Steel Victories and Hollow Coffers

The news from Naurskaya spread like wildfire—a total annihilation of the Chechen rebels. For a military still burdened by the humiliation of Afghanistan, it was a long-awaited shot in the arm. Even Yanayev, seated in the heart of Moscow, allowed himself a rare smile. It was, as he put it, "a beautiful war."

In every major newspaper, headlines screamed about Soviet valor and Chechen cowardice. Glorious stories of under-equipped Soviet squads fighting off three times their number flooded the front pages. Heroism was paraded, and the legend of the Red Army was reignited for a new generation.

But behind the rhetoric was something more calculated.

The fanfare wasn't just for the people—it was for the West. A carefully choreographed message: the Soviet Bear has not fallen. The war in Chechnya became Yanayev's diversion, a smokescreen behind which he could conceal a crumbling economy and a nation teetering on exhaustion.

With the front-line secure, the General Secretary turned inward—to the books, the balance sheets, and the brutal arithmetic of a post-war budget. Chechnya had bled them dry. Economic reform could no longer wait.

In the Kremlin

Yanayev sat across from Ryzhkov, the Minister of Economy, who was flipping through a file labeled Classified: Defense Prioritization. His tone was blunt.

"We need to talk about scaling back the navy."

Ryzhkov didn't flinch. He had been pushing this agenda for months. "Cut the fleet. Start with the Gorshkov."

The Admiral Gorshkov, pride of the Soviet Navy, was once destined to project Soviet might across oceans. But maintaining her had become a burden. Yanayev chuckled darkly.

"Why give it away for free in 2004? Sell it to India now, even at a loss. At least we can plug the deficit with foreign exchange."

Ryzhkov nodded. "We're not a maritime empire. We're a land power bleeding cash into blue water. It's time to stop pretending otherwise."

But selling an active carrier sent a message—a dangerous message. One that could confirm every Western suspicion that the Soviet war machine was rusting from the inside out.

Yanayev knew the risk.

"Yes, they'll think we're collapsing," he admitted. "Let them. As long as we remain strong on land, no one dares to touch us. Besides, we don't need the West."

A Different Pivot

Instead, Yanayev looked East.

"We'll turn to Asia."

Rezhkov raised a brow. "You mean China?"

Yanayev didn't respond immediately. He walked to the window and looked out over Moscow, grey and still under a bleak winter sky.

"They don't need us, not yet. But they still remember who gave them their first industrial spark. Just like us, they are distrusted, embargoed, encircled by hypocrites in suits."

He turned back.

"They understand something the West never will: survival means patience. If we can't rely on capitalist markets, we'll build our own."

Ryzhkov tapped his pen against the folder. "So you want a new bloc."

"Not a bloc," Yanayev said, his voice quiet and firm. "An economic alliance of the rejected. The ones the West fears most. The ones they pretend to tolerate—until they grow too strong to control."

Ryzhkov frowned. "That's a long game."

"It's the only game," Yanayev replied. "And this time, we will not play by their rules."

Strategic Cuts, Calculated Gains

A scheduled meeting with Navy Commander-in-Chief Chernavin was already on the agenda. Yanayev, weary but resolute, didn't expect the Admiral to take the news kindly.

"He may bark," Yanayev muttered to Ryzhkov, "but I've seen men like him before. Deep down, they know the Soviet Empire of steel oceans is a myth we can't afford."

In truth, weakening the navy was just the opening move in a broader strategy—to sideline Chernavin and consolidate military control under loyalists. Yanayev had neither the energy nor appetite for another Yeltsin-style betrayal brewing in the wings.

"Every step we take now," he said, "is either a retreat from the past or a preparation for resurgence. And I intend to do both at once."