Firestorm over Naurskaya

When ground troops are blocked in the city and cannot advance—there is always the final word of the Soviet Army: aerial bombs and the carpet barrage of rocket artillery. If a city dares to hinder the Soviet advance, then it shall be reduced to rubble—and crossed as ash.

General Secretary Yanayev had not forgotten the lessons of Mogadishu or the bloody first Chechen war. This time, there would be no underestimation, no hesitation. The BM-21 Grad "Steel Hail" and the Uragan 220mm multiple rocket launchers were already in position. The Soviet rapid reaction force had completed its encirclement, driving the Chechen rebels deeper into the city's concrete maze, where they dug in among high-rises and collapsed buildings, prepared for a last stand.

Soviet armored columns rolled forward over shattered masonry and smoldering debris. After a forced march through battered terrain, they reached the outskirts of Naurskaya and Gudermes. A political commissar, coat flapping in the wind, leapt down from a BMP infantry fighting vehicle, boots crunching over broken stone. In the distance, black smoke poured from burning buildings. Gazelle helicopters cut through the gray sky, diving toward the urban inferno ahead.

"Comrades, this is Naurskaya—the first fortress city we will break."

The commissar shouldered his rifle and turned to the grim-faced troops.

"The Hurricane rocket barrage will tear this place apart. Fear and fire will break their will. And you, soldiers of the Soviet Union, will avenge the atrocities committed by these terrorists. For every comrade strung up on lampposts in Grozny, for every Russian mother left weeping, let your bullets speak."

Before the offensive, graphic photos of executed Russians had been distributed among the troops. Yanayev's directive was clear: this was not a battle against fellow countrymen. These were terrorists, enemies of the people—butchers, not freedom fighters.

At their staging areas, more than 2,000 launchers awaited orders. When given, the skies would rain steel. High-rise shelters would be reduced to dust, and any surviving militants flushed out in the wake of fire.

And the West? Yanayev scoffed at their hand-wringing.

"Let them condemn us. We have red mercury, and we will remind them what real power looks like. If they want to stop us—they'd better be ready to burn with us."

As the rockets began to launch, Chechen fighters hiding in apartments and stairwells felt their nerve fray. Soviet snipers, invisible and omnipresent, eliminated exposed positions with ruthless precision. Attempts to return fire were met with tank shells or thermobaric airbursts. Each time the Chechens tried to ambush a Soviet column, they were spotted, pinned, and destroyed.

The Soviets fought by three brutal street-fighting truths: RPGs, PKMs, and Dragunov rifles—supported at all times by airborne firepower.

What had started as a proud rebellion turned into a desperate rout. Some fighters fled through shattered alleys like rats under floodlight. Others cowered, too broken to run.

"God help us. We can't stop them. They're not men… they're demons."

A young militant murmured from a corner, beside him a shattered Mosin-Nagant, its PU scope twisted from a near miss. His ears rang from shellshock. His squad had planned a tank ambush, but the sniper meant to trigger it had his skull opened before pulling the trigger.

Silence consumed the room. Only the moans of the wounded punctuated the quiet. They had sworn to bury the Soviet army. Now they dreamed of escape.

"Get up!"The local commander, back from a failed attempt to rally defenses, burst into the basement hideout. His face was red with fury.

"You cowards! Is this how you fight for Chechnya's independence?"

He grabbed a fighter by the collar and shook him violently.

"You promised to die for your homeland, and now you sit and wait for death like sheep!"

No one responded. Then a wounded sniper, his arm bound in a bloodied sling, spoke with quiet finality:

"We have no chance. Our snipers are all dead. Their artillery wipes out our nests before we can even pull the trigger."

His voice trembled as he continued.

"The T-80 tanks fire before we see them. They knock down a building just because we might be inside. We used to be the shadows in the alleys. Now we can't even move before they light us up."

Another soldier, face wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage, murmured:

"We tried flanking them in groups. Their snipers are faster. Every time we move, someone drops."

The room fell into grim silence again. Every word confirmed what the commander feared.

The Soviet army was not just winning. It was crushing them—tactically, psychologically, completely.

And above them, more rockets screamed toward the heart of Naurskaya.