Eagle, I don't want to form an alliance anymore.

In the same year, Japan's defense spending as a percentage of GDP officially exceeded 1.1 percent. That line was set by the Miki Cabinet in 1976, and the United States chose to acquiesce.

The United States is struggling through the Great Recession, its military spending is being cut, and its overseas power is shrinking. Its protective umbrella over its allies is becoming increasingly inadequate. It needs Japan to shoulder more of its defense responsibilities, and it needs Japan to contribute financially!

Making Japan spend more money on defense—this isn't letting a tiger return to the mountains; it's making the tiger in the cage pay for its own cage repairs.

Well, that's what the Americans think on the surface. Anyway, after Japan rearms, the only ones they need to worry about are the Soviet Union and the Soviet Union. The Americans just need to prevent the Japanese from acquiring nuclear weapons and from turning red.

From then on, as long as the Americans remained silent, nothing could stop Japan from spending on defense.

In the autumn of 1988, a new term quietly appeared in the Japanese media—security guard unit.

Its name sounds unremarkable—安保, meaning security and protection; 卫卫队, meaning guards and watchmen. If you look up Japanese law, these companies are registered as security-related business licenses, which fall under the "Security Business Law."

Legally, they are no different from security companies that stand guard at the entrance of shopping malls or direct traffic in parking lots.

But once inside, it turned out to be a completely different story.

These security companies hire retired Self-Defense Force personnel. Their training isn't just standing at the gate watching who hasn't swiped their card—it includes tactical shooting, close-quarters combat, explosives disposal, and helicopter rappelling.

Their equipment exceeds the level expected of a security company.

They are essentially private military companies, Japanese PMCs.

The Americans allowed the Japanese to do this. The Americans knew that the Soviet Union's Griffin PMC was stirring up trouble in Africa. Since Japan wanted to form a PMC to try to restore its armed forces, why not let them go to Africa to fight the Soviet Union?

When you don't have the energy to participate, the optimal solution becomes to use one enemy to devour another, causing both to suffer heavy losses.

Starting in February 1989, some Japanese "security personnel" began to appear in Third World war zones.

The Middle East, Southeast Asia, Africa... Japanese personnel have appeared in conflict zones in these places. Some serve as military advisors to local government forces, some provide security for mining areas and oil fields, and some are fighting on the battlefield.

They went to those war zones ostensibly to provide security services. But in reality, they had only one purpose—to receive live-fire training.

This is Japan's pain of the past forty-three years.

The Self-Defense Forces are a peacetime military. They are well-equipped and well-trained—but they have never fought a war. From the day they surrendered in 1945, not a single Japanese soldier fired a single shot on a real battlefield, not even during the Korean War.

Its tactical theories are all theoretical; its officers are all sheltered flowers of peacetime; its soldiers have only ever heard real gunfire on the firing range.

An army that has never fought a war, no matter how good its equipment or how well-trained it is, will ultimately not know whether it is capable or not.

It's like a samurai sword that has never been tested.

An army that had never fought a war was thus gradually accumulating its combat experience through a gray channel.

The bureaucrats at the Ministry of Defense were fully aware of these matters. Not only did they know, they also cooperated—expediting retirement approvals, making the destination on personnel files more vague, and turning a blind eye to what needed to be turned away.

In their view, this was something that had to be done. If Japan ever really needed to go to war—whether forced or willingly—it couldn't possibly send an army that had never even heard a gunshot!

Under the loosening of its pacifist constitution and the iron curtain, Japan is quietly transforming itself into a militant nation in a way it is most adept at.

...

In April 1989, Ivanov decided to visit China again, partly to discuss how to attract Japanese foreign investment and learn from China's special economic zone experience, and partly to discuss the situation in Japan.

If Japan were to return to that path, then the Allied powers from World War II would have the obligation, determination, and motivation to help Japan eliminate militarism once again.

Chapter 102 The Varyag Aircraft Carrier

At this moment, Old Zhong was on the eve of a storm.

