When Yanayev announced his plan to sell a Kiev-class aircraft carrier to China at a symbolic price, the room fell into immediate disarray. Kryuchkov objected outright, insisting the Soviet Union should not resort to such tactics just to curry favor. Pavlov agreed, arguing that the Americans were merely trying to draw China into their orbit—and that Moscow shouldn't cheapen itself to win affection in return.
Only Yanayev remained calm, smiling quietly. You might be eager to give it away, he thought, but are they even willing to take it?
After the others had finished their protests, Yanayev finally spoke. "Has anyone here actually considered whether China would even want one of our decommissioned Kiev-class carriers? Do you really think I'd be so generous without a deeper motive?"
The room went silent. That wasn't what they'd expected.
"China is still fixated on domestic development," Yanayev continued. "They don't even have the infrastructure to maintain a full carrier battle group. If we handed them a Kiev-class carrier today, it would probably end up moored indefinitely, undergoing 'symbolic' repairs. And even if they eventually develop the economy to afford a fleet, do you really think they'll still be interested in a conventional carrier designed under 1970s saturation-strike doctrine? By then, they'll want a Nimitz-class or our own Ulyanovsk. So let's be realistic—even if we gave it to them for free, they might still hesitate to accept."
He had a point. China, at this stage, lacked both the economic bandwidth and strategic clarity to fully embrace sea power. It wasn't until the Taiwan Strait Crisis in 1996 that Beijing would begin seriously investing in a blue-water navy. Until then, they were unlikely to be tempted by a half-cruiser, half-carrier hybrid from a past era.
"No, this gesture isn't about earning goodwill," Yanayev said. "It's about delivering a message—one that reminds Beijing that the Soviet Union and China are not just neighbors, but strategic partners. If one of us stumbles, it's the Americans who'll be laughing. And to ensure they understand that clearly, I've decided to rename the vessel."
The carrier he had in mind was the Minsk. Historically, China purchased the Minsk and turned it into a theme park in Shenzhen. But this time, Yanayev had a different plan: sell it to China—at a token price—and rename it.
"The new name," he said, "will be Wu Shu. It has a distinctly Chinese flavor. In the Three Kingdoms era, Wei, Shu, and Wu coexisted in a fragile balance. To resist the dominant Wei, Wu and Shu formed an alliance. That's the message I want to send: unity in the face of a greater threat."
The metaphor wasn't lost on anyone in the room. It was a calculated, elegant gesture—similar to gifting a scroll or seal in imperial times, loaded with symbolism. How could Chinese leaders not grasp the intent?
Still, someone asked, "But what if China does accept the ship?"
"Then we just sell it," Yanayev replied casually. "The carrier's worthless in our hands. After our experiences with India and South Korea, what rich nation would still buy our old hardware? Saudi Arabia? They've no use for it. Maybe Argentina—if we gave them a huge discount—but after the Falklands, they can barely afford a fishing boat. We've already made back our investment from the earlier sales. The remaining carriers are just sitting around gathering rust."
The decision to offer the Minsk touched nerves across three continents.
China was flattered. Never before had a foreign power offered one of its national military assets at such a token price.
The United States was livid. "What are you doing, Soviet Union?" they barked. "India spent over $20 million for a British carrier that served 30 years, and you're handing yours off for $15 million? Are you trying to give them away?"
India, in response, simply said: "Let me drink a bowl of Ganges water and calm down."
Still, China had its doubts. While a second-hand carrier at $15 million was tempting, the costs of maintaining, operating, and escorting it were daunting. In an era where China's mantra was "economic development above all," it was hard to justify such naval expenses. And the Kiev wasn't even a true aircraft carrier—it was a hybrid, part cruiser, part carrier, and largely outdated. China hadn't even bought the Admiral Gorshkov yet, let alone something like this.
What intrigued them more was the name: Wu Shu.
Any Chinese with a grasp of history would recognize the symbolism immediately. This wasn't just about a ship. It was a message: In the face of American pressure, we either unite—or we fall separately.
The United States, naturally, couldn't sit still. They issued a formal protest, accusing the USSR of destabilizing the Asia-Pacific region. "First you sell a Kiev to India, then South Korea. Now you're giving one to China? You're deliberately provoking an arms race. You're undermining regional stability just to expand your own arms market."
The irony was too rich to ignore. Everyone could see the U.S. had no moral ground to stand on. Their own arms sales spanned every hotspot on the planet.
The Soviet Foreign Minister didn't hold back.
"Oh, please. You rednecks—spare us the sanctimony. Dare you say the CIA's not fueling the Bosnia conflict? That it hasn't propped up the Taliban? That the Colombian cartels became empires without CIA assistance? You're the ones destabilizing the world, and now you're accusing us of doing the same? Try growing a conscience."
The Soviet Union lodged a formal protest against the United States with passionate rhetoric, stating: "The noise on your side is too loud—I can't even hear what you're saying," adopting an unapologetically blunt tone that practically screamed, "I'm a gangster, and I'm proud of it."
As the diplomatic spat between the Soviet and American foreign ministries reached fever pitch, the long-silent Chinese side suddenly issued a measured yet carefully crafted response. The Foreign Ministry's spokesperson expressed gratitude for the Soviet Union's generosity, adding that China's economy was developing rapidly and, at this time, it had no pressing need for an aircraft carrier.
However, the spokesperson also emphasized that the relationship between China and the Soviet Union had advanced to a comprehensive strategic cooperative partnership—an upgrade from the earlier "strategic partnership" and currently the highest-ranking diplomatic term in China's lexicon. This relationship now covered broad dimensions including economic collaboration, political alignment, and military understanding. In terms of diplomatic intimacy, it was second only to China's all-weather friendship with Pakistan.
This statement brought a wave of relief to both superpowers. The United States was reassured that China hadn't accepted what it perceived as a "sugar-coated poison," while the Soviet Union was equally satisfied to have secured a public commitment—confirmation that, at least in general direction, the two nations would march in step.
But Yanayev's gambit was far from over.
If the aircraft carrier was the visible gift to China, then the concern it provoked in Washington was the real present—one wrapped in strategic ambiguity. Yanayev could only wonder whether his Chinese counterparts had picked up on his deeper intentions.
As expected, the United States began to panic.
To outsiders, it looked as if the Soviet Union had abandoned its Cold War ambition of global dominance and was now content to play second fiddle, like Britain to America. Washington's analysts scratched their heads. Why would Moscow act like a junior partner, propping up China at its own expense?
The conclusion they reached: Whatever the Soviet Union was trying to achieve must be stopped. If the USSR succeeded in turning China into a military ally, the geopolitical consequences would be severe.
Determined to swing the pendulum back, the United States dusted off a playbook it hadn't opened in years, reviving dormant military cooperation projects from the Sino-American honeymoon of the 1980s. This included technology transfers, joint exercises, and discreet arms sales.
What the Americans didn't realize was that they were falling right into Yanayev's trap.
His true intent was to gently guide Washington's top brass into competing for China's favor. By resuming military exchanges, the United States would unintentionally pave the way for China to modernize its armed forces, with American assistance.
"China," Yanayev thought silently, "you won't get many chances to take advantage of the Americans like this. Don't waste this one."