Berlin Arms Exhibition

Yanayev basked in the sound of applause, satisfaction radiating from him. This was exactly the effect he sought — to bind the people's hearts firmly together. After the chaos caused by those two fools, Brezhnev and Gorbachev, the Soviet Union's greatest deficiency was the power to unify its people.

"Look, I am saving you, great Soviet Union. Even if those damn intellectuals misunderstand and call me a dictator, I am the one who rescues you from decline." Yanayev pressed a hand over the sickle and hammer medal on his chest, a pang of sorrow hitting him. Thanks to his efforts, the emblem of socialism still held, but the revolutionary flame had shrunk to a flicker, close to extinguishing.

Five Soviet prisoners of war stood in line, awaiting medals Yanayev personally awarded. As each passed, Yanayev patted their shoulders and embraced them warmly in encouragement. Finally, he saluted before these men who had suffered so much.

"The motherland is sorry for you. I stand here to apologize on behalf of a government that has forgotten you."

A hush fell over the crowd. Even the reporters were unsure how to capture this moment. The Soviet government — always proud, wise, and infallible — had revealed unexpected humility. How would tomorrow's headlines frame this?

"Soviet policies are not flawless. Challenges arise as we develop. But challenges are not the real danger. The true threat is hiding our mistakes, making problems worse. That we cannot allow. So please accept this belated apology, these five forgotten soldiers. Your honor may have been delayed, but it will never be denied."

Yanayev's voice rang steady and strong, carried across the grounds by loudspeakers. After a moment of stillness, the crowd erupted in thunderous applause. Card's eyes glistened with tears. He glanced at his colleagues, all joining in the warm ovation.

"Long live the Soviets!""Long live socialism!""Long live great communism!"

No one knew who started it, but cheers and slogans soared, briefly drowning out the roar of passing planes. The people around the Supreme General Secretary gave him their fullest support.

1991, Berlin Arms Exhibition.

The Gazelle helicopter, a violent masterpiece with 24 rocket pods, faced off against the American UH1 helicopter, armed with four 7.62mm M134 machine guns—two products born from the arms race, pointing their weapons at each other.

In front stood a T72 tank, clad in composite armor, looming opposite the Merkava main battle tank and the M60 tank, ready to crush whatever came their way. A rugged MiG-21 fighter jet sat parked nearby, its export version of the R33 air-to-air missile drawing the eyes of arms dealers from many nations, amazed by the deadly hardware.

Here, no UN arms restrictions applied, no peace groups protested, and all deals were free and clear. The exhibition was run by the five permanent members of the UN Security Council, who controlled global arms trade behind the scenes. Those countries preaching righteousness often fueled genocide and regional conflicts.

This international arms show was a paradise, a private club for arms dealers' dreams. Before the Cold War ended, most deals were government-to-government. Arms sales representatives, many lifelong chairmen, served as minions for their countries. Their iron rule was simple: never sell to your country's enemies.

Among the crowd, a man with messy hair wandered through the exhibition. He didn't look like a typical arms dealer or buyer—more like a curious idler inspecting the deadly machines.

Those who knew him recognized Victor Bout, a rising star in arms dealing. From obscurity, he had swiftly become an international arms merchant, demonstrating rare sales talent. Representing a new Soviet arms export company, he closed a deal worth $980 million in under a month, smashing previous records.

More terrifying was his client list — he dealt with almost anyone who could pay, from Colombians to Islamic extremists, sitting happily at the same table with them. Victor's rule was simple: if you're not the Soviet Union's enemy, he didn't care whose blood was on your hands.

This aggressive "interest balance spoiler" kept a low profile. No one truly knew his identity. Some called him the Merchant of Death.

Victor came to the Berlin Arms Exhibition not to hunt clients but to shadow the Soviet delegation and learn. Yanayev forbade him from meddling in official transactions; Chemezov mediated government deals. Yanayev had told Victor that his talents were better used in black and gray markets than wasting effort on formal deals with known outcomes.

Suddenly, a man with slick hair stopped by Victor, holding a brochure and enthusiastically pitching his company's products.

"Sir, I represent the International Missile Defense Corporation. Interested in our SAM-7 surface-to-air missiles? They're outdated Chinese copies — no match for modern fighters, but plenty effective against commercial airliners."

Victor's lack of interest was clear. The salesman shifted tactics: "Only $850 each — practically a giveaway."

Victor grew impatient. "No thanks. I don't buy outdated junk. Please move along." Then he pointed to the Indian delegation, clad in white hoods nearby. "Maybe try selling it to them. I supply the Indian Army with SA19 Gustunga air defense missiles — lightyears ahead of your decades-old stuff."

"That guy's weird," the frustrated salesman muttered, rolling his eyes and ignoring Victor.

Looking around, Victor noticed the arms exhibitors split into two camps: a circle of American company dealers on one side, and the Soviet delegation led by Chemezov on the other — NATO's war machines on the left, socialist weapons on the right.

Some fence-sitters lingered in between. Victor aimed to win them over, such as the Mozambique representative still browsing. Reviewing his Portuguese silently, Victor approached.

"Hey, my friend, how are you?" Victor greeted warmly.

The delegate was puzzled but shook his hand politely. "Do I know you?"

"Has our great socialist ally forgotten its Soviet brother?" Victor smiled politely but sincerely.

"Are you with the Soviet delegation?" The Mozambican brightened, surprised by the Russian's initiative. The US had long disliked Mozambique for its low weapons purchases and refused business.

"Yes, my friend. I'm Victor, sales manager at a Soviet weapons foreign trade company. Here's my card." Victor ignored Yanayev's advice, determined to use his charm.

The man took the card. "I'm Newsicar from Mozambique. We plan to buy guns and anti-tank missiles, but many companies refuse due to our low offers."

"Kalashnikov rifles or RPGs?" Victor asked. His African experience told him the gun market there was wildly exaggerated — in some places, a chicken could buy a gun.

"Both," Newsicar said, eyes dimming. "But we can't afford $250 per rifle, and you won't accept other payment."

Victor realized the problem: Mozambique wasn't broke, but other companies rejected their underground currency — blood diamonds. Victor's business was simpler; even Colombian drug payments could be laundered into US dollars. (Though the last such client met a brutal end, courtesy of Victor's former signal officer protector.)

Victor's bluntness was a warning: in front of the Soviet Union, follow his rules, or else risk thermobaric bombs leveling your base.

"Maybe not elsewhere, but diamonds still circulate in my country," Victor said, blinking. "How many AKMs and RPGs do you need?"

Newsicar no longer hid his intent. "1,500 AKMs, 300 RPGs, and 200,000 rounds. How about trading diamonds?"

"No problem," Victor agreed quickly. Then added, "Since your president, Samora Moises Machel, died in 1986, you've struggled against the Mozambique Republican Front, right? Even with outside aid, you're stuck in a tug-of-war."

"Isn't that interfering in our politics?" Newsicar frowned, annoyed. "If you don't want to do business, just say so — no need to insult me."

"No, no, you misunderstand." Victor smiled, patting his shoulder. "Imagine a paramilitary company specializing in regional disputes, working for profit. Interested? If not, ignore me. But if yes, I can introduce you to the boss."

"There's such a company?" Newsicar was surprised. He knew South Africa's strategic resource firms used energy as collateral for client conflicts, but results were limited due to UN restrictions.

Victor leaned closer, whispering, "Forget the UN. That company's true boss is a legitimate permanent member of the UN Security Council."

Newsicar swallowed hard, staring in disbelief. "You mean political intervention?"

"Political? No, my friend, you're overthinking. This is business." Victor's voice darkened, each word clear: "Business."