The Breaking Point

The armored column of the 4th Motorized Infantry Regiment arrived at the square a full thirty minutes behind schedule. Their route had been repeatedly blocked by rioters who used debris, stolen buses, and barricaded vehicles to stall the advance. When they finally reached the vicinity of the government building at 3:30 p.m., they found an angry, swelling crowd amassed on the right flank, shouting slogans and waving banners. The regiment's orders were clear: clear the square—by any means necessary.

Lieutenant Colonel Barankenov stood atop the turret of the lead T-72 tank. His face was stoic beneath the cold grey sky as he raised a loudspeaker to address the mob. His voice echoed through the plaza: "Disperse immediately! This is an unauthorized gathering. Further resistance will be met with military force. You have been warned."

His words were met with jeers. Stones and glass bottles arced through the air. Some struck soldiers' shields, others clanged uselessly off helmets. "Soviet pigs, out of Georgia!" someone bellowed. The crowd roared in approval. Barankenov's jaw tightened. There was no reasoning with these people.

In a last attempt to avoid bloodshed, he turned to a revered voice of authority—Patriarch Ilia II, spiritual leader of the Georgian Orthodox Church. Escorting the elderly cleric from the Georgian Cathedral, Barankenov cleared a path through the soldiers and helped the frail man to the front line.

Ilia II's eyes were filled with sorrow as he addressed the masses, his hands trembling slightly. "Children of Georgia, I beg you—go home. Violence will bring no justice. There is danger here… real danger."

His pleas were met with contempt.

"Traitor!" someone spat. "You sold your soul to Moscow!"

"Get off the square, you old fool! The Church doesn't need dogs of the Kremlin!"

A jagged rock flew through the air and struck Barankenov on the shoulder as he stepped between the patriarch and the crowd. He winced, but held his ground. Ilia II sighed in defeat.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant Colonel," the Patriarch murmured. "I failed. They won't listen."

Barankenov shook his head. "You tried, Holiness. But I'm afraid they'll only understand when they see what force really means."

Ilia II crossed himself. "Lord, forgive these lost lambs."

Barankenov's voice was cold. "It's God's job to forgive. Ours is to send them to meet Him."

Then, into the radio: "Execute clearance protocol. Push them out—use force as necessary."

The shield phalanx began its advance. Riot squads pressed forward in formation, shields tight, batons ready. But the opposition was prepared. Dozens of young men surged forward—athletes, boxers, former soldiers—armed with clubs, pipes, and even knives. They crashed into the shield wall with disciplined fury, disrupting the Soviet line.

The soldiers stumbled. Several fell back.

But then came the counterstrike. Behind the shields, troops raised their riot guns and fired. Rubber slugs dropped men in their tracks. Those behind tripped over the fallen, screams rising in a chaotic chorus.

"Students! Fight! Beat these Russian dogs to death!" screamed a student leader, his voice raw with fanaticism. He surged forward with an iron rod raised high.

Before he could strike, a baton smashed into the back of his skull. He collapsed, dazed and bleeding, just as Lieutenant Valennin stepped over him and spat.

"Go back to school, punk," Valennin sneered. "You deserve worse."

As the student leader lay stunned, the crowd hesitated. Some tried to help him, others stepped over him without care. The energy in the square faltered.

Sensing the turning tide, Barankenov gave a new order: "Deploy gas!"

Soldiers lobbed canisters of Prunus-3 and K-15 tear gas into the crowd. White plumes rose and spread. Panic set in instantly. Protesters clawed at their faces, coughing violently, eyes streaming. Many threw down weapons and scattered.

The Soviet troops advanced behind their masks, shields pushing forward like the slow, relentless jaws of a machine. Batons cracked into ribs and shoulders. One by one, the crowd was driven out—beaten, blinded, choking.

Victory seemed within reach.

But then it happened.

A burst of gunfire.

A Soviet soldier collapsed. Blood pooled beneath him as medics scrambled.

Barankenov froze. "Sniper?" he barked.

No—worse. Out from the back of the crowd came a man with an RPK light machine gun, flanked by others brandishing Kalashnikovs and Tokarev pistols. They opened fire without hesitation. Chaos exploded. Civilians ducked or ran, but the armed rebels advanced, screaming, "Kill the Soviet pigs! Die, invaders!"

Barankenov's worst fear had come true. This was no longer civil unrest—it was an armed uprising.

The square, which moments earlier had been a chaotic protest zone, now transformed into a battleground. The rebels moved with the discipline of men trained for more than demonstrations. They used the dispersing crowd as cover, firing from alleys, ducking behind makeshift barricades.

Soviet troops responded with return fire, but the confusion was growing. Barankenov clenched his jaw, barking orders into his radio, trying to regroup.

"Units Three and Five, flank left! Secure the Ministry steps! Don't let them breach the southern perimeter!"

The square echoed with gunfire, sirens, and screams. The smell of tear gas mixed with gunpowder and fear. The Soviet armored column had never anticipated open combat, but now it was here, in the heart of Tbilisi.

Barankenov knew this was no longer about crowd control.

This was war.