In history, the Gorshkov aircraft carrier had been sold due to an internal boiler explosion and severe funding shortages. But now, under General Secretary Yanaev's leadership, the decision to sell the Gorshkov came purely as a strategic move to free funds to support the construction of the navy's new-generation aircraft carrier, the Ulyanovsk.
Yanaev's first target was India. The Indian military had previously purchased large quantities of Soviet equipment, making them a reliable partner. This was not a matter of cheating the Indians—far from it—but simply capitalizing on India's pressing naval needs. The Indian Navy's current light aircraft carrier, the Viraat—formerly the British Hermes—had been in service since 1959. Purchased in 1986 as a Centaur-class light carrier from the UK, it was clearly aging.
Whether out of necessity or sheer budget capacity, India was willing to buy a carrier nearly 30 years old. Meanwhile, the Gorshkov, commissioned officially in 1987, was practically brand new. From any perspective, the Indian Navy had little reason to refuse such an offer.
Moreover, Yanaev was not seeking a windfall from the sale. The price for the Gorshkov would be deliberately modest. To make this happen, Chemezov, head of the Soviet arms export agency, personally visited Indian Defense Minister Kapoor as a lobbyist, bringing encouraging news.
"The Gorshkov will soon be combat-ready," Chemezov promised. "Paired with your Viraat, it will make India the undisputed overlord of the Indian Ocean. You and Australia are the only nations in this region with carriers, but the Melbourne cannot compare with our Gorshkov."
Kapoor was taken aback. "You're saying you plan to sell us the Gorshkov so soon after it entered service? And at a low price?"
Chemezov nodded with a wry smile. "You invited me to hear your thoughts. As you know, our country's economic struggles have forced us to reduce naval construction. Even the Gorshkov must be sold reluctantly at a fair price. This is our most conscientious offer."
The phrase "most conscientious price" made Kapoor's eyes gleam with hope, though Indians had learned to be wary whenever sellers used such language.
"What price are we talking about?" Kapoor asked eagerly, already imagining lobbying Congress for the funds.
"It won't exceed one billion US dollars," Chemezov replied carefully. "That's the upper limit. The exact figure will be finalized through negotiations. But we chose you first because we trust the strategic partnership between our nations."
"India is a rising power, and every great power needs a strong navy to protect its ocean interests. The Gorshkov will be your best choice. We hope to help strengthen our ally's military capabilities," Chemezov added earnestly.
Kapoor felt honored and embarrassed by such flattering words—as if not taking this offer would be a missed opportunity for the Indian Navy. Chemezov quickly sealed the deal: "We agree to the sale, but before signing, we want to send a delegation to inspect the Gorshkov. Once confirmed, we will proceed with the trade treaty."
As the Indian side stepped into the trap, Chemezov raised an eyebrow, quietly awaiting the next step. To be honest, he was somewhat depressed. Why would Yanaev agree to sell the Gorshkov at less than half the cost of building a new carrier? But the layers of trade restrictions revealed the real plan: the price was bait. The modifications afterward would be where the Soviets could recover—and then some.
The Gorshkov was a hybrid cruiser-carrier, designed mainly to carry short-range, vertical takeoff and landing fighters like the Yak-38. Its hangar space and aircraft capacity were limited. Yanaev counted on India's desire to significantly upgrade their new purchase.
Thus was hatched a bold plan: modify the Gorshkov by adding a ski-jump deck, widening the entire flight deck, and converting it into a smaller version of the Kuznetsov, capable of launching and landing MiG-29 fighters. India readily accepted this ambitious plan.
For Yanaev, the details didn't matter—as long as the money flowed in. Modern warships were complex systems where major structural changes could throw everything out of balance and create unforeseen problems. Even for incremental improvements, experience-based top-level design was key. Forcing the Gorshkov into a new role would inevitably generate a host of issues—and India would pay the price in headaches.
So, history repeated itself: India, perhaps naive or simply desperate, would end up tangled in complications after buying a second-hand aircraft carrier at a seemingly bargain price.
"There are still several conditions attached to the sale of the Gorshkov, Minister Kapoor." Sensing the timing was just right, Chemezov finally pulled out the real plan tucked beneath his briefcase—a set of "special terms" intended to reel the Indian Navy deeper in.
"One key condition is that the Gorshkov must be modernized here in the Soviet Union before delivery to the Indian military. We will refit it with a ski-jump deck and widen the flight deck significantly. After all, the Gorshkov is a second-generation Soviet carrier. What we propose is to convert it into a transitional platform—something between a second- and third-generation carrier—so that it can better serve your naval ambitions."
"You mean a ship comparable to the Kuznetsov-class?" Minister Kapoor's eyes lit up at the suggestion, as though Chemezov and his delegation had descended like saviors to rescue India's struggling naval modernization effort. The prospect of building a carrier fleet second only to the United States and the Soviet Union—this was the dream of many Indian strategists.
India had long styled itself as the world's third most powerful military force. Yet that claim had been humbled more than once by conflicts with adversaries who had a knack for toppling "third-strongest" pretenders. But when it came to navies, India was willing to spend—and spend big. Outside of North America and Europe, few countries could afford to throw billions at floating fortresses. In Soviet eyes, India was a cash-rich fool, generous and idealistic to a fault.
And the so-called "modernization" plan? Even the Soviets had no idea what structural issues this Frankenstein retrofit might cause. But what did that matter? As long as the Gorshkov sale went through, and the rubles came rolling in, no one in the Soviet Navy would lose sleep over what happened after delivery. If the Indians wanted to gamble, they were welcome to.
"In essence, what we're offering is a compact version of the Kuznetsov," Chemezov continued, layering his tone with faux sincerity. "The Kiev-class carrier's design is outdated. Selling it to you without upgrades would be irresponsible. Unethical, even."
The more earnestly he spoke, the more generous and magnanimous he sounded. And the more the Indian side was likely to fall for it.
"In that case," Kapoor asked, intrigued, "could you simply provide us with the design? We'll undertake the modifications ourselves."
"Certainly," Chemezov replied smoothly. "If you believe India is ready for a complex overhaul—deck widening, ski-jump installation, total rebalancing—we have no objections. But let me ask you this: Can India truly carry out such a sophisticated surgery on its own? What happens if you fail? Would you really want to tow home a half-broken warship at such a high price?"
The question landed with blunt force. Kapoor paused. He weighed the possibility of national embarrassment, or worse, failure—acquiring a billion-dollar lemon his naval engineers couldn't fix.
In the end, he conceded.
"Very well," Kapoor said at last, nodding slowly. "We accept your proposal."
With that, the two sides reached a tentative agreement. The final deal would be negotiated after the Indian delegation visited and inspected the Gorshkov in person.