Carrying the solemn task of restoring U.S.–China military cooperation, Sikorsky's delegation once again stepped onto Chinese soil. The last visit had left a bitter taste: China's military negotiators had played both the Americans and Soviets off each other, using psychological warfare to undercut pricing—and forcing Sikorsky to swallow substantial financial losses. Ever since, the company had held quiet resentment toward both the Chinese and the CIA.
Though Langley now promised that this was a clean deal—with no third-party interference—Sikorsky wasn't naïve enough to believe them. Still, they weren't in a position to make demands. This time, they'd have to feel out the waters with pricing, step by step. To their dismay, the Chinese side sent the same negotiator as last time: the infamous General Zhang.
The moment Zhang entered the room, the Sikorsky team straightened up, alert as if facing an apex predator. He greeted them in polished American English, as if to reassure them—"Don't be nervous, we're harmless." But everyone present knew: anyone who believed this "harmless" man would quickly learn the price of misplaced trust.
Before anyone could open talks on quantity or pricing, General Zhang leaned back in his chair and casually asked, "Do you recall the helicopter crash that happened in Nomhong Township in 1987? Investigation found that a tail rotor drive shaft failed due to a materials issue. Sikorsky ultimately compensated us with $3 million in aviation materials. Ring any bells?"
The Sikorsky delegation froze. They exchanged uneasy glances. "Yes," one of them replied cautiously. "We're aware of that incident. But Sikorsky stands by the reliability of our helicopters. We're confident nothing like that will happen again."
"Oh?" Zhang arched an eyebrow. "Because I remember you saying something similar after the crash. You insisted the failure was due to counterfeit components or operational misuse on our part."
The Sikorsky reps tensed. "Could you clarify your point, General? We'd appreciate it if we could speak plainly."
Zhang smiled. This was the moment he'd been waiting for. "Given that your materials aren't flawless, I have to ask: are you still planning to stand firm on pricing? Unless you can offer an unconditional guarantee against mechanical failure, we're only prepared to accept a price of $7 million per unit."
With the Soviet Mi-17 no longer in the running and China's enormous appetite for Black Hawks, Zhang knew he couldn't push the price too hard. Instead, he resorted to a mix of pressure and posturing. If your aircraft is truly the best, prove it. Otherwise, don't expect premium pricing.
Sikorsky, of course, couldn't offer a watertight guarantee—and didn't want to appear weak either. After a tense back-and-forth, they agreed to a modest concession: a $20,000 to $30,000 discount per unit. For an individual, it might be a fortune, but to Sikorsky, it was pocket change compared to the scale of the Black Hawk deal.
Then General Zhang played his real card.
"We're willing to proceed with the U.S. offer to purchase 40 Black Hawks. But if you agree to reduce the price by another $100,000 per unit, we'll increase the order to 60 aircraft."
Zhang understood well that bargaining chips could only be used once. Now he shifted tactics—tempting them with volume.
After a quick huddle, Sikorsky agreed. But they attached a caveat: the helicopters would come without full factory commissioning. Final setup would be handled in China.
Of course, by now the PLA had become deeply familiar with the Black Hawk platform. After eight years of hands-on use, they barely needed factory support. The deal closed in a surprisingly cordial atmosphere. Even the CIA operatives lurking nearby breathed a quiet sigh of relief. The American Embassy, acting as facilitator, would surely earn praise from President Mario.
But Sikorsky's job ended there.
The next phase belonged to Langley. CIA personnel discreetly reconnected with PLA military representatives, offering to return leftover components from the earlier "Peace Model" fighter project—equipment that had never been delivered. However, there was a price: China would have to sign a formal agreement with the United States and suspend certain areas of economic cooperation with the Soviet Union.
That proposal did not go over well.
One Chinese representative slammed the table. "You're threatening us—interfering in our internal affairs!"
Negotiations stalled. The U.S. team didn't push further. Instead, they left the offer hanging, saying, "Consider it carefully. You're risking advanced military systems for trade agreements that aren't even worth a fraction of what we're offering."
Beijing was caught in a bind—until an unexpected message arrived from Moscow.
The Soviet reply was simple: If you want to sign the deal, sign it. We don't care about your political calculations. We only want one thing—tell us what the Americans gave you.
When China mentioned Black Hawks and upgraded avionics systems, the Soviets perked up immediately. They expressed keen interest in purchasing one Black Hawk and an American avionics suite. More importantly, they proposed a joint helicopter development project with China—using the Black Hawk as a base to create a new high-altitude platform with superior performance.
China had access to the equipment, but lacked the advanced industrial base to reverse-engineer it alone. The Soviets, on the other hand, had robust aerospace capabilities but no pipeline to access U.S. tech.
And so, quietly, the two sides struck a deal—agreeing to digest American technology together, in secret.
A few days later, the Chinese military unexpectedly reached out to CIA officials, expressing eagerness to sign the contract and cooperate with the United States against the Soviet Union. The sudden shift caught the CIA off guard but delighted them—they moved quickly, promising that all weapons and equipment would be delivered to China within two weeks.
The Chinese side, however, made one condition clear: unless they received all the promised arms, their cooperation agreement with the Soviets would remain intact.
Little did the jubilant CIA officials realize that this was all a carefully orchestrated scheme—an elaborate ruse masterminded by China and the Soviet Union to deceive Washington and snatch away America's most advanced military secrets.
True to plan, two weeks later China obtained the highly sought-after avionics systems, along with two modified J-8 fighters, radar arrays, and cutting-edge torpedoes. In a public display, China unilaterally terminated several cooperation agreements with the Soviet Union, even threatening to pull all their scientific researchers and technicians out of joint projects.
The Soviet response was a muted protest, largely symbolic. Behind closed doors, however, the cooperation quietly continued—China had only promised to withdraw personnel, not to halt the work entirely.
Woolsey was ecstatic. He quickly reported to President Mario that, thanks to U.S. efforts, a significant crack had finally appeared in Sino-Soviet relations—and that their job now was to widen that crack until it split wide open.
Meanwhile, the Soviets had secretly received avionics systems and Black Hawk helicopters smuggled out by China, enabling them to make major breakthroughs in fighter jet electronic warfare capabilities. The two rivals were covertly cooperating, exchanging cutting-edge technology behind Washington's back.
At last, Yanaev's master plan was complete. First, he had used the Kiev-class aircraft carrier to bait the United States into a trap. Then, through the military deals between China and the U.S., he had successfully acquired America's most advanced tech—while keeping the Americans blissfully unaware of the deception.
China's role was clear: the sinister collaborator who used U.S. economic development to fuel its growth and the Soviet military-industrial complex to arm itself—playing both sides skillfully, all while America thought it was winning.