Yanayev, who returned to the negotiation table, seemed much calmer than before, which made Bush feel a little uneasy. Yanayev looked at Bush like a lion fighting a rabbit, looking superior. The Soviet Union, which had set up the red mercury scam, had full say on the issue of small nuclear weapons. They could choose to reject any harsh treaty proposed by the United States, of course, only when they had not yet discovered that the red mercury nuclear bomb was just a scam.
The Treaty on the Non-Proliferation of Miniaturized Nuclear Weapons states that signatory countries possessing such weapons pledge not to directly or indirectly transfer miniaturized nuclear weapons, other nuclear explosive devices, or control over them to any recipient state. They also agree not to assist, encourage, or guide any non-nuclear-weapon state in manufacturing or acquiring nuclear weapons or control over such devices.
Furthermore, the treaty limits both the United States and the Soviet Union to no more than fifty miniaturized nuclear weapons each. Neither side is allowed to be the first to use these weapons in the event of war.
If the first clause was merely official rhetoric, the second revealed the true intent behind the U.S. strategy. The Americans deliberately blurred the meaning of "no more than fifty," omitting key details about the actual limits on weapon yield and real numbers. Their goal was clear: once the U.S. developed weapons rivaling the feared red mercury bombs, they could circumvent these cumbersome restrictions.
And what about war? Aside from the Soviet Union, which other nation could really push the U.S. to use nuclear arms? A direct U.S.-Soviet conflict meant the end of humanity.
As the emotionless translator read out the treaty's cold wording, Yanayev interrupted, unable to hide his frustration. "Fifty is far too few. We should maintain at least three hundred. After all, nuclear weapons are crucial for a nation's defense. We cannot accept that low a limit."
Yanayev deliberately projected the image that the Soviet Union possessed a sizable arsenal of briefcase nuclear weapons, hoping to mislead the Americans into misjudging the true size and variety of their nuclear stockpile—an effective tactic to bolster deterrence through deception.
"Three hundred?" Bush swallowed hard. Even halving that number still left 150 red mercury nukes, enough to obliterate every major city in the fifty U.S. states. But what Bush didn't know was that Yanayev didn't have a single red mercury device in reality.
"President Bush," Yanayev said, deliberately frowning as his tone chilled, "if you had a weapon that could deter any nation, would you want it restricted by treaties, or banned entirely? I doubt you'd agree, just as I won't accept fifty."
"So you're saying we should find ways to counter miniaturized nukes?" Yanayev, playing the diplomat, feigned indifference and added, "Unless you speed up development of the 'Rod of God' space strike weapon, once the balance is broken, our steel tide will plant red flags across Europe."
Bush blinked in surprise. The "Rod of God" was widely known as a fanciful strategic propaganda—a far-fetched concept like the Soviet plan to detonate a nuclear bomb on the moon's surface.
"I know your so-called plan is a ridiculous sham," Yanayev continued smoothly. "But the Soviet Union has a version—far more credible than your tungsten rods. We're deploying tactical nuclear warheads in low Earth orbit to shift the balance of power."
Yanayev was weaving a web of lies, layering the fictitious "Rod of God" over the earlier red mercury bluff. Together, they formed an imaginary but menacing blade hanging over the bald eagle's head. The red polar bear held the string taut; a simple twitch would spell disaster for the eagle.
One wonders how Bush felt hearing this. He had always believed American technology surpassed Soviet advances. Now it seemed the Soviets were ahead, their hidden strengths overshadowing his own.
Though Bush was skeptical—he had reliable intel on red mercury but no confirmation on the "Rod of God"—he couldn't dismiss the possibility. The Soviet Union's economic struggles made such superweapons doubtful, but Yanayev's threats sowed seeds of doubt.
By making the U.S. obsess over Soviet unconventional weapons, Yanayev ensured endless arms race spending on weapons that sounded impressive but lacked real impact—like the twin-turret Apocalypse tank or the M388 nuclear rocket whose blast radius was smaller than its range.
Sometimes, too many players only complicate the game.
In the end, a weary Bush agreed to Yanayev's terms—but the number of weapons was negotiated down from 300 to 215. The U.S. demanded dismantling of Smolensk's equipment by next May, halting red mercury production.
Yanayev agreed, but imposed his own condition: once the U.S. reached the weapon cap, it would never produce more—just like the Soviets.
The Americans knew this treaty loophole well. As long as their weapons were more powerful, fewer in number was acceptable. What mattered most was for the U.S. to have their own briefcase nukes to counter Soviet threats.
Bush was eager to end the meeting and rush back to the White House to push Congress for more military R&D funding.
As the session closed, both sides signed the documents, shook hands, and smiled for the cameras, each hiding their true intentions. The contrasting images of the tired Bush and the spirited Yanayev soon made front-page news worldwide.
While the world celebrated the miniaturized nuclear weapons non-proliferation treaty, a small group of intelligence analysts reading Bush's weary expression saw a far more unsettling truth: the balance of power between the free West and the communist bloc had been irreversibly disrupted.