On April 15, Hu Yaobang died of a myocardial infarction. His heart condition had already been deteriorating when he was forced to resign two years earlier. After resigning, he moved out of Zhongnanhai and into an ordinary house, rarely appearing in public again.

After news of his death spread, many students and young people began to take action.

In the first few days, people came to mourn him. Students spontaneously went to Tiananmen Square to place wreaths and post elegiac couplets in front of the Monument to the People's Heroes. Many people believe that compared to the current radical reformist (or liberal) leader, Hu Yaobang a few years ago was relatively moderate. In the minds of young people, he is still the kind old man who spoke up for intellectuals, opposed "anti-liberalization," and was eventually ousted by conservatives.

Compared to the major northern power, both were reformists, but the radical reformists led by Gorbachev and Yakovlev stepped down, while the moderate reformists led by the Ivanovs took control of the Soviet Union's reform direction.

The Soviet Union's successful reforms led many countries—not just Zhong—to begin rejecting liberals in their ranks, with everyone believing that moderate, gradual reforms were the best medicine for their countries.

However, the act of mourning quickly became distorted under certain pressures.

From wreaths to banners, from banners to slogans, from slogans to marches. People's demands began to escalate: from mourning leaders to criticizing current policies, and from criticizing policies to demanding political reform.

This time, their reforms took a different direction than the movement on another timeline.

This story begins in 1987. Two years ago, Lao Zhong launched a price reform—attempting to merge the dual-track pricing system into market prices in a short period of time.

The outcome of the attempt was disastrous. Inflation soared, prices jumped overnight, people went on a buying frenzy, hoarding goods, long queues formed outside banks, shops were emptied, and panic gripped the nation.

The price reform failed, but the scars it left behind—inflation, price instability, and the collapse of public trust in the government's economic management capabilities—have not yet healed.

In the original timeline, the Soviet bloc had already begun its gradual collapse, the crumbling Soviet edifice was on the verge of collapse, and many liberal ideas introduced during the Sino-US honeymoon period sparked a trend of imitating the US. Lower-level workers hoped to achieve workplace democracy, restore the Anshan Iron and Steel Constitution, and reinstate the "two participations, one reform, and three combinations" (referring to the two participations, one reform, and three combinations of labor). Meanwhile, some people who had taken a break from their jobs believed that Western-style democracy and freedom were a panacea. These two groups mingled, and things escalated, eventually spiraling out of control.

But everything is different on this timeline; the United States fell into the Great Depression in 1987. That beacon of the free market, that shining reference point in the hearts of pro-American intellectuals, had, unwittingly, prematurely and tremblingly met Roosevelt just six months earlier.

The United States, whose free market had just plunged itself into the Great Depression, had lost much of its appeal to young people. When news of Reagan's speech at Moscow State University during his visit to the Soviet Union—a speech that glossed over human rights and the free market, daring not to say anything at all—reached Zhong, it felt like the sky was falling for liberals.

Not only did the pro-American faction in the Soviet Union feel betrayed, but Lao Zhong's pro-American intellectuals also found that the banner they believed in was fading.

Reagan still doesn't know how many liberals in the socialist camp were hurt by his speech in Mosmoko. Everyone was just waiting for him to storm the tower in front of his mentor in the heart of the Soviet Union!

We were prepared to fight to the death, so why did Your Majesty surrender first?

Then came the early rapprochement between China and the Soviet Union. After Slava came to power, Sino-Soviet relations thawed several years earlier than before, and trade between the two countries increased significantly during these years. The Soviet Union's reform experience—informatization, Soviet democracy in the workplace, agricultural production and research associations, and computerized planned economy centered on cybernetics—was introduced to Lao Zhong through various channels.

The successful model of Soviet reforms inspired many students and young intellectuals around the world to seriously study what the Soviet Union was doing.

The Soviet Union did not follow Gorbachev's path of increasing chaos through reforms. It stabilized the economy, improved supply, and implemented the "vegetable basket project," ensuring that people had access to fresh vegetables. While global capital markets trembled in the storm of Black Monday, only the Soviet Union remained standing.

