The Liberation of the Square

The liberation of the government square marked a turning point—a hard-won but significant victory in the Soviet effort to restore order. The demonstrators had been forcefully dispersed by military units, and contrary to the rumors of indiscriminate cruelty, Soviet troops began evacuating the wounded with surprising care. Stretchers were loaded with civilians and even rioters, rushed to the nearest hospitals under army escort.

As casualties flooded into emergency rooms, hospital blood banks were quickly overwhelmed. Off-duty soldiers voluntarily lined up to donate blood, some still bandaged from earlier clashes. A few wounded soldiers even insisted on giving blood themselves, arguing that they could still help—even flat on their backs.

Some injured troops, still unable to stand without crutches, requested early discharge so their beds could be given to the more gravely wounded. There was no resentment, no hate—only a shared burden. Soldiers who minutes earlier were being stoned and cursed were now applauded by civilians in bloody bandages. Silent hands reached out in corridors; former enemies exchanged nods of mutual understanding.

This was the army of the people. Only under socialism could such an ideal be realized in such dire moments.

Yet, amid this momentary calm in Tbilisi, another front was flaring into chaos. In Abkhazia, armored columns had begun their sweep, enforcing martial law under far grimmer circumstances. Unlike Tbilisi, this wasn't merely crowd control—it was full combat readiness. Helicopters patrolled the skies 24/7, scanning for roving gangs. The mission was simple: identify, isolate, eliminate.

When Soviet troops arrived at the local district party headquarters, they were met by a mob—men with sticks and makeshift weapons, emboldened by the belief that soldiers would not dare to fire. They were wrong.

As they charged, the soldiers atop the armored vehicles opened fire without hesitation. The first line of attackers fell like wheat beneath a scythe. The rest scattered in terror, the illusion of invulnerability shattered in seconds. Only the wounded remained—writhing on the pavement, calling out in pain.

The armored column pressed forward and reached the district political building. There, lying in the mud, was First Secretary Kadyrov—barely conscious after four hours of abuse. Medics rushed to stabilize him.

"Massive internal injuries, high fever, organ failure imminent," one doctor reported. "He needs treatment immediately—he might not survive the trip to the hospital."

But Kadyrov didn't care about himself. His trembling hand reached for a passing officer.

"The children… inside…" he whispered. "Don't worry about me. Get them out. They're terrified."

"We will, Comrade Secretary," the officer reassured him. "Your duty is done. Let us take it from here."

As soldiers forced open the barricaded entrance—doors jammed shut with overturned desks and debris—they entered a building cloaked in darkness. The electricity had been cut by the rioters. Beyond the mess of broken furniture, faint sobs could be heard.

"Children, don't be afraid," a soldier called out gently in Russian. "We're with the Soviet Army. We're here to help you."

He didn't advance—just stood waiting.

From the shadows, an elderly man emerged, clutching a group of children by the hand. All were under six. Pale, dirt-smudged, and wide-eyed, they peered nervously toward the entrance.

"Are those bad men gone?" one whispered.

"They've been driven away," the commander said softly. He picked up a small boy and carried him outside, while others followed in silence.

Twelve hours of terror ended in that moment of calm. As the children exited, Kadyrov, now on a stretcher, saw them. A weak smile tugged at his lips. His final mission was complete. As his eyes closed, the heart monitor beside him flatlined.

"His heart's stopping!" a medic shouted. "Prepare cardiac stimulants! We're losing him!"

Back in Abkhazia, while most of the region was pacified, a pocket of armed resistance remained—entrenched in an abandoned cement factory. These were no mere protesters: among them were the same extremists who had burned four Abkhaz civilians alive. Now armed, they used the factory's labyrinthine structure to mount a desperate guerrilla defense.

The Soviets suffered a string of early casualties. Every approach was covered by crossfire from snipers perched on the factory's upper levels. From their vantage points, the militants heckled Soviet soldiers below—firing potshots, flashing obscene gestures, and hurling insults.

"Filthy Red bastards!" one shouted, middle finger raised. "You can't even fight back!"

Suddenly, the sky growled.

Two MI-24 Hind helicopters appeared overhead, rotors thundering.

"This is Falcon-One," crackled the radio. "Comrades, stand clear. It's our turn to clean house."

"Pull all units back," the Soviet ground commander ordered. "Let the birds do their work."

As soldiers fell back to safety, the helicopters maneuvered into firing position. The lead pilot scanned the roof—figures were scrambling in panic.

He pressed the trigger.

"See you in hell."

A salvo of rockets streaked from the launch pods, exploding into the factory's facade. Another burst followed—then another. Walls crumbled. Flames engulfed stairwells and hallways. The roof collapsed. Bodies, if any remained, were consumed in the inferno.

The Hinds circled overhead once more, scanning for survivors. None were seen.

"Target neutralized. Mission complete. Returning to base."

To the Soviets, the logic was clear: what cannot be held must be destroyed. There would be no negotiation, no quarter. Only those with lesser crimes would ever see a courtroom. For the worst offenders, there was only one verdict: annihilation.

Under the red star, all enemies of the people would be brought to justice—by fire, by steel, or by the thunder of rotor blades.

No exceptions.