The Soviets Return from Hell

Following orders from Minister of Internal Affairs Pugo and Minister of Defense Yazov, mobile units of the Georgian Ministry of Internal Affairs and the Caucasus Military District's field forces were being deployed to Tbilisi and the Abkhazia Autonomous Region to enforce martial law. Alongside them, the First Deputy Minister of Defense, Valennikov, was dispatched from Moscow to accompany General Rodionov. His mission: assist the special operations command and take direct responsibility for any war-related conflicts that might arise.

The central government and military were gearing up for war. A steady convoy of BMP-2 armored infantry fighting vehicles rolled toward Tbilisi, accompanied by fire trucks and ambulances. Unlike three years prior, when only officers were armed, this time every soldier carried a weapon, along with Chrysanthemum-3 and K-15 tear gas canisters. Moscow's instructions were clear: if the rioters dared attack the troops, soldiers were authorized to open fire immediately.

Moscow had discarded all pretense of diplomacy. The Soviet Union's patience with its member republics had run out, revealing a brutal, unforgiving face.

Armored vehicles streamed out of the Caucasus Military District barracks and headed straight for Tbilisi, while the Ministry of Internal Affairs' forces mobilized to assist in quelling the unrest. But the city was already descending into chaos. The Interior Ministry's manpower was insufficient to control every street corner, forcing them to impose martial law only around the city center in hopes of containing the demonstrations.

As the armored vehicles rolled onto Rustaveli Street, demonstrators blocked their path. Thugs erected barricades from large trucks, trolleybuses, and stolen buses. Hiding behind these, they hurled stones, metal scraps, and wooden debris at the soldiers, shouting curses, "Get out, you Soviet running dogs!"

Lieutenant Colonel Barankenov, who had faced these rioters three years before, took decisive action. He ordered the troops to charge through the barricades. He barked at the commander of the lead BMP-2, "What? Can't break through? Smash the barricades with artillery shells and run them over! I'll take full responsibility. I don't care if they live or die. You must reach the square by 2 PM. If you fail, I'll shoot you myself!"

Soldiers dismounted from the vehicles, jumping off roofs and taking positions on either side of the tracks, bending low to dodge stones flying through the air.

The rioters, drunk and defiant, boasted of their victory over the Soviet army during the Tbilisi incident three years earlier. Oblivious to the danger approaching, their leader, swaying with a half-empty vodka bottle, bragged, "Back then, I personally stabbed a Soviet paratrooper to death. Those soldiers were cowards—we hit them with sticks and they didn't fight back. They called it discipline, but I showed them the price of acting wild on Georgian soil. None of us were punished."

His comrades looked on with envy, dreaming of becoming heroes who killed Soviet soldiers. But they forgot the truth: the Soviet army hadn't feared them; it had held back because of discipline.

Suddenly, a bullet tore through the barricade. The thug, who'd raised his hand and mocked the troops, screamed as his left hand shattered. The truck he leaned against was riddled with a large bullet hole. Panic broke out as machine guns on two BMP-2 vehicles opened fire on the barricade.

The first rioter to peek out was cut down instantly, half his head blown apart, falling into a pool of blood. The others, dazed by vodka and overconfidence, sobered up instantly.

"Those aren't the same Soviet troops from three years ago," one thug muttered, barely dodging bullets. "They're devils."

Chaos erupted as the crowd scattered in panic. The rioters dropped their weapons and fled, knowing bullets would hunt them down. Fuel tanks of the blocked vehicles were hit, causing massive explosions that sent fireballs soaring and shockwaves knocking people to the ground.

A teenager was thrown down by the blast, his body aching unbearably. He looked around in horror.

Those trapped in the inferno writhed in flames, their screams filled with agony and despair. They staggered forward, hands stretched out in desperation toward their fleeing comrades before collapsing into piles of blackened charcoal.

Suddenly, a blazing truck rolled violently across the road, tossed by an unseen force.

The fearless BMP-2 barrelled through the fire, crushing the burning bodies and obstacles alike. It moved like a dark specter from hell, unstoppable and merciless.

The teenager, paralyzed by the gruesome scene, covered his mouth in terror. Behind the armored vehicle, Soviet soldiers in gas masks marched through the flames, rifles in hand. To the rioters, they looked like demons crawling out of hellfire itself.

Yes, they were back—the Soviet troops from hell. They had returned to reclaim the land that had once humiliated them.

And all who dared disrupt Soviet order would pay in blood and soil.