As expected, the Ministry of Defense officials who had accepted "gifts" from the Soviet delegation quickly became the USSR's most loyal "communist advocates" inside New Delhi. They pitched the Gorshkov deal to Defense Minister Kapoor with an almost zealous fervor, acting more like Soviet lobbyists than Indian civil servants.
"The Indian Navy lacks strength—it must have a Kiev-class carrier," they insisted."The global price of aircraft carriers is rising. Getting the Gorshkov now will save us millions!""There's nothing a Kiev-class can't handle—and if there is, just use two!"
Their slogans were bold and bombastic, painting the acquisition of the Gorshkov as a panacea for all the Navy's woes. The way they talked, one would think the Indian Navy, armed with a refurbished Soviet carrier, could swagger through the Indian Ocean unchallenged.
Defense Minister Kapoor, after reviewing the Soviet proposal himself, found it difficult to argue. Purchasing an upgraded Kuznetsov-class for less than the cost of a new Kiev-class? It sounded like a bargain. Yes, the acquisition might seem excessive right now—but without a replacement, India's aging carriers were on borrowed time. Without one, could India still claim dominance over the Indian Ocean? Could it still dream of becoming a global power?
Unlikely.
Convinced, Kapoor dispatched Prakash once again to Moscow as the lead negotiator. Unlike last time, however, Kapoor chose to stay behind. Perhaps his memories of the last vodka-soaked visit still haunted him. This time, he left Prakash to handle the flames alone.
The Soviet Navy, aware of the stakes, approached the second round of negotiations with utmost seriousness. They knew that a billion-dollar contract was worth far more than a bottle of vodka. No pranks, no drinks—just business.
Representing the Soviets was General Sergeyev, the legendary naval commander and "father" of the Kiev-class carrier. No one in the USSR knew more about these ships than he did. A seasoned orator, Sergeyev regarded Indian objections much like one might view the tantrums of a toddler: noisy, but harmless.
When the general arrived—his uniform gleaming with rows of medals—his imposing presence instantly silenced the previously cheerful Indian delegates.
"This is the modernization plan for the Gorshkov," Sergeyev began coolly, sliding the thick document forward. "I'm certain everyone here has reviewed it. The pricing breakdown is at the end. If there are no questions, we can proceed directly to signing the contract."
The Indian delegation froze. This wasn't negotiation—it was an ambush.
Flipping to the final page, the Indians saw the purchase price: $500 million. Their eyes widened. It seemed too good to be true—a full-sized aircraft carrier for half a billion dollars. But as they continued reading, their optimism quickly soured.
Below the sale price was the cost of modernization: $1.56 billion.
Real U.S. dollars. Not rubles. Not some ambiguous future estimate. Cold, hard cash.
Prakash blinked, stunned. His voice wavered as he asked, "Is there a mistake, General? The modernization of the Gorshkov costs $1.56 billion? For just a retrofit?"
His question made Sergeyev chuckle.
"Staff Officer Prakash," the general replied, "do you know what's involved in transforming a Kiev-class carrier into a modern flat-top? We're not laying rail lines across India. We're tearing open and rebuilding the heart of a warship."
"Widening the flight deck, adding a ski-jump ramp, reinforcing the hull—it's not just retrofitting. It's a complete structural overhaul. The flight deck is the soul of the carrier. Altering it means reengineering everything around it. And $1.56 billion is already a generous price."
Sergeyev paused, then added with a smirk, "If you think that's too expensive, perhaps you'd prefer to go shopping in the United States or the United Kingdom. But I doubt you'll find a similar ship under $2 billion—if they're even willing to sell. So ask yourself: is $2.06 billion too much for a fully modern Kuznetsov-class?"
Indeed, the Nimitz-class carriers in the U.S. cost well over $2 billion apiece—and that's before factoring in maintenance, escorts, and aircraft.
Prakash bit his lip. When put that way, it didn't seem unreasonable. And realistically, even if India wanted to buy from the West, no country was likely to sell such strategic assets.
Still, he protested faintly, "But the total price is too high. Our ministry wasn't prepared for a $2 billion budget. We thought a billion would suffice."