The whole world was watching this young Soviet General Secretary prove in an unprecedented way that socialism could lead to a successful economy.

These factors combined changed the underlying nature of the movement.

On another timeline, the students in the square were holding up the Statue of Liberty. On this timeline, they were holding up a portrait of Slava.

The mainstream voice shifted from "wanting Western-style democracy" to "wanting Soviet democracy," and the slogan was no longer "overthrowing one-party dictatorship and establishing a multi-party system," but rather "learning from the Soviet Union to implement genuine workers' democracy and making the Soviets the people's Soviets again."

Their criticism is not of socialism itself, but of the terrible state of Zhao Ziyang's current reforms—the price liberalization has been a disaster, corruption is rampant, profiteering by officials is rampant, and the vast majority of the benefits of reform and opening up have been enjoyed by princelings and bureaucrats, while ordinary people have been left to scramble for scraps.

Yes, some people have indeed gotten rich first, but why are so many of those who got rich first people people with connections?

Of course, there is another voice. Some people—mainly those intellectuals who have been funded by the US for many years—are still advocating for Western-style democracy. But their voices have been suppressed in the face of this mainstream.

The US itself is collapsing, and you still use the US as a flag?

In this atmosphere, openly advocating for following the Western path would be met with ridicule from those around you.

So this group of people cleverly adjusted their slogan, replacing "Western-style democracy" with a more vague term: democracy.

Anyone can use the word "democracy"! During the Cold War, the Soviet Union touted itself as democratic, while the United States touted itself as free. Since the collapse of the Soviet Union, the United States has taken the words "democracy" and "freedom" for itself.

The Soviet Union hasn't collapsed yet. The left can say that Soviet democracy is the real democracy, and the right can say that multi-party system is the real democracy. This term has become a banner that anyone can raise.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

The central government was in a state of concern at this time.

Zhao Ziyang had just returned from a visit to Pyongyang. During his time in North Korea, the situation in Beijing had escalated.

What troubled him even more was that Soviet General Secretary Ivanov's visit to China was just around the corner.

This was the first official visit to China by a top Soviet leader since the normalization of Sino-Soviet relations. The trip was of immense diplomatic significance, and the whole world was watching.

But at this critical juncture, students in Beiping occupied the square and held up portraits of Ivanov.

If this scene were captured by journalists around the world, it wouldn't be "Sino-Soviet friendship," it would be "the people of Lao Zhong think the Soviet leaders are better than their own leaders." How would that feel to the CPC?

On April 26, the People's Daily published an editorial that characterized the students' activities as turmoil. The editorial was strongly worded, stating that the actions were deliberately orchestrated by a minority in an attempt to destabilize the country.

This editorial did not achieve its intended effect. On the contrary, it stirred up even more voices.

On April 27, the number of people marching in the square suddenly increased from several thousand to tens of thousands.

The students were even more unconvinced. They felt the editorial was insulting them—we were thinking about the future of this country, and you're calling us a rioter? The editorial didn't quell their anger; instead, it fueled it.

Among the tens of thousands of people in the procession, there were portraits of Chairman Mao, Lenin, and Slava. Looking at this situation, Deng Xixian made a decision:

"Change the location for welcoming the Soviet delegation from the square to the airport."

Tiananmen Square is definitely out of the question. Imagine the Soviet General Secretary standing on the rostrum with tens of thousands of young Chinese people holding up his portrait—that image would be in history textbooks; it would be too embarrassing.

Airports should be kept low-key, safe, and under control.

...

When Slava's private plane landed, he saw through the porthole an airport surrounded by layers of tight security.

The welcoming ceremony was scaled back. There was no red carpet, no thousands lining the streets in the square, only a guard of honor and a few rows of neatly arranged officials beside the airport runway.

The cannons fired twenty-one times, and the scale of the ceremony remained unchanged—but the atmosphere was completely different from when Slava was greeted by Mitterrand in Paris.

