. Instead, critical infrastructure must be hardened: concrete blocks, sandbags, HESCO barriers stacked around substations and power plants. The math here is also revealing. Ukrainian operators have found that a protected substation may require more than ten attack weapons to destroy, compared to one or two against an unprotected target. Protection works, even if it does not guarantee survival.
The layered defense that Herem describes in Ukraine—and that he argues must be replicated in the Baltic capitals—operates in concentric zones, each with its own logic. The outermost zone, stretching roughly a hundred kilometers from the border or coast, relies on interceptor drones and mobile heavy machine-gun teams. The goal is to destroy incoming weapons before they ever reach populated areas. Closer in, at intersections where flight trajectories converge, defensive systems are positioned. Only then do specific targets—power plants, substations, command centers—receive point defense. Tallinn's protection, he argues, would not begin at the city limits or even ten kilometers away. It would begin in eastern Estonia and along the coast. The capital itself would have little or no air defense inside its boundaries. Firing at drones over a city creates its own catastrophe: rounds that miss, or damage but do not destroy, fall back to earth. In Ukrainian cities, this firing is generally prohibited inside built-up areas. The responsibility is left with the attacker. If Russia targets an industrial facility and I fire at it over an apartment building and only damage it, causing it to fall into homes, then those losses are, in a sense, caused by me.
The positioning of air defense systems—typically manned 23-millimeter guns or 12.7-millimeter heavy machine guns, sometimes remotely operated with optical and thermal sensors—must be two to five kilometers from the target they protect. Firing closer than that is nearly useless. A Geran diving from two kilometers altitude at a sixty-degree angle, if only damaged at one kilometer away, will still glide or fall onto its target. Herem has seen footage of Estonian-made remotely operated systems that first shot down an interceptor drone chasing a Geran, then shot down the Geran itself. These systems exist. The question is whether they will be deployed in time, in sufficient numbers, in the right places.
Russia's targeting logic, drawn from its campaign in Ukraine, follows a hierarchy. Command and control comes first—military and civilian both, including police and rescue services. Then energy infrastructure, which Russia has focused on relentlessly. Water, heating, and other essential services follow. And then, deliberately, residential buildings and hospitals, chosen to overload the entire system. The first attack would likely follow this pattern. Herem has visited more than ten sites hit by long-range drones in Ukraine and found that direct fatalities are often surprisingly low—one person here, none there. But injuries are varied and severe: concussions, lacerations, people thrown from beds. The real killer, according to Ukrainian rescue officials, is not blast or rubble but smoke. People become trapped. Carbon monoxide and cyanide from burning plastics claim lives. Basements offer genuine protection. A Geran striking the roof of a nine-story building does not automatically kill everyone on the upper floors. But if fire breaks out and spreads, smoke becomes the weapon.
What makes Herem's analysis urgent is the production capacity question. If the war in Ukraine ends and Russia retains the ability to manufacture 200 large drones and 10,000 small drones daily, the arsenal it could accumulate in six months would be enormous. Estonia would have hundreds of targets for large drones alone. From an air-defense perspective, the picture would be extremely complex. But there is time to prepare. Companies must conduct threat assessments now. Materials must be calculated and stockpiled. Plans must be made. Some defenses can be built immediately; others can wait until the threat increases, with materials purchased and stored in advance. The decision to issue shelter orders must be made by regional military-civilian command posts, where both civilian authorities and air defense are present, based on radar and acoustic sensors tracking incoming weapons. If a drone is already over the city, people should already be in shelter. The first attack will be alarming. But much depends on how well the Baltic states prepare, and how quickly they learn.
Citas Notables
When Russian drones reach the skies over a Baltic city, it is already too late to take shelter.— General Martin Herem
We would get the full shock on the first day—at the kind of volume Ukraine is facing today, but without Ukraine's experience.— General Martin Herem
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
When you say defense must begin a hundred kilometers away, you're essentially saying the city itself is almost a secondary concern in the first hours of an attack?
Not secondary, but yes—the city's survival depends on what happens before the weapons arrive. Ukraine learned this the hard way. They developed their defenses gradually, so each layer was built as the threat evolved. We would get the full shock on day one, without that experience. The city's job is to shelter people and protect critical infrastructure once the outer defenses have done their work.
You mentioned that relatively few people die in these attacks, despite the psychological impact being enormous. Is that because the drones are less lethal than we think, or because Ukrainians have learned to shelter effectively?
Both. The drones themselves are not as lethal as the fear surrounding them. But that fear is rational—it keeps people in basements, and basements work. I've visited sites where a Geran hit the roof of a building and the basement occupants were untouched. The real killer is smoke, not blast. People die from being trapped, from carbon monoxide, from fires that spread. If you're sheltering properly, you survive.
So the first attack on Estonia would be different from what Ukraine faces now, not because the weapons are different, but because we'd be unprepared?
Exactly. Ukraine can predict trajectories, position defenses, assess damage, and adapt. We would be learning in real time, under fire. That's the cold shower I'm warning about. We have the knowledge available—we can learn from Ukraine—but knowledge and experience are not the same thing.
You keep emphasizing that companies need to start with threat assessment, not with building. Why is that distinction so important?
Because you can waste enormous resources protecting against threats that don't apply to you. A water treatment plant in western Estonia faces a different threat than a power substation near the Russian border. You need to know what actually threatens you before you spend money and materials. Then you calculate: how much concrete, how long to build, what labor is needed, what it costs. Only then do you have a real plan.
If Russia can produce 200 large drones daily, and Estonia could face 150 to 160 on the first day, what does that tell you about the scale of what we're actually preparing for?
It tells you that air defense alone cannot stop everything. You need layered defense—interception far out, point defense closer in, hardened infrastructure, sheltering. No single system works. And it tells you that if the war ends and Russia keeps that production capacity, the arsenal it builds over months would be staggering. We're not preparing for a one-day event. We're preparing for a sustained campaign.