Woolsey may have overlooked one critical fact: China's market economy was never as open as he imagined. The precondition for launching a successful financial offensive—like what the U.S. did to Japan in the late 1980s—is the presence of a massive economic bubble. Japan's soaring growth in real estate and stocks between the 1960s and 1980s had created exactly that kind of vulnerability, ripe for bursting with a single, well-placed pin. China, on the other hand, kept a tighter grip on its capital markets.
This was why China remained largely unscathed during the 1998 financial crisis that ravaged Asia. While the storm disrupted the explosive growth across the region and plunged some major economies into stagnation, China's steady and tightly controlled model allowed it to quietly ascend the throne as Asia's most dynamic and resilient economic power.
Of course, Woolsey couldn't foresee any of this. But Yanayev—who had lived through cycles of collapse and recovery—kept the memory of that global financial quake close to heart. Now, in the waning days of 1992, the Soviet bear was not dead—it was merely hibernating, gathering its strength in the deep winter. When spring returned, it would stretch its claws again and remind the world why it once trembled at the sound of its roar.
In a quiet, dimly lit conference room on the third floor of the Kremlin Senate, Yanayev sat down with Pavlov, Kryuchkov, and the newly appointed Chairman of the Council of Ministers, Ryzhkov. This modest space, though small, was where the titans of the Soviet hierarchy met behind closed doors to make decisions that would shake continents.
Yanayev stood by the window. In Moscow, winter always came early. He spent half the year gazing through thick panes of glass at the snow-covered city, watching crowds shuffle through the cold beneath gray skies. On the nearby oak table lay an intelligence report summarizing the latest political trends—highlighting the so-called "Dragon-Snake Theory" that cast the Soviet Union as a monstrous red dragon.
"They really went biblical with this one," Yanayev scoffed, flipping through the report. "In Chapter 12 of Revelation, the red dragon is literally Satan. That's how far the West is willing to go to smear us. Religious metaphors now? They think if they kill the dragon, nothing can stop America's rise. France thought that when it overran Europe. So did the Romans. But history doesn't bend to ambition. The United States is just another stone trying to block a rising tide."
"They may have backed off from direct confrontation," he added, his voice low and measured, "but make no mistake—they're drawing a noose around us. This isn't retreat. It's repositioning."
"The Americans are getting smarter," Pavlov said, tracing a line across a map on the table. "They've stopped acting alone and started rallying allies. Just look—Finland, Poland, Turkey, Afghanistan, China. They're stitching together an encirclement. If they hadn't failed to flip Ukraine, Georgia, or Kazakhstan, we'd already be completely boxed in."
"Still," Yanayev said with a faint smile, "credit where it's due. That last CIA director accidentally helped us in the long run. Their failed infiltration gave us the perfect excuse to clamp down."
He studied the map more closely—not just the shapes of borders and terrain, but the outlines of shifting loyalties. Each country had become a piece on a geopolitical chessboard. And the game was accelerating.
"Poland and Finland used to be neutral neighbors," he said, "but now they're part of the American sphere—openly suspicious, even hostile. Turkey? They haven't made their move yet, but they will. They're the knife in our back waiting for the order to strike."
"Ever since the Afghan war, that territory's been no man's land," Kryuchkov added. "But the CIA won't let it stay that way. They'll turn it into a breeding ground for terrorists and insurgents if it suits them."
Yanayev nodded slowly. "And China—the one opening we worked so hard to create—now risks being swallowed up by American diplomacy. The Chinese aren't fools. They know who their neighbors are. If they ever do point their guns at us for America's sake, we'll take the damage while the U.S. watches safely from across the ocean."
After laying it all out, a bitter truth emerged. The Soviet Union wasn't under siege from within anymore—but from without. Old allies had turned, and the few remaining friends either stayed silent or watched with folded arms when support was needed most.
That was Yanayev's frustration—and the Soviet Union's tragedy.
Ironically, this frustration brought comfort to a more radical camp within the Soviet elite. These weren't traitors, but hardliners—true believers nostalgic for Yanayev's earlier, thunderous days. They wanted the Soviet Union to strike fear again, even to the point of brandishing nuclear threats. They had once cheered his iron-fisted methods and now grumbled at the softer, economy-first path he pursued.
Their voices were growing louder, and their agitation more dangerous. To them, restraint was betrayal.
And to Yanayev, they were becoming a threat he couldn't ignore.
"Now is a critical moment for economic development. We can't abandon our policy of prioritizing economic growth just because the international political climate is unstable. That would be dangerous." Ryzhkov's stance was firm. He opposed those in the leadership who argued that the country should confront external threats before stabilizing domestically. For him, the only way to secure long-term strength was by first building a strong economy. That was why he worked tirelessly to suppress rising calls inside the Soviet Union that hyped foreign threats as a pretext for confrontation.
The informal meeting convened by Yanayev wasn't just about policy—it was symbolic. It was his way of making clear to the highest levels of leadership that no one had the authority to challenge his decisions. The upper ranks of the party were not to be swayed by reactionary pressure or ideological zealotry. He wanted no sympathizers among them for this growing radical current.
"The Soviet Union is already dangerous enough," Yanayev said, rubbing his temples, frustration clear in his voice. "We can't afford to allow comrades with even more dangerous ideas to rise in our ranks."
He had just gone through the grueling process of purging the so-called democratic faction. The last thing he wanted now was to deal with a new group of radicals—Trotskyist hardliners armed with violent slogans and romanticized revolutions. Their obsession with exporting communism by force was a path he considered thoroughly discredited.
Yanayev would not allow extremes on either side—neither liberal idealism nor hardline fanaticism. In his mind, the correct course for the Soviet Union was a balanced, stable political center focused squarely on economic progress. Everything—everything—must serve the people and serve the development of the Soviet economy. He was convinced that the old strategy of exporting armed revolution abroad had not only failed but had deeply damaged the USSR's standing.
"It would be best," Yanayev continued, "if we issued a red-letter directive to the whole Party—reminding comrades what real socialism is. It's not about destroying lives through violence or indulging in mass brainwashing. That's not socialism—that's fanaticism. And how is that any different from the darkest caricature of communism our enemies love to portray?"
"I understand," Pavlov replied. Naturally, the task of drafting and implementing such a directive would fall to the Prime Minister. Yanayev's role was to lay out strategic direction, to guide the broader compass of the Party. But of course, when Yanayev deemed something important enough, he would push it through regardless of opposition, and more often than not, those bold decisions paid off.
"Let's return to the earlier topic," Yanayev said, shifting in his seat. "Maybe we can afford to ignore attempts by other nations to isolate us. But China—China is different. That's a key piece on the board. We have to care whether the Americans succeed in winning them over."
That thought made Yanayev uneasy. He had once believed that deepening economic cooperation with China—even offering compromises along the border—would be enough to form a mutually beneficial strategic alignment, if not a full alliance.
But with the U.S. now intervening behind the scenes, he feared a repeat of the Khrushchev-era failure, when poor diplomacy and ideological rigidity pushed China away. He wasn't about to make the same mistake twice. He needed to act boldly—at least to remind Beijing that the Soviet Union could still be its most valuable partner.
"One of the two remaining Kiev-class aircraft carriers," Yanayev said slowly, "will be sold to China... at a symbolic price."
The silence in the room was immediate and deafening. Even the senior members of the Committee looked visibly stunned.
No one had expected this.