Flying

The hellfire that consumed Grozny raged until noon the next day, leaving most of the city a blackened ruin. Scores of fighters trapped inside perished in the blaze. After the inferno subsided, the Soviet forces pressed their advantage with relentless air and ground assaults, deploying SU-25 attack jets and MI-24 helicopters to cover the advance.

The remaining Chechen defenders, unable to resist the overwhelming assault, were swiftly pushed back and surrounded the Chechen presidential palace—their last bastion.

Leading the final contingent was Maskhadov with members of the presidential guard. With no escape route left, no hope of retreat, they prepared for a desperate defense. The Soviet victory flag already fluttered a few hundred meters away, bright and undeniable.

From a vantage point amid the ruins, a Soviet political commissar raised his voice over the chaos. "Comrades! The armored forces have crushed every terrorist who dared defy us. Ahead lies the last rebel stronghold—the Chechen Presidential Palace! They resist stubbornly. Capture it! Leave none alive!"

Using shattered buildings as cover, Soviet troops surged forward. This was no longer a war of attrition—it was a blitzkrieg backed by absolute air supremacy. SU-25s tore apart enemy positions with cannon fire, reducing fortified defenses to smoking rubble.

When the outer lines fell, soldiers stormed the palace from all directions—armored vehicles and infantry advancing under the rallying cry of "Ura!" The scene mirrored the legendary assault on Berlin's Reichstag in 1945.

"Go!"

Faced with the overwhelming Soviet steel tide, the last Chechen fighters had no chance to surrender. Any raised weapon in surrender was met with a bullet. The commissar's brutal orders were clear: execute all prisoners except Dudayev and Maskhadov. No mercy was to be shown—this was a grim warning to all extremists who dared threaten the unity of the motherland.

Inside the palace, Dudayev stood pale but unbroken, staring out at the advancing forces. He refused to abandon the palace, rejecting Maskhadov's plea to break out.

"Maskhadov, escape to northern Chechnya," Dudayev commanded before the final assault. "Basayev survived the blast and hides in the mountains with our remnants. Join him. Build strength for Chechnya's resurgence. And avenge me."

Disguised as a Soviet soldier, Maskhadov slipped away amidst the chaos. Dudayev alone remained, a symbol of defiance, steadying the soldiers' morale.

Gunfire roared through the palace corridors—Chechen cries, Soviet shouts, grenade explosions shaking the walls. Dudayev waited calmly in his office.

The door was blasted open. Soviet soldiers stormed in, weapons trained on him.

Slowly, Dudayev raised his hands and smiled faintly. "Young men, relax. I'm unarmed."

Above the palace, the red Soviet flag billowed proudly.

The massive Chechen War of Independence—fierce and brutal—had lasted two months. Now it was over, a decisive Soviet victory.

News of the palace's capture and Dudayev's fall swept through Moscow. Relief and quiet celebration filled the capital. But Yanayev frowned—the absence of Maskhadov troubled him deeply.

"It's not over yet," Yanayev muttered, snuffing out his cigarette. He dialed Comrade Kryuchkov, instructing increased vigilance on "dangerous goods" entering Moscow—particularly white sugar suspected of concealing explosives. Basayev's previous subway bombing still haunted them.

Though Kryuchkov harbored doubts, he faithfully intensified security and surveillance across the Soviet Union. Under Yanayev's control, the Ministry of Internal Affairs and KGB had transformed from feared oppressors into vigilant guardians of the state.

The war in Chechnya had ended, but the region's unrest simmered still. Soviet forces moved to eliminate scattered pockets of resistance, even as political power struggles unfolded. Kadyrov and his son watched closely—they remained the strongest armed force in Chechnya, ready to seize the new balance of power.

Meanwhile, Moscow's newspapers proudly displayed the iconic image: the red Soviet flag atop the Chechen presidential palace, paired with photos of Yanayev delivering a rousing speech to troops. His commanding presence was likened to Lenin's—majestic and resolute.

One headline sarcastically contrasted global leaders:"Our commanders stand fearless on the most dangerous frontlines, while other nations' leaders sip coffee in safe havens."

The entire propaganda offensive was masterminded by Propaganda Minister Surkov, who tirelessly crafted Yanaev's image—steel-hearted yet benevolent, a leader of the people. With the war over, the first urgent task was to try the reactionary rebels and traitors.

Just days after Yanaev declared the conflict's end, the Soviet Supreme Court convened a special session. Among the prisoners brought before it were the former Georgian President Zvyad and Chechen Armed Forces Leader Dudayev. The verdict was a foregone conclusion. While Western media lionized them as martyrs of freedom, Soviet newspapers unanimously condemned their actions as treason—attempts to fracture the motherland.

Alongside the high-profile trial, intellectuals and activists who had spoken out for freedom were also dragged before regional courts. None were convicted for their ideals; instead, charges unrelated to their political beliefs—fabricated offenses, moral accusations—sealed their fate.

By sentencing them on the very same day as Dudayev, Yanaev sent a clear and unambiguous message: This is the Soviet Union, the proletariat's realm. Anyone preaching the heresy that evil capitalist forces control the country would face swift and merciless punishment.

Based on overwhelming evidence, Zvyad and Dudayev were condemned to life imprisonment in Vorkuta Prison, a grim fortress in the Siberian wilderness reserved for "special" prisoners. Yanaev cynically dubbed it a gift for the liberals—a place where political dissidents and intellectuals advocating Western freedoms would undergo the harsh baptism of Marxist discipline and the grueling labor of coal mining.

Yanaev himself poured over their biographies—the so-called "glorious resumes" of these self-styled champions of liberty—and found them remarkably similar: on the surface, self-sacrificing idealists; underneath, nothing more than thieves and charlatans.

Embracing a dark humor, Yanaev declared: "If you claim to care for the suffering working people, then experience their hardship firsthand. Comrades, Siberian coal mines await your contributions to the motherland!"

What followed was a political purge disguised as justice. Advocates of freedom and separatism would be sent to Siberia's freezing depths to toil underground, forced to confront the true meaning of loyalty and sacrifice. Yanaev's warning was stark and unequivocal: "I will make you regret ever attempting to divide our motherland!"