Finally, Park Soo-hoon, representing Daewoo Heavy Industries, completed the purchase of the Novorossiysk aircraft carrier—an over-ten-year-old warship—for $630 million, without even trying to negotiate the price down. Naturally, the Daewoo board erupted in outrage. But Park Soo-hoon had come prepared.
When he revealed the secret political funds provided by South Korean President Roh Tae-woo, the boardroom fell into stunned silence. They had just heard something they were never meant to hear. And Park's message was clear: if he was going down, he was taking everyone with him.
Daewoo's rise had always been closely tied to political favors—from the Ministry of Defense, all the way to the Blue House. None of the board members dared challenge Park now. Getting involved in this level of high-stakes statecraft would be corporate suicide. In the end, they swallowed the bitter pill in silence. Backing out now would only mean triggering a complete board reorganization under immense political pressure.
The news of South Korea's purchase of the Novorossiysk sent shockwaves through North Korea. As the South's old ideological rival, Pyongyang was furious. How could the leading socialist power—the Soviet Union, their supposed patron—sell an aircraft carrier to their greatest enemy? Worse yet, the deal had been concluded in secret, without even informing North Korea, let alone seeking their input. It was a humiliating slight.
North Korea had clearly overestimated its strategic importance. Nonetheless, the National Defense Commission lodged a formal protest with the Soviet embassy, condemning the arms deal in the strongest terms. They warned ominously that if Moscow didn't cancel the sale, the Korean People's Army would march south and flatten Seoul with a million soldiers.
It was the geopolitical equivalent of a toddler throwing a tantrum. No major power wanted to see the peninsula unified—certainly not by force. Another Korean War would be a nightmare. Both the Soviet Union and China preferred to maintain the uneasy status quo: a divided, tense, but relatively stable Korean Peninsula.
Yanaev instructed the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to issue a firm reply to Pyongyang. The message was blunt: if North Korea pursued reunification through military means, the Soviet Union would join with another regional power to impose coordinated political and military sanctions. It was a stark warning—a reminder to Pyongyang of who held the reins. North Korea would do well to stay in its lane.
As expected, North Korea backed down. The Kim regime of the 1990s wasn't yet the rogue state it would later become. They were still dependent on Soviet aid—dwindling though it was. While Moscow had scaled back its economic support, it still offered more than enough to keep the North afloat.
But on arms sales, Yanaev drew the line.
The days of free military assistance were over. If Pyongyang wanted Soviet weaponry, it would have to pay for it—up front.
Under pressure and out of options, the Chairman of the National Defense Commission reluctantly traveled to Moscow. This time, he arrived hat-in-hand, clearly intending to mend the rift. With contrition in every step, he was ushered into Yanaev's presidential office, where the Soviet leader was already waiting.
To Yanaev, the man before him wasn't the feared dictator mocked by foreign media. He was a desperate client, one prepared to pay.
"Please, have a seat, Kim Il Sung," Yanaev said politely. "It must've been a long journey from Pyongyang. You look tired."
He gestured to an aide to bring tea and waited patiently, knowing full well what would come next. All he needed was for Kim Il Sung to ask—and then he would make the North Koreans pay.
As expected, the first question was about the Novorossiysk.
"Is there any chance, that the Soviet Union could reverse the sale of the aircraft carrier to South Korea, for the sake of the North Korean people?"
Yanaev let out a theatrical sigh.
"In business," he said slowly, "our word is our bond. The deal is signed. The ship is gone. What would we look like, asking for it back?"
"Then… what if we offer to pay $100 million more than South Korea?", now clearly rattled. His obsession with matching the South's military advancements was overriding any financial realism.
"Absolutely not," Yanaev replied, blunt as ever. "You haven't even paid the balance from your last arms order. Why would we sell you a strategic asset like an aircraft carrier? At least the South Koreans had the decency to pay in full."
Everyone in the Soviet military-political establishment knew of Pyongyang's habit of defaulting on payments. Yanaev had no intention of falling into that trap again. There would be no more "brotherly socialist aid." Everything from here on out was strictly cash-and-carry.
Desperate, Kim Il Sung anxiously changed tactics.
"Then could you provide us with some anti-ship weapons? If this aircraft carrier reaches South Korea, the strategic balance on the Peninsula will be disrupted. The socialist camp will have lost one of its Great Walls."
Yanaev stared at him with narrowed eyes.
"There will be no aid either," he said coldly. "If you want missiles, you'll pay for them. We have a batch of Kh-29 air-to-ship missiles available now. They're effective, field-proven, and ready for export. Bring foreign exchange, and we'll sell them."
The Kh-29—also known by NATO as the AS-14 'Kedge'—was a precision air-to-ground missile from the 1970s, widely deployed in the 1980s. It was a reliable platform, compatible with many Soviet-made fighters.
The North Korean air force, meanwhile, was essentially a flying museum of MiG-21s, MiG-23s, a few MiG-29s, and a smattering of MiG-25s—a testament to the regime's obsession with the MiG series.
Yanaev knew that Pyongyang's best hope lay in upgrading those aging aircraft—and that if North Korea wanted even that much, it would have to come up with the money like any other buyer.
The days of Soviet charity were over.