No Mercy in the Ashes

Lying flat in the brittle grass, the Soviet sniper narrowed his eyes behind the PSO-1 scope. His finger hovered above the Dragunov's trigger as the black-robed woman emerged from the ruins—arms raised, face pale. Through the faint shimmer of heat and dust, he caught a glint beneath the robe. Metal.

"Commissar," he whispered into the throat mic, "Possible explosive—belt glint under the robe. Advise caution."

The political commissar, perched on the lead T-72, didn't hesitate.

"Fire a warning shot. If she flinches, she lives. If she runs—shoot to kill."

The crack of the Dragunov split the heavy silence. A round struck the rubble just beside her feet. The black-robed figure didn't freeze.

She ran.

With a sudden scream—"Long live Chechen freedom!"—she bolted straight toward the armored column.

"Fire. Take her down!" the commissar bellowed.

A chorus of AKM rifles erupted. The woman's charge broke into chaos as bullets tore through her. She stumbled forward a few more steps, arms flailing, then collapsed hard on the concrete. Behind her, other women in similar robes began to sprint from the shadows.

A second barrage followed. No warnings this time.

Within seconds, the space between the Soviet line and the destroyed building was littered with torn black fabric, still-smoking bodies, and twisted limbs. The acrid scent of blood, sweat, and cordite fused with the dust of crumbling brick and ash.

Some of the younger soldiers, green and untested, retched behind tank treads, unable to hold down their rations.

The commissar didn't flinch.

"Look at them," he shouted, voice echoing across the ruined plaza. "These are the heroes of Chechnya? Hiding behind women. Strapping bombs to children. Using the weak as their armor. Cowards—every last one of them."

He stepped down from the tank and pointed to the heap of corpses.

"Remember this. This is what happens when you let sympathy cloud your judgment. If we hesitate, they live and we die. We crush them not just with firepower—but by breaking their will, bone by bone, spirit by spirit."

He turned toward the central building—once Naurskaya's government hall, now just a cracked shell—and gave the final order.

"All tanks: fire at will. Reduce it to rubble."

More than fifty Soviet tanks raised their barrels in unison. A deafening sequence of blasts followed. High-explosive shells shrieked through the air and slammed into the structure. Windows burst. Walls buckled. The upper floors collapsed like cards folding inward. Within minutes, the building became a tombstone for everyone still inside.

No one emerged.

No white flags. No screams. Just the sound of the last resistance being swallowed whole by dust and flame.

The Soviet soldiers stood in grim silence. Some stared blankly at the cratered wasteland that had once been the Chechen line. Others walked among the rubble, bayonets drawn, checking for signs of life and finding none.

From now on, Naurskaya would be remembered not for its independence, but for its annihilation.

"We move at dawn," the commissar said quietly. "Next stop—Grozny."

His voice was flat, emotionless.

The Steel Devils, as the enemy had come to call them, had crushed one city. And now, like the grinding wheels of an unstoppable machine, they turned toward the next.