The extravagance in Paris was added by Mitterrand himself, fearing it wouldn't be grand enough; this time, the Chinese side voluntarily reduced the extravagance, fearing it would be too conspicuous.

After Slava got off the plane, he shook hands with General Secretary Zhao Ziyang, who was waiting at the airport, and then the two got into the car.

The convoy departed from the airport and headed towards the Diaoyutai State Guesthouse.

Slava and Zhao Ziyang were in one car, while Qian Qichen, the Soviet Foreign Minister and Chinese Minister, was in another car.

The convoy's route was carefully planned, avoiding areas where the parade might be visible. Yet, one could still vaguely sense something outside the car window—a noisy gathering of people in the distance, with the occasional flag flashing by on the edge of the horizon.

Slava sat in the car looking out the window.

"General Secretary Zhao, I learned about some recent events in your country before I came here."

Zhao Ziyang's expression remained unchanged; he had expected Slava to bring this up.

“I am very concerned about this—um…” Slava carefully chose his words, “this spontaneous event by the masses.”

Zhao Ziyang nodded. He opened his mouth as if to explain something.

Zhao Ziyang said, "This is a major issue, and it still requires Comrade Deng Xixian to take the helm."

Slava looked at him.

Zhao Ziyang spoke these words lightly, but who is he? He is the General Secretary of the CPC, the nominal top leader. His statement was essentially a way of shifting blame—"I can't make the decisions; Deng Xixian is in charge, it's all his fault!"

This is extremely unusual in diplomatic settings. When a country's top leader publicly states in front of a foreign head of state that major decisions are not up to him but up to someone else, it is tantamount to politically distancing himself from the country.

Slava knew that Zhao Ziyang had a premonition that things might get very bad—there might be bloodshed, and there might be a debt that no one could clear up, a debt he didn't want to bear.

These liberals are worse than Gorbachev.

Slava frowned; he didn't agree with the answer.

“General Secretary Zhao,” Slava said calmly, as if he were talking about a past event unrelated to the country in front of him, “let me tell you a story about our Soviet Union.”

Zhao Ziyang looked at him.

"Our Soviet Union also experienced some difficulties a few years ago. As you may know, before me, the General Secretary of the Soviet Union was Comrade Gorbachev."

Zhao Ziyang nodded.

Slava spoke slowly, as if telling a parable:

"A key difference between a politician and a mere politician is that a politician is willing to take responsibility and risk for his decisions."

He paused for a moment, the street scene of Beiping outside the car window receding into the distance.

"Comrade Gorbachev clearly does not have this ability."

He lacked the courage and determination to face the costs of reform, even if it meant bloodshed.

He wanted to claim all the credit for himself and shift all the blame onto others. However, he was too incompetent; he always managed to push situations that could have been resolved peacefully to the point where violence was unavoidable, and then he was unwilling to take responsibility for the violent outcome.

The car fell silent for a moment.

"Therefore, the comrades in the Politburo had some dissatisfaction with Comrade Gorbachev. Coincidentally, Comrade Gorbachev chose to retire for health reasons, and everyone naturally accepted his resignation. They also recommended me to lead the Soviet Union and continue along the path of our mentor."

He turned to look at Zhao Ziyang.

Zhao Ziyang's face turned ashen; he understood.

Every word Slava spoke was about the Soviet Union and Gorbachev, but in reality, he was referring to Zhao Ziyang.

Either you shoulder the responsibility and face the consequences yourself, or you leave with dignity. Don't stay in this position neither shouldering the burden nor leaving, cutting yourself off and letting others take the blame. It would be better to apply for early retirement due to health reasons, at least retaining some semblance of dignity.

Zhao Ziyang remained silent.

Perhaps he really should ask to resign.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

The convoy arrived at the Diaoyutai State Guesthouse.

The talks were a large-scale affair. On the Chinese side, Premier Li Peng and Deng Xixian were present. On the Soviet side, Slava led his team and a group of officials.