Beslan Incident (4)

Perhaps the greatest mistake the terrorists made in seizing Beslan Middle School was neglecting to wear gas masks. Focused solely on securing the gymnasium and a few adjacent corridors and corners, the extremists left themselves vulnerable. It was all too easy for Alpha special forces to release a colorless, odorless anesthetic gas into the building through the ventilation system.

None of the militants, preoccupied with guarding the hostages, noticed the faint white wisps drifting from the ducts above. It wasn't until the children and adults collapsed, one by one, that they realized something was wrong. But by the time alarm spread, it was too late. They, too, fell to the cold floor, unconscious among the very people they threatened.

At that moment, Alpha and Vympel (Signal Flag) teams initiated their assault. Silenced Kalashnikov rifles in hand, they moved in tight formation down the school's narrow halls. One by one, they approached the enemy sentries.

A soft thud — a terrorist slumped silently to the ground as a crimson mist burst from his forehead. Before he collapsed completely, Alpha operatives caught his body and dragged it quietly into nearby bushes. On the opposite side, Signal Flag troops dispatched the remaining guards with combat knives. Then, in a synchronized two-pronged maneuver, both squads advanced toward the gym.

The night air was hushed, broken only by the light rustle of boots on grass. Snipers with Dragunov rifles kept watch from surrounding rooftops, eyes trained on the second-floor windows. Any movement — a barrel, a head, a twitch — was answered with immediate gunfire.

By this point, most of the terrorists in the gym were unconscious. The few upstairs had no idea what was unfolding below. Inside, Yanayevich was still buying time, but Colonel Yevloyev was running out of patience.

"You're playing games with me," Yevloyev growled, realizing something was amiss. He stormed to the desk, seized the phone, and hurled it at Yanayevich. Drawing his pistol, he aimed it at a shivering hostage. "From this second on, if I don't get confirmation that Dudayev's been released, I'll shoot one hostage every thirty seconds."

Glancing at his watch, he began counting down. "Fifty-nine… fifty-eight… fifty-seven…"

Outside, Alpha operatives quietly placed a hydraulic breaching charge — a "water bullet" — on the gym door. Ten members stacked up at the entrance, each with a hand on the shoulder of the one ahead. At the whispered signal, the charge detonated silently. The door burst open. Gas-masked special forces stormed inside, weapons raised.

They swept the room.

Terrorists and black widows, some still clinging to their weapons, were gunned down without hesitation. Shell casings rained on the floor like hail. There were no warnings, no arrests — only the cold fulfillment of Yanayev's orders: Leave no terrorists alive.

Apart from those hostages executed before the assault, everyone else was saved. Braving the still-uncleared upper floors, medical personnel rushed in, pulling children and adults to safety, battling the effects of the anesthetic gas.

There were no triumphant speeches. No medals. No grand declarations. Only Alpha's grim determination, Yanayevich's self-sacrifice, and the heroism of doctors who charged into hell to save the innocent.

The Soviet Union's strength was not just in tanks and missiles, but in men and women willing to stand at the edge of death for their people — with no glory, no hesitation, and no promise of return.

But it wasn't over.

Upstairs, ten hostages remained. Alpha and Signal Flag units now crept toward the second floor.

"Eighteen seconds… sixteen…" Yevloyev's countdown resumed. He pointed his pistol at a child's head. But just as he opened his mouth, the sharp crack of a suppressed Kalashnikov echoed beyond the door.

"They're storming in," Yevloyev spat. "You—go help them!"

Two of his last men — faces hidden behind white Arab scarves — nodded and rushed out with their rifles.

Yevloyev snatched up his walkie-talkie. "Black Widow! Detonate your vest!" he barked.

But there was no reply.

No static. No click. Just silence.

Yevloyev froze. His hand slackened. For the first time, the situation was no longer in his control.

In that instant, Yanayevich — who'd been seated the whole time — lunged. He grabbed Yevloyev's wrist, shoved the pistol upward, then twisted it toward the ceiling. Using the surprise to his advantage, Yanayevich wrapped his finger around the trigger and squeezed.

Gunfire tore through the room. Hostages dropped to the floor in panic. Yanayevich emptied the magazine into the ceiling and wall, using every ounce of strength in a desperate fight.

Then silence.

Yanayevich collapsed, leg bleeding from a stray bullet. He crawled backward, inch by inch. Yevloyev tossed aside his now-empty pistol, drew a gleaming combat knife, and advanced.

"None of you are leaving alive!" he roared. "You'll all die for Allah! The infidels will perish, one by one!"

The blade touched Yanayevich's throat. It began slicing slowly, a thin line of blood rising to the surface.

"You won't die quickly," Yevloyev sneered. "I'll cut your throat first, let you bleed drop by drop. Allahu Akbar!"

Just as the knife began to bite deeper—

BOOM.

The door exploded inward.

A PPK pistol in hand, an Alpha commando scanned the room, eyes locking on Yevloyev. In less than a second, he fired — the bullet struck Yevloyev's arm, forcing him to drop the blade. Yanayevich kicked the weapon aside. More Alpha troops poured in, surrounding Yevloyev, firing two more shots — one to each leg.

Four guns trained on his head. The final hostages were rushed out. The last of the terrorists were eliminated.

Panting on the floor, Yevloyev looked up at Yanayevich. "You think this ends here?" he rasped. "It's just beginning. Our jihad will never end. Moscow, Stalingrad, Leningrad — every city will burn in Allah's wrath!"

Yanayevich stared at him, bloodied but defiant.

"You should worry about yourself, Yevloyev," he said calmly. "You'll find out soon enough what the KGB does to people like you. Honestly? You'll wish you'd died here."

The word KGB hit like a bullet.

Once feared across the world, now operating in the shadows, the KGB had not disappeared — it had simply gone quiet, waiting. Watching. Remembered by those who truly understood power — not as an agency, but a force of reckoning.

Yevloyev, now trembling, realized the truth: the war machine of faith was nothing next to the steel resolve of a state that never forgets.