As expected, upon receiving the delegation's report, India's Ministry of Defense wasted little time. A quick round of meetings later, they formally approved the $1.56 billion modernization plan for the Gorshkov aircraft carrier. However, Defense Secretary Kapoor instructed the delegation to push for cost reductions wherever possible. His directive was clear: "Try to shave off whatever you can. Get the ship refitted for less."
With that mandate, the Indian delegation returned to the negotiation table. What followed was a round of intense, almost combative bargaining with General Sergeyev. They argued for further discounts, invoking India's loyalty, long-standing ties, and promises of future military cooperation.
Sergeyev listened patiently before cutting through the noise.
"Gentlemen," he said firmly, raising his hand, "enough."
The room fell into an uneasy silence.
"I understand your position," Sergeyev continued, "and yes, the Soviet Union can reduce the price."
For a moment, the Indian delegation looked shocked—pleased, even. But that quickly turned to irritation. Their faces darkened.
Why now? Why had Sergeyev been stonewalling them earlier? Did he think they were that easy to manipulate?
But Sergeyev was unfazed. He leaned forward, his tone cold and deliberate.
"We can drop the price," he repeated. "We'll just lay the flight deck with the cheapest steel we can find. We'll use subpar insulation in the boilers. We'll fit the arrestor cables with outdated technology. We can finish your Gorshkov for a billion dollars. Maybe less. But the question is—would you dare sail that ship into the open sea?"
The room froze.
"No? I didn't think so. Because you're not buying a parade float. You're buying a frontline warship. Do you know what happens if your deck fails during landing? Or your radar goes blind in a storm? You lose jets. You lose pilots. You become a cautionary tale in global naval history."
No one responded. Every word hit home. Sergeyev had exposed the uncomfortable truth.
"Better to pay more now," he added, "than pay in blood later."
He let that hang in the air before continuing.
"The only thing we're willing to cut is commissioning. You'll test and certify the carrier yourself. We'll build it. You break it in."
There was no room left for bargaining.
Cornered by material costs and Soviet resolve, the Indian delegation finally agreed to the revised offer of $1.46 billion. Payment would be made in phases—20% as a reservation fee, and the remainder once hull construction reached 70% completion.
They'd later regret that decision. They'd regret not conducting a deeper evaluation of the systems. And they'd certainly regret the technical problems that would plague the carrier for years. But for now, the deal was done.
India had just paid a fortune for the privilege of being sold—and was already counting the money on the seller's behalf.
With the ink barely dry, new players entered the picture. Representatives from the Mikoyan-Gurevich Design Bureau joined the conversation, eager to offer the perfect complement to the Gorshkov.
"A dedicated MiG-29 carrier variant—custom-built for India," said Granovich, the bureau's lead envoy, as he handed Prakash a sleek folder of technical schematics.
"A customized version?" Prakash asked, intrigued.
"Yes. A special edition of the MiG-29K, adapted for your navy. No other country will receive this configuration—India-exclusive."
Prakash's eyes brightened. The idea of deploying a proprietary naval fighter was a prestige move. He flipped through the packet as Granovich explained further.
"The MiG-29K program already has a mature airframe," Granovich said. "We had two prototypes developed back in the '80s. But in 1991, development halted after the Russian Navy prioritized the Su-27K. The MiG lost state funding. These jets have been grounded ever since—sealed and preserved."
In truth, the MiG-29K had been a casualty of shifting doctrine. Though technically capable, it was deemed to have insufficient range for Soviet fleet protection. But the Indian Navy had different strategic goals—and Mikoyan hoped this divergence would revive the program.
"The first prototype flew on June 23, 1988. Arrested landings began on the Kuznetsov on November 1, 1989. A few days later, we completed our first ski-jump takeoff. The second prototype—airframe 312—was our first full-spec production model. It flew in September 1990. The data is all here."
Granovich laid out technical documents and flight test records. "The MiG-29K uses 15% composite materials by mass. To fix stability issues in carrier landings, we added larger double-slotted flaps. Leading edge flap deflection went from 20 to 30 degrees. There's also a rectangular vortex generator on the wing slats—adds lift, stabilizes roll. It's a major improvement."
