Crush Them!

Before Lieutenant Colonel Barankenov was dispatched to Tbilisi to oversee on-the-ground operations, General Secretary Yanaev summoned him privately at the Kremlin. In a quiet office beneath the weight of Soviet grandeur, Yanaev relayed a chilling piece of intelligence: the Georgian opposition might soon receive a shipment of firearms from abroad, likely to be used against Soviet troops. The source? None other than Viktor Bout—the infamous "Merchant of Death."

Thanks to Moscow's shadowy support, Bout's international arms deals had flourished, allowing him to cultivate relationships with figures in the global underworld. One of these allies provided information that made its way to the Kremlin—news of a clandestine weapons delivery into Georgia. Yanaev, opting for strategic silence, refrained from confronting the Georgian president directly. Instead, he instructed Barankenov to prepare for the inevitable: if the insurgents drew blood, the army must be ready to return fire tenfold.

Though Barankenov initially doubted the intel, he followed orders. Before leaving the base, he instructed every unit under his command to arm themselves with live ammunition and prepare for combat—not just crowd control. By the time the shooting began, he was grimly prepared.

It happened swiftly. The insurgents raised their Kalashnikovs, firing from the hip, cradling the stocks under their arms while unleashing chaos. Bullets cut through the air. The Soviet troops, trained for this moment, ducked behind tanks and armored personnel carriers, returning fire with precision.

The militants, emboldened by the brief retreat of Soviet forces, turned their weapons on the wounded. They shot soldiers already bleeding out on the pavement, denying them even the dignity of aid. A few brave Soviet men rushed forward to retrieve their fallen comrades, only to be gunned down in turn. The psychological toll was enormous—the insurgents weren't just resisting; they were trying to break the Red Army's will.

But the Soviets hadn't come unprepared. Barankenov radioed back to headquarters and received immediate authorization to use overwhelming force. Yanaev's voice echoed coldly through the line: "We kill the militants wherever we find them. No bullets left? Then crush them with tanks."

Once firearms were distributed from the secure stockpile in the rear, the tide turned dramatically. Four T-72 tanks rolled forward, their general-purpose machine guns erupting in a deafening roar. The insurgent with the RPK was the first to fall—struck dead before he could reload. Others scrambled for cover, diving behind sandbags and abandoned vehicles.

With enemy fire suppressed, Soviet soldiers rose from behind the tanks and advanced. Moving with trained discipline, they formed a staggered formation beside the armor, firing in bursts as they gained ground. The combined might of steel and infantry pushed through the square with unstoppable momentum.

Some militants attempted to flee. Others froze, trapped by the crossfire and the sheer horror of what faced them. The tanks, massive and merciless, advanced without pause. In comparison, the insurgents looked pitiful—scrambling insects before the wrath of a machine too large and indifferent to care.

A few realized the futility. One man threw down his weapon and emerged from cover, hands raised high. "Don't shoot—we surrender!" he cried.

Barankenov signaled the ceasefire. Hesitantly at first, then in growing numbers, the remaining insurgents laid down their rifles and emerged with arms raised. The Soviet soldiers, still seething, kept their weapons trained, fingers tense on the triggers. But no one fired—discipline held.

Barankenov strode among the captives, staring each one down. None dared meet his gaze. Disgusted by their cowardice, he barked, "Where's your leader? Someone step forward."

No one moved. The silence deepened.

"If no one confesses," Barankenov said sharply, resting a hand on his holstered pistol, "I will assume you're all guilty—and act accordingly."

The threat worked. After a long pause, one young man stepped forward. "It was me. I organized the attack."

Barankenov gave him a thin smile. "I admire your honesty." Then, without warning, he punched him hard in the jaw. The youth collapsed, teeth scattering on the ground. A few soldiers murmured in surprise; others cheered.

As Barankenov looked down, something caught his eye. Embroidered on the man's left sleeve was a swastika—the insignia of the SS.

Fury flared. He knelt, pulled a knife from his belt, and slashed the armband from the man's arm. "What's this?" he snarled. "Nazis? On Soviet soil?" He held the symbol inches from the man's face. "You're filth. You shouldn't be breathing."

Grabbing him by the jaw, Barankenov forced open his mouth and stuffed the swastika inside. "Eat it. Swallow it. That's your ideology, right?" He kicked him hard in the gut and threw him back to the guards.

"Treat him well," he said acidly. "Make sure he remembers today."

Once the prisoners were tied up, a young soldier hesitated. "Lieutenant Colonel, what… what should we do with them?"

Barankenov turned, his voice cold. "What should we do? Several of our men are dead. That man was wearing a Nazi emblem. You know the orders."

"But… aren't they prisoners now? We could be court-martialed," the soldier replied, uncertain.

Barankenov placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Listen carefully. The Supreme Leader was clear: there are no prisoners wearing swastikas in Soviet custody. Not now. Not ever."