The United States' involvement

The news that China wished to purchase the Soviet Union's 10,000-ton hydraulic press was swiftly reported to Yanaev's desk. As a core symbol of heavy industrial capability, such a transaction would have been unthinkable just years ago—this kind of equipment was once guarded like nuclear secrets. But Yanaev simply signaled to Ryzhkov: if the price is fair, approve it.

Since the armored divisions in the Far East had been disbanded, the long-standing fears of invasion dissipated. Relations thawed. Chinese workers and agricultural developers, lured by generous incentives, began trickling north across the border to help revive neglected Soviet farmland. Their own government, facing economic stagnation, encouraged labor exports to earn hard currency.

The Soviet Union had become a desperate giant, devouring anything that could replenish its broken economy. Whether long-term investments or quick infusions of cash, it consumed all available resources without hesitation—anything to balance its warped and hollowed frame.

To the Chinese, the colossus no longer looked so menacing. The Cold War behemoth that once threatened them with armored divisions and nuclear warheads now appeared more like a battered but generous neighbor, willing to offer industrial expertise and markets at rock-bottom prices. And yet, behind Yanaev's pragmatic hand of friendship was a shrewder calculation: this was no longer the USSR of the 1950s that gave freely, only to be repaid with silence and betrayal. It was a survivor, cautious and transactional.

Still, the Chinese side did not haggle. They paid the price Moscow requested—generous but not exorbitant—and finalized the agreement with unexpected speed. There were no drawn-out negotiations, no backroom attempts to bargain down the cost. This, too, was deliberate. The message was clear: we value this relationship.

Gone was the revolutionary camaraderie of the past. What remained was a carefully balanced cooperation born from mutual self-interest.

Yanaev stared at an old, faded Sino-Soviet friendship poster someone had sent him. It had been passed from hand to hand until it reached his office. The smiling faces from the 1950s—factory workers, soldiers, children—looked impossibly distant now. It had survived the honeymoon, the schism, and the awkward reunion. It was a relic of something that no longer existed.

He remembered the heated arguments in the Politburo when the proposal to sell the hydraulic press was debated. Critics saw it as folly—handing over crown-jewel equipment to a rising rival. But Yanaev had dismissed them coldly.

"Perhaps this country," he said, "is our last potential ally. Do you want to see the Soviet Union standing alone at the end, surrounded by enemies, like Hitler in his bunker?"

It wasn't that his opponents couldn't see the bigger picture. Many were simply dogmatic—still clinging to ideological purism, unable to grasp that geopolitics had changed. But Yanaev saw clearly. With the West encroaching daily—another country joining the EC, another receiving IMF aid—he knew the walls were closing in. Moscow's influence was bleeding out in real time.

"Every time we turn on the news," he had told them, "we learn which of our former allies is now a client state of Brussels or Washington. Inside, we're being eaten away by cynicism and corruption. Outside, they're already picking at our bones. Is that what you want?"

Yes, there were no eternal friends in politics—only enduring interests. But China, at least, had not celebrated the Soviet collapse. At the darkest hour, when the Union teetered, it was Beijing that stood still in silent mourning, like someone paying respects at the grave of a once-shared dream.

In the end, Yanaev overruled the objections. The hydraulic press was sold. It was later called the ice-breaking deal by Chinese state media—a quiet but monumental turning point.

In Washington, the headlines triggered alarm. The Soviet-Chinese thaw had become reality. After the Tiananmen crackdown, the U.S.–China honeymoon had ended, replaced by cautious pragmatism. Now, with China shifting closer to Moscow again, President Bush was faced with two options: woo China to spoil its warming ties with the Soviets, or impose hard sanctions to isolate it further.

Each choice came with risk. One was an ambitious, rising giant. The other, a wounded empire still capable of commanding global attention. Together, they represented a potential bloc that could rival the economic and military weight of Western Europe and the United States.

Igorberg, the president's national security advisor, didn't mince words. "We suggest the EU impose an arms and dual-use embargo on China. Their rise must be checked. The French, the Germans—anyone who's lived under the shadow of communism—will understand our logic."

Then he softened his tone.

"But as for us, we can take a more layered approach. Maintain strong trade, yes. But limit strategic military transfers. Let Israel supply small-batch, non-sensitive arms through intermediaries. Quietly. Meanwhile, we keep exporting civilian parts—like those Black Hawk helicopter components they still rely on. It's leverage."

He tapped the folder before the president.

"This isn't about a single deal. This is about not losing two continents at once."

The only option left was to keep that country balanced—on the sidelines and neutral.

The warming of Sino-Soviet relations gave the United States an unexpected opening: the chance to increase arms sales and reaffirm military ties with East Asian nations. After all, Sikorsky had once planned to sell around 100 Black Hawk helicopters to the region, only for the deal to collapse following the abrupt end of the Sino-American honeymoon in 1989.

Igorberg understood the value of trade with rising powers. With a market of 1.3 billion people, only the old-guard ideologues in Europe, still stuck in Cold War groupthink, were wasting time trying to contain a second wave of "red expansion."

"As for next steps," the President said, "I hope you'll prepare a viable plan, Minister Igorberg. If possible, let's also quietly inform Sikorsky's people—suggest they explore indirect routes, perhaps through Israel, to avoid EU restrictions and still deliver needed equipment to East Asia."

"Understood." Igorberg nodded. This time, the United States would maneuver around its own European allies. After all, the December 1991 European Community Summit had already laid the groundwork for the European Union, approving the Maastricht Treaty and aiming to launch a unified currency by January 1, 1999—if enough member states met the convergence criteria. That single currency was a direct threat to the dollar's global supremacy.

"And," Igorberg continued, "we should leak word that Washington is preparing a fresh wave of arms sales to our Pacific allies—part of a larger initiative to contain East Asia's naval development and lock them within the continental shelf. Even if they do acquire strategic equipment from Moscow, they'll think twice if it endangers their maritime security or triggers a regional escalation."

He paused, his voice turning colder. "This plan aims to box them in—through external pressure and internal insecurity."

President Bush watched him, thoughtful. Igorberg's lenses glinted in the light, hiding his eyes—a man who had spent his life mastering diplomacy through ambiguity.

"Very good," Bush finally said. "There are still five months until the next election. I want this chessboard set before then. We must contain China's rise, slow the Soviet recovery, and fracture any early unity in the European Union. If all goes as planned…"

He leaned back in his chair, the corners of his mouth turning upward in a faint, calculating smile.

"…then aside from the United States, everyone else—including the EU—will end up losing."

"Submit the full operational plan to my office by next week," Bush added, his tone firm. "This time, our allies may have to make a few small sacrifices for the greater cause of stopping the red tide."