He slid one final data sheet across the table.
"The aircraft carries the N010 'Beetle' pulse-Doppler radar and can be outfitted with a full suite of anti-ship and anti-radar missiles. We've already demonstrated the Kh-31A and R-73 series in flight. If India agrees to production, we'll modernize the avionics and weapons integration to your specifications."
Prakash tapped the flight performance chart thoughtfully.
"Why are you offering this now?" he asked.
Granovich smiled faintly. "Because we believe this aircraft—paired with the Gorshkov—can define your navy's next generation. And frankly, we need a partner. India is the only country with both the ambition and the operational doctrine that matches what we built this aircraft for."
It was a bold pitch. But Prakash, and the Indian Navy, were listening.
The MiG-29K is powered by two RD-33MK "Sea Wasp" turbofan engines, each producing 88.2 kilonewtons of thrust. Compared to the earlier RD-33, the Sea Wasp features a redesigned fan, increasing airflow by 65%. The turbine inlet temperature has been raised by 40 degrees Celsius, and afterburner thrust has improved by an additional 6.86 kilonewtons.
"This version also includes a smokeless combustion chamber," Granovich continued, gesturing confidently toward a schematic, "which eliminates the telltale smoke trail when the afterburner is off. And, more importantly, we've replaced the old analog and hydraulic flight control systems with a full-authority digital electronic control system. The result is more precise engine management and greatly improved pilot interface."
Fuel capacity was also upgraded. The MiG-29K boasts a 49% increase in internal fuel storage compared to the baseline MiG-29. Additionally, it can carry a 2,150-liter auxiliary drop tank on its centerline and 1,150-liter tanks under each wing. In buddy refueling configurations, up to four underwing tanks can be mounted, and a centerline refueling pod can be added to transfer fuel to other aircraft—an essential capability for blue-water carrier operations.
Granovich paused, watching the faces of the Indian delegates carefully. He noted the slight widening of their eyes, the shared glance between officers. He allowed himself a quiet breath of relief.
The hook was in.
He pressed on.
"Currently, the Soviet Navy has no plans to export the Su-33," he said with measured emphasis. "Which leaves you with two practical options for carrier aviation: the outdated Yak-38 or our MiG-29K. The Yak-141, though promising on paper, is still in the testing phase and has no confirmed production timeline."
His voice dropped slightly, becoming more persuasive.
"Even if the Yak-141 becomes operational, adapting it for the Gorshkov would require major structural changes. Meanwhile, the MiG-29K is fully compatible—already tested, already proven. In contrast, the Yak-38 has a troubling history of reliability issues, and frankly, lacks the range and payload of a true multirole platform."
This wasn't just a sales pitch—it was a calculated strike at the Indian Navy's biggest headache. Everyone in the room knew that buying a carrier was only half the equation. Without a reliable carrier-based aircraft, the Gorshkov would become a $1.5 billion floating liability.
The MiG-29K, on the other hand, seemed like a miracle solution.
That's why the Mikoyan Design Bureau had come prepared—and confident.
"We've tailored this aircraft to your operational needs," Granovich concluded. "It's built for multirole combat—air superiority, fleet defense, and strike missions. And it's ready for production now."
The Indian delegation remained silent, but the mood had shifted. What began as a polite technical briefing now felt like a breakthrough. They weren't just interested—they were intrigued.
Seeing the opening, Granovich reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a set of cards.
"This is my direct contact," he said, handing them out respectfully. "Please don't hesitate to reach out if you have further questions. I'll leave you now, to allow you time to discuss among yourselves."
With a slight bow, he turned and exited the room.
He was just the first.
Other representatives would follow—engineers, analysts, even military attachés—quietly building relationships with key figures in India's defense ministry. Some would appear at official briefings, others in more casual settings. Together, they would reinforce the image of the MiG-29K as the only logical choice for India's carrier aviation future.
Even if the Indian Navy passed on the proposal today, they would remember the aircraft.
They would remember that the MiG-29K was reliable. Adaptable. Ready. And Soviet-made.
That impression alone was worth more than any contract.
Now, all that remained was to wait.
The bait was in the water. The line was tight.
It was only a matter of time before India took the hook.