Reborn in 1950: Shorting the Federal Reserve at the Start

The cold wind scraped across my cheeks like a knife.

Davis was hanging from the branch of an old pine tree, the parachute cords tightly wrapped around him, dangling him in mid-air like a piece of dried meat.

Beneath my feet lay a pitch-black snowfield, and in the distance, the wreckage of a fighter jet was still burning.

As an ace pilot of the U.S. Army's 51st Wing, holding the title of "ace" in both military and civilian fields, he didn't even have the strength to cut the rope at this moment.

That deep-seated fear made him tremble even more than the bitter cold.

He shakily pulled a small, almost frozen notebook from the inside pocket of his flight jacket—his battlefield diary. By the faint light of the distant burning wreckage, he used his Parker pen to write his final words with trembling fingers:

* "October 25, 1950. If anyone sees this diary, please tell my wife Mary that I love her."*

* "But I must record everything I saw today, even if it leads to a court-martial, even if it makes me seem like a madman."*

*Just now, I suffered God's punishment.*

* "That wasn't a MiG-15, it wasn't even a man-made aircraft. It was like a silver ghost, possessing a speed that defied the laws of physics. When I locked onto it at six o'clock, it actually... came to a stop."*

The pen tip tore through the paper, and Davis's breathing quickened.

*Yes, it stopped in mid-air! It raised its head like an angry cobra! In that instant, it transformed from prey into hunter.*

* "That's God's steed, a whip from heaven. Our proud air force is like a bunch of clumsy turkeys before it."*

*"We lost. Not just the air battle, we lost the skies..."*

"Click."

A crisp sound came from beneath my feet as a dry branch snapped underfoot.

Davis slammed the diary shut and looked down warily.

In the darkness, several pairs of green eyes were staring intently at him.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

Davis tried to draw his gun, only to find that the pistol at his waist had flown away during the ejection.

"Don't move! Hands up!"

A voice speaking in heavily accented Chinese rang out, followed by the sound of a gun being pulled back.

Several militiamen, dressed in tattered cotton-padded coats and wearing dog-skin hats, emerged from behind a tree, carrying old rifles. The old man in the lead held a sharpened wooden stick and pointed it at Davis's buttocks.

"Foreign devil! Get down here!"

The old man roared, and although no one could understand what he meant, everyone could tell from his tone that he was ready to stab you if you didn't come down.

Davis was desperate.

He unfastened the buckle and, like a sack of potatoes, threw it onto the snow with a "plop".

Before he could even get up, several large feet stomped hard on his back, pressing him into the snowdrift and making him swallow a mouthful of mud.

"Gently! Gently! I surrender!"

Davis screamed in agony, feeling as if his spine was about to break.

Just then, the sound of an engine came from behind.

A jeep was parked on the side of the road, its headlights so bright they were blinding.

The car door opened, and a pair of shiny leather shoes stepped onto the snow.

Shen Jinghong, wearing a military overcoat, strode over. He glanced at Davis, who was pinned to the ground, then at the diary that was being clutched tightly like a treasure, and a playful smile appeared on his lips.

"Grandpa, did you catch a big bird?"

Shen Jinghong smiled and handed a cigarette to the militia leader.

"Of course! This big bird can even speak bird language!"

The old man took the cigarette, grinning from ear to ear. "Sir, is this the one our plane shot down? It didn't look like much, it fell down looking like a drowned rat."

"It's really not that great."

Shen Jinghong squatted down, extended her hand, and said in fluent, standard American English that made Davis question his existence:

"Major, give me that notebook. Also, I don't like talking to people with my head tilted back."

Davis froze.

He looked up in disbelief at the young, handsome, and even somewhat bookish Chinese officer in front of him.

That accent...is even more authentic than his?!

“Who…who are you?”

Davis instinctively clutched the diary to his chest. "This is my personal belongings!"

"Here, even the air you breathe is my spoils."

Shen Jinghong snatched the diary, casually flipped through a couple of pages, and then laughed.

"God's steed? The Cobra?"

He closed the notebook, gently patted Davis's cheek, and his eyes held a chilling mockery:

"Major, your writing is quite good. But I must correct you on one point: that's not God's mount, it's a... little toy created by our Shenzhou Bureau."

"Toy?!"

Davis's eyes widened, as if he had been greatly insulted. "You called that monster a toy?!"

"certainly."

Shen Jinghong stood up and looked down at him. "If this scares you to death, what will you do if you see something even better in the future?"

He ignored the pilot whose worldview had collapsed and instead turned his gaze to the deeper darkness.

"Let's get down to business."

Shen Jinghong's voice suddenly turned cold, like an ice blade:

"You're the lead aircraft, responsible for providing cover. According to US military regulations, your presence in this airspace indicates the movement of important, high-value targets on the ground."

He bent down, stared into Davis's eyes, and asked, word by word:

"Tell me, who are you covering for?"

Davis gritted his teeth and turned his head away: "I am a soldier, I have the right to remain silent!"

"silence?"

Shen Jinghong smiled and took out the dark monocular night vision device from his pocket.

You may remain silent, but your eyes will not lie.

He raised his night vision goggles and scanned the road in the distance, following the direction Davis had fallen.

In the green field of vision, nothing can hide.

About two kilometers away.

On a secluded mountain road, a convoy of vehicles, without their headlights on and moving forward in the dark, clearly appeared in the camera's view.

In the middle jeep sat a fat old man in a general's uniform, anxiously looking at his watch.

Those two iconic general stars shone like two small light bulbs under the infrared night vision device.

"Hey, we've caught a big fish!"

Shen Jinghong blew on the lens of the night vision goggles, glanced back at Davis, whose face was ashen, and spoke as casually as if he had just picked out a good fish at the market:

"That's Lieutenant General Walker, isn't it? Commander of the U.S. Eighth Army?"

Davis shuddered, the terror in his eyes completely betraying him.

"How do you know?! It's so dark, you couldn't possibly see!"

I already said it.

Shen Jinghong hung the night vision goggles back around his neck, straightened his collar, and turned to walk towards his jeep:

"God is on our side. He not only gave me a mount, but also a pair of eyes that can see through the darkness."

"Chen Weiguo!"

"arrive!"

Chen Weiguo, who had been keeping watch nearby, suddenly stood at attention.

"Bring your special forces team and follow me."

Shen Jinghong opened the car door, pointed in the direction the convoy had disappeared, and a smile on his lips became unusually bright, yet filled with a dangerous, bloodthirsty glint:

"President Peng has been saying lately that he needs someone to chat with."

"Let's go and invite that Lieutenant General Walker back for tea!"