Sergeyev gave a nonchalant shrug. "Then perhaps you should reconsider your naval priorities. For instance, if you scale back leasing Soviet nuclear submarines, you'll have more money for carriers."
He let the implication hang.
"But of course," Sergeyev added casually, "we can't guarantee that we'll lease any more submarines to you in the future. That's entirely your call."
It was a pointed reminder.
India had leased the Chakra—a Type 670 nuclear cruise missile submarine—from the USSR in 1985. During that lease, India had trained its first nuclear-sub crew and studied much of the vessel (except its reactor). That single lease had jump-started India's domestic submarine program.
If the Soviets now refused to lease another, it would effectively cripple India's nuclear sub ambitions. Turning to the U.S. might be an option—but it would require starting all over again. Years of research would be wasted.
Prakash sat silently, the weight of Sergeyev's words settling over him like lead.
It was a masterclass in pressure politics. And Sergeyev knew it. The Soviet general sat back calmly, watching the Indians calculate in silence.
The deal was theirs—if they were willing to pay the price.
Faced with the Soviet Union's thinly veiled threat, the Indian delegation showed clear signs of hesitation. Prakash, silent for a long moment, finally responded with caution.
"I can't make this decision on my own," he said evenly. "I'll need to report everything to the Ministry of Defense before we proceed."
Sergeyev gave a polite nod. "Of course. But regarding the refit, I should mention—our quoted price isn't entirely inflexible. We're willing to reduce it by $100 million."
Prakash's eyes narrowed slightly. "What's the condition?"
"You'll have to handle the commissioning process yourselves," Sergeyev said. "No final trials from us, no Soviet oversight for the handoff. That's where the cost savings come from. The ship will be delivered 'as is,' post-modernization. You'll conduct your own certification."
A flicker of interest crossed Prakash's face. For a brief moment, he looked intrigued—but he masked it quickly, nodding as though merely acknowledging a footnote.
"I'll include that in my report," he said, slipping the documents into his briefcase.
"Excellent. Then I look forward to hearing from you soon." Sergeyev stood and offered a firm handshake before escorting the Indian delegation out of the conference room. He had already arranged a car to return them to their hotel for internal deliberations—and, eventually, the next round of talks.
As soon as the Indians were out of sight, a familiar figure stepped from the shadows.
It was Defense Minister Yazov.
He had deliberately remained behind the scenes during the negotiation but had observed everything from a secure office nearby. Now, with the delegation gone, he stepped in to gauge Sergeyev's assessment firsthand.
"Well?" Yazov asked. "What do you think?"
Sergeyev's reply was quiet, confident. "They'll agree. They have no other option."
He didn't bother to elaborate. Yazov waited, and Sergeyev finally continued.
"Let's be honest—who else is going to sell them a carrier? The Americans? They won't even let India buy aircraft with integrated nuclear delivery systems, let alone a Nimitz-class. And even if the U.S. was willing, could India afford it?"
He gave Yazov a pointed look.
"More importantly, India has to weigh the political cost of walking away from us. This deal is tied into years of defense cooperation—equipment, training, submarines, licensing. If they back out now, they risk undermining all of it. The Indian Navy isn't stupid—they're locked into this pipeline. And we both know it."
Yazov gave a short laugh. "You've dissected them perfectly."
He paused, then added more soberly, "Though I still feel a bit bad for Prakash. He looks like a man being strangled slowly, but politely."
Sergeyev was unmoved.
"Don't waste sympathy on them, Comrade Yazov. They'll get their aircraft carrier—and they'll be heroes when they return to Delhi. They just need to convince the Ministry of Defense to sign the check. It's not their money anyway—it's the state's. And if it bankrupts their future naval budget, do you really think they care?"
Yazov nodded slowly.
"Then I suppose it's just as the General Secretary said," he murmured, half to himself. "'Kindness to the Indians is cruelty to our military industry.'"
Sergeyev smirked. "Exactly. And frankly, they've been so eager and willing that I see no need to play coy about the price anymore."
He lit a cigarette, the match flare briefly illuminating the iron calm on his face.
"If anything, we've been too generous."