The People's Army

No one knew what dark conspiracy had been hatched inside that villa between Zviad, Kostava, and Chanturia. When Kostava and Chanturia finally emerged, their faces were ashen—paler than anyone had ever seen them. Kostava's eyes, especially, were wide with a panic that looked as if he had glimpsed a demon. Zviad's schemes were indeed far deeper than those of his two allies, but his cunning was limited to plotting behind the scenes. Politically, he was a spent force—ousted by the public soon after the Soviet Union's collapse. His influence was a shadow of what it once seemed.

Meanwhile, Tbilisi lay shrouded in smoke and fear. After the brief victory at dawn, the Soviet army—unfamiliar with the city's maze of narrow streets and ancient buildings—faced a terrifying nightmare under the cloak of night. The guerrilla fighters, taking full advantage of the city's labyrinthine alleys inaccessible to armored vehicles, struck swiftly and vanished without a trace.

General Rogionov and his senior officers had clearly underestimated the challenge. No single infantry vehicle and handful of soldiers could hold every block, every intersection. The insurgents' numbers were unknown, their firepower heavy, and after scattering Soviet patrols, they struck with brutal efficiency.

Lieutenant Colonel Barankenov, leading at the frontline, was more desperate than his superiors. Each delay meant more wounded, more bloodshed. With grim pragmatism, he ordered his troops to shrink their perimeter—holding key transportation hubs in the city and waiting for reinforcements before attempting a full sweep.

Only in the late hours did Barankenov notice a slight easing in the frequency of attacks. Though ambushes and arrests continued, the night's terror had momentarily subsided. He seized the chance to catch his breath.

Near their makeshift camp, soldiers patrolled under martial law, half the guards sent out to cover the sprawling area, leaving their post eerily thin.

Barankenov sat hunched over a detailed map of Tbilisi, so focused he didn't notice his cigarette burning down until the heat pricked his fingers. He flicked the stub away, furrowing his brow. "Insufficient numbers... that's our Achilles' heel," he muttered. "If this drags on until dawn, no one can predict the consequences."

Outside the camp, the remaining guards scanned the shadows for threats. Though nowhere near as dire as the chaos in Afghanistan where soldiers shot first and questioned later, tensions were rising fast.

Suddenly, one guard spotted movement—a group of figures faintly illuminated by flashlights, creeping through the darkness. The city was plunged into blackout after militants destroyed the power plant, making every shadow a potential threat.

The guard raised his Kalashnikov, trained his sights on the approaching shapes, and urgently reported via walkie-talkie. The camp erupted into alert, troops rushing to defensive positions.

Barankenov stepped out to assess the situation. "What's happening?" he demanded.

"A group's approaching the perimeter," a soldier answered. "Everyone's on edge at the sentry post."

Something felt off. Armed insurgents wouldn't dare march boldly into Soviet lines. Was it a trap?

Grabbing his pistol, Barankenov followed the guard outside, cursing under his breath. The sight that greeted him froze his blood.

Around ten soldiers stood at the sentry post, rifles raised and pointed at the intruders. The frontmost man held a loudspeaker, shouting in Georgian: "Stop! Do not come closer or we will open fire!"

But the group advanced undeterred.

The rules of engagement forbade firing unless fired upon. One soldier raised his gun for a warning shot—only to be stopped by Barankenov's hand.

"Wait. Hold your fire. Let's see what they want," Barankenov ordered, instincts screaming.

As they drew near, Barankenov recognized not militants, but a procession of terrified civilians: women clutching sobbing children, elderly men hobbling on crutches, and a handful of resolute young men. Some wore pajamas, others looked like refugees fleeing from disaster—disheveled and desperate.

Some carried crude weapons—iron rods and the like—but Barankenov barked orders: no one was to raise their weapons or fingers on triggers.

Stepping forward from the sentry's cover, Barankenov approached the group cautiously.

Before he could speak, a man at the front called out, "Are you the army commander?"

"I'm Lieutenant Colonel Barankenov. Who are you?" he replied, his voice steady but guarded, hand hovering near his holstered pistol, the other signaling his soldiers to stay alert.

"I'm Yevgeny," the man answered, exhaustion etched into his face—dark circles under bloodshot eyes, hair unkempt. "I represent the residents of Rustaveli neighborhood. We beg you, end this madness. We can't live in fear any longer." 

"Yes," a woman holding a child sobbed softly. "These people are not here to demonstrate peacefully. They're nothing but robbers and shameless hooligans. They stormed into our home with guns, stole our jewelry, and injured my husband!"

"We support the army in crushing these thugs!" someone stepped forward, shouting loudly.

"Yes!" others echoed, their voices rising—but Yevgeny's sharp eyes quickly silenced them. Despite the tension, it was clear he remained a respected leader among them.

Lieutenant Colonel Barankenov listened, feeling a mix of sympathy and frustration. He scratched his head and said, "I understand your pain. But right now, our forces are too few to maintain security across the city. These bandits use guerrilla tactics, striking fast and disappearing into the shadows. It's difficult to counter."

Yevgeny spoke again, guilt shading his words. "We, the people of Tbilisi, want to help. If you can drive out those who disrupt our lives, we will stand with you."

"We've finally seen the truth," he continued bitterly. "Those so-called democrats are just ruthless villains. They manipulate our hopes to turn us against the Soviet army, but look at the destruction they've caused—burning homes, stealing from neighbors. They are robbers and devils."

"So I beg you: bring us justice. The citizens of Tbilisi will do everything they can to help you catch these criminals."

Barankenov realized this was an opportunity. He nodded slowly, ready to accept the residents' support—on one condition: only able-bodied young men could assist in maintaining order. The elderly, women, and children should stay safely at home. He promised soldiers would be deployed to protect the vulnerable, and assured them that this chaos would soon end, sparing their lives from further disturbance.

As Barankenov spoke with Yevgeny, another group approached—older people and children from the Lunacharskii district. They, too, pleaded for the Soviet army to restore order. Having witnessed their friends beaten, robbed, and even burned alive by armed gangs, these unarmed citizens now turned their desperate eyes toward the army they once despised.

The representative from Lunacharskii attempted to apologize for the earlier violence against Soviet soldiers during the daytime rally, but Barankenov stopped him firmly.

Walking through the growing crowd, Barankenov spoke with conviction, "The Soviet army is the people's army. We owe you no apology. It is our sacred duty to protect your lives and property. Our guns will only be raised against those who disrupt order. And rest assured, they will face the full force of Soviet justice."