Red Tyrant

A few Chechen militants still roamed the rugged mountains along the Georgia-Chechnya border. But after the brutal massacre in Grozny, the Soviet army had dealt a severe blow to their once-bold separatist spirit. Even more tragic was the heavy deployment of Soviet troops stationed on the border of Georgia—a member republic still—for the express purpose of watching and intercepting these insurgents.

Yanaev was determined to eradicate what he called the "cancer" of Chechnya once and for all. Because Georgia was still part of the Soviet Union, Yanaev deployed forces not only to guard the border tightly but also to hunt the Chechen fighters deep within the mountainous terrain. The Soviet commanders were blunt:

"You wage guerrilla warfare against us? Our reconnaissance teams will call in fighter jets the moment you're spotted. You'll only have to endure the punishment."

The scars of the Afghan war had taught the Soviets ruthless lessons. They used the Shilka River—a flat-fire machine gun—to devastating effect against militants hiding in caves and mountain passes. The very thought of being caught in the spray of those large-caliber rounds sent chills down the spine.

The Chechen forces, once numbering over a thousand, had been whittled down to barely four or five hundred under relentless pressure. Starved of weapons and funds, their struggle grew narrower by the day, and internal divisions started to tear at their fragile unity.

Khattab knelt by a crate and pried open the lid with a crowbar. Inside lay several Kalashnikov rifles wrapped carefully in oil paper, alongside a box filled with gleaming yellow cartridges—the latest shipment of Western arms. These supplies breathed new life into the rebels, who had been running dangerously low on ammunition and food.

"Thank Allah, our battle is not over yet," Khattab murmured, lifting a rifle. The faint smell of oil paper clung to the weapon. With a crisp click, he pulled back the bolt, the sound of steel striking steel ringing clear and sharp. The worn AKS-74U in his hand, battered and scarred, was discarded without hesitation in favor of the fresh weapon.

Basayev limped nearby, his left calf still a bloody mess from the last air raid—amputated just in time to save his life. He approached with a cane, his tone cautious but hopeful.

"How do these look, Khattab? They came through despite the blockades and encirclements. With these, we don't need to fear the Soviet tactics anymore."

Khattab smiled wryly. "Weapons are just tools. The bullets are the same caliber on both sides. The difference is in who's holding the gun." He carefully returned the rifles to the crate and ordered his men to secure them well.

The mountain trails near the Chechen border were treacherous and inaccessible to vehicles. Local donkeys remained the crucial means of transporting weapons and supplies through the crags and ravines.

Khattab pulled a blade of wild grass, twisted off the root, and chewed it—his substitute for cigarettes during these tense times.

"How's Maskhadov? Still refusing to cooperate?"

Basayev sighed and shrugged. "What choice does he have? He still resists working with us. His forces are scattered, but only his influence can rally them."

Maskhadov had once found refuge with Basayev, and the two had been close. But over time, their views diverged sharply. Maskhadov favored a guerrilla war within Chechnya to wear down the Soviets—much like the Afghan mujahideen had done. Basayev, however, advocated a far more extreme approach: bombings and terrorist attacks in major Soviet cities, aiming to break the enemy's will.

Their differences escalated until Basayev, intolerant of Maskhadov's opposition, slaughtered his guards in a coup and imprisoned the man himself, forcing him toward surrender.

"Too bad Maskhadov has no family we could use to pressure him. But with this new shipment, we're ready to move forward."

Khattab's expression was calm but cold as he spoke of the cruel plans ahead.

Last month, Chechen insurgents attempted to smuggle explosives disguised with sugar into Moscow. KGB agents intercepted the shipment, and in retaliation, the most ruthless Soviet department kidnapped all Chechens linked to the explosives—guilt irrelevant. Days later, charred bodies hung from trees, a gruesome warning to any who dared strike the Soviet capital.

To crush the extremists in Chechnya, Yanaev had told Kryuchkov bluntly: "If you kill me, I will kill your entire family." Until every last extremist was eliminated, no terrorist attack would be tolerated.

Nothing could withstand the iron fist of the communist dictatorship.

Khattab smiled darkly. "Our attack will strike on two fronts. On Victory Day, we'll detonate bombs in crowded places across major Soviet cities—and target the Sufi Kadyrov father and son. The panic will force them to negotiate."

He glanced at Basayev. "And the city we pick to ignite the first spark? North Ossetia. Political chaos reigns there now. The Soviets are too stretched to respond quickly. It will make headlines—and give us an opening."

Assassinating Kadyrov and his son proved far more challenging than previous operations. Their exact movements were shrouded in secrecy, tightly guarded by trusted aides. Unless they bribed someone close to the family, knowing their route was nearly impossible. The best method was clear: a roadside bomb.

"Leave Kadyrov's route to me," Basayev said with a sly smile. "One of my informants is close to him. You just prepare the explosives, Khattab."

He leaned in, voice low but confident. "I promise Kadyrov and his son won't survive. Everything will be arranged perfectly."

Khattab nodded, his eyes hard. "I hope the outcome matches both our expectations, Basayev."

Later, Khattab visited Maskhadov in his makeshift prison. The cell was little more than a crude shed, but dozens of guards surrounded it. Maskhadov looked through the barred window, his expression cold and unyielding.

"So, what now? I'm a prisoner, and yet you still look uneasy?"

Khattab shook his head. "I will only be at ease when I control those soldiers in your hands completely."

Maskhadov spat disdainfully. "Dream on. What's the matter? You can't succeed without my men? Listen, Khattab—I don't object if you want to die yourself, but if you drag my people down with you, I'll never agree."

Khattab chuckled darkly. "Just a few deaths. Nervous already? Give it a month. There will be a dramatic hostage crisis in the Soviet Union. Our Prime Minister Dudayev and others will be freed and return to fight with us."

Maskhadov shook his head, bitterness in his voice. "You really believe killing a few civilians will make the Soviet government surrender?"

The memories of Grozny haunted him—the massacre of Chechens and Wahhabis who laid down arms, doused in gasoline and burned alive. Soldiers executing prisoners on orders from political commissars who demanded no mercy. Official Soviet reports boasted that 3,000 entrenched rebels were wiped out—an annihilation not just of bodies, but of spirit.

Maskhadov's nights were plagued with nightmares of the cold, impassive face of the Soviet leader who had ordered it all. The single, chilling command echoing in his mind: crush their will to resist.

As Khattab turned to leave, Maskhadov's faint, trembling voice stopped him. It was soft but pierced like a dagger into his conscience.

"You're playing with fire, Khattab. You will regret it. If we provoke the tyrant in the Kremlin, all of us will die without even a grave."

Maskhadov's body shook—not from weakness but from the weight of hard-learned truth. He had once thought Stalin's cruelty was a legend exaggerated by history, but now he knew better. Yanaev's iron-fisted rule was a living nightmare.

Even more terrifying was how many blindly worshipped this ruthless leader, treating him like a god, much like Stalin before him.

Watching Khattab walk away, Maskhadov murmured to himself, "You're just a ruthless gangster, Khattab. The real red tyrant sits in Moscow."