Iron Resolve

From the moment Chechnya declared independence, its fate was sealed—a tragedy carved in the map's edge. The commander of the Caucasus Military District stood rigid before General Secretary Yanaev, unfolding the operation to crush the rebellion. The plan closely mirrored the Russian army's historical blueprint: a direct, decisive strike on Grozny.

Yanaev listened silently, fingers tapping his chin, before asking calmly, "How many troops do you intend to deploy?"

Seeing no objection to the plan, the commander's confidence swelled. He puffed his chest and declared, "Three divisions will suffice, Comrade General Secretary. With them, we'll raise the red flag over Grozny's government palace and end this farce in one swift motion."

"Three divisions?" Yanaev's voice dropped, each syllable colder than the last. "Do you mistake this war for suppressing a peasant revolt? Are you sending those divisions in to be swallowed whole, without even a bone to spit out?"

The room fell silent. No one dared move.

Yanaev stood, his tone now a quiet fury. "If your three divisions can take Grozny, you may have my chair as General Secretary."

They remembered the bloodbath of the First Chechen War. The historical Russian advance on Grozny had cost lives by the yard. In one notorious case, only eleven men returned from an entire combat regiment. Each step forward in that ruined city was paid for with blood, a tragedy that mirrored the siege of Stalingrad.

Chastened, the commander stammered, "Then… how many troops will be required?"

Yanaev didn't hesitate. "No fewer than 70,000 regulars and 30,000 internal security forces. Deploy T-72s, T-80s, and T-90s. Su-27s and MiG-29s for air superiority. Smerch and Grad rocket artillery for saturation strikes. Use every conventional weapon we possess. Bring thermobarics. Bring white phosphorus."

The room tensed. Eyes widened.

"And if they still refuse to surrender," Yanaev continued, voice steel, "we'll empty Bozruz Island's stockpiles of sarin and soman. Civilians? If they stay behind, they are combatants. Women? Potential Black Widows. Treat them all accordingly."

He paused, letting the silence settle like frost.

"Comrade Stalin made one mistake," Yanaev said softly, "he let them return from Central Asia. They should've perished in those labor camps."

No one spoke. No one dared.

It wasn't just tough rhetoric—this was Yanaev's doctrine, a cold, iron mirror of Stalin's ghost. But now, that ghost had a name and a body.

"General Secretary," one official finally dared to interject, "isn't this a war plan fit for conflict with NATO? We're talking about a minor republic."

Yanaev's gaze cut through him.

"Then perhaps we'll let this war serve as an example," he said. "If the world saw our past actions as restraint, then let this be the lesson they never forget. When we raise our hand, we raise it to crush."

He turned back to the commander.

"You've likely read our intelligence reports—yes?"

"Yes, Comrade General Secretary."

"Then let me educate you," Yanaev said, walking to the war map. "Dudayev commands 9,000 regulars. The National Guard—2,500. Islamic Guard and internal forces—another 6,500. They've salvaged T-62s, they've got Shilka anti-aircraft guns. Tell me, has your Ministry of Internal Affairs identified how many tanks they possess?"

The commander blinked, caught off guard. "Our intelligence teams are still assessing—"

"No," Yanaev cut him off. "No excuses. I don't want maybes. I want numbers."

He left unspoken the most dangerous elements: the CIA operatives, the ex-SEALs, the French mercenaries hiding among the militants' foreign backers. He didn't mention the arms smugglers or the trained killers masquerading as freedom fighters. Let them come. The Soviets had an answer for all of them—fire, steel, and obliteration.

Every mercenary who entered Soviet territory would leave it in a coffin, if lucky. If not, they'd vanish into an unmarked grave, a warning to all who thought the USSR was dead.

"Chechnya is not a 'conflict,' it is not a 'separatist movement,'" Yanaev declared. "It is treason. And I intend to show the world how this state deals with traitors."

Behind him hung the portrait of Stalin—broad shoulders, ice eyes, and that grim, knowing expression. No one missed the symbolism. In Yanaev's posture, they saw it too: the return of iron resolve.

Some whispered that Stalin's ghost had returned.

"Why are you all still here?" Yanaev barked suddenly, shattering the silence. "Go! Begin preparations immediately."

The officers jumped, papers clutched to their chests, and scurried from the room like schoolboys fleeing a headmaster's cane. Moments later, only Yanaev remained. Alone, staring at the map.

He thought of Grozny.

He thought of Big Ivan, the Tsar Bomba, and how tempting it would be to flatten Chechnya in one blinding flash. But no. That path was fiction, madness from a novel. Even Yanaev knew there were lines not to cross.

He stepped toward the window, where a dull grey sky pressed down on Moscow like an omen. He frowned, unsure for the first time—not about winning the war, but about what would come after. Victory was assured. But could the broken body of the Soviet Union be resurrected?

That was what made Stalin great—not merely victory, but what came after: the reconstruction, the resurrection, the fire-forged empire.

Could he do the same?

Yanaev shook the thought away. Sentimentality was for the weak. He had a war to fight.

He turned back to the map and whispered to himself, as if invoking a mantra:

"We are not Yeltsin's drunkards.We are not the fractured army of '94.We are the Red Army reborn.Our tanks roll like thunder. Our rockets burn like the wrath of gods.And in our path, there is no refuge."

From Grozny to Paris, should the West tempt fate again.

Let them come.

He would be waiting.