Reborn in 1950: Shorting the Federal Reserve at the Start

On the highway north of Uijeongbu, the night was as thick as ink that could not be dissolved.

A US Army Willys Jeep bounced wildly along the rugged mountain road like a frightened wild dog. Its headlights weren't fully on; only two dim anti-aircraft lights flickered like will-o'-the-wisps in the mountains.

"Faster! Faster!"

In the back seat, Lieutenant General Walton Walker, commander of the U.S. Eighth Army, was hysterically pounding on the back of the driver's seat. He was clutching a Colt pistol, his forehead covered in cold sweat, and his usually arrogant eyes now resembled those of a terrified thief, glancing back every now and then.

Just two hours ago, his defenses collapsed completely. The Chinese soldiers, dressed in thin cotton-padded clothes, were like ghosts emerging from hell, ignoring the artillery bombardment, and surged up the hillside.

"Sir, the road ahead is too slippery, we'll overturn if we go any faster!" the driver cried out, his voice trembling with tears.

"Overturning is better than being captured! Those devils... they're impossible to kill!" Walker roared, his voice filled with despair.

What he didn't know was that death wasn't chasing him from behind, but waiting ahead.

Behind a boulder at a bend in the mountain road, Shen Jinghong was half-squatting in a snowdrift, fiddling with a black device no bigger than a cigarette box.

"They're here."

Chen Weiguo's deep voice came through the earpiece: "The target vehicle has entered the ambush zone, 100 meters away."

Shen Jinghong looked at the approaching jeep through the night vision goggles, a mocking smile playing on his lips.

In the original historical trajectory, this unfortunate lieutenant general died in a car accident on the way back, but now that he has run into him, shouldn't he invite him for a cup of tea?

"Anything produced by the system is guaranteed to be of high quality. This small-area directional electromagnetic pulse generator, although disposable, is worth it for catching a big fish."

Shen Jinghong gently pressed her thumb on the red button.

"3, 2, 1...Stop the engine."

"Sizzle—!"

A very faint buzzing sound, like an electric current passing through the air, rang out.

The speeding Jeep suddenly felt as if an invisible hand had gripped its heart tightly. The engine let out a muffled gasp, instantly losing power, and the headlights went out completely at the same time.

The car slid forward for several dozen meters due to inertia before finally crashing erratically into a snowdrift by the roadside and stalling.

"What happened?" Walker exclaimed in alarm, frantically trying to open the car door handle.

"I don't know! The circuit seems to be completely burned out!" the driver shouted in terror.

Before they could react, more than a dozen dark figures suddenly darted out from the surrounding darkness.

There were no shouts of killing, only extremely faint "puff, puff" sounds.

Those were Type 56 assault rifles equipped with silencers being used for roll call.

The two guards in the car didn't even have time to draw their guns before they were hit in the wrists and shoulders by accurate bullets, and they rolled off the car screaming.

Walker reacted extremely quickly, raising his pistol to fire.

"Snapped!"

A large foot clad in combat boots slammed into his wrist, sending his pistol flying. Immediately afterward, a dark gun barrel pressed coldly against his forehead.

"Don't move!"

Chen Weiguo shouted in the only English phrase he had just learned from Shen Jinghong, and casually turned on his tactical flashlight.

The bright light blinded Walker. When his eyes adjusted and he could see the group of people in front of him, he was completely stunned.

Are these people... Eighth Route Army guerrillas?

They were dressed in uniform camouflage winter clothing, Kevlar helmets, face paint, and carried automatic rifles with silencers and tactical flashlights. They also had dark night vision goggles hanging on their chests.

This equipment is ten times better than that of his guard platoon!

"My God..." Walker slumped in his seat, his eyes vacant. "Which unit are you from? The Soviet Guard?"

"Soviets?"

Shen Jinghong emerged from the darkness, removed his night-vision goggles, revealing a young and handsome Eastern face. He patted Walker on the shoulder and teased him in a perfect London accent:

"Lieutenant General, let's get to know each other again. We are a special operations unit of the Chinese People's Volunteer Army."

"By the way, thank you for your cooperation; you saved us a bullet."

……

Half an hour later, at the Volunteer Army front-line command post.

General Peng was lying face down on the map, his brow furrowed, still worrying about whether he could annihilate the main force of the US military.

"Report!"

The tent flap was lifted, and Shen Jinghong strode in, a smile on his face that made everyone think he was about to cause trouble.

"Mr. Peng, you're still awake?"

"Sleep my ass!" General Peng said without looking up. "These Americans run faster than rabbits; mechanized troops are hard to catch. What do you need?"

"Nothing serious, I just went out for a stroll and picked up a few things along the way."

Shen Jinghong turned to the side and waved towards the door:

"Weiguo, bring in our 'spoils of war'!"

Several soldiers huffed and puffed as they carried in a fat old man who was bound like a dumpling and had a tattered rag stuffed in his mouth, and threw him on the ground.

"Waaaah!" The old man struggled desperately, his eyes filled with terror.

General Peng was taken aback. He put down his pencil, walked over and kicked the man's military boots, then looked at the two gleaming silver stars on his shoulders.

"This...this is a lieutenant general?"

General Peng's eyes widened instantly, and he looked up sharply at Shen Jinghong, "You brat...who did you bring here?"

"Commander of the Eighth Army, Walton Walker."

Shen Jinghong picked up the kettle from the table, poured herself a glass of water, and said casually:

"I saw him driving around recklessly late at night, which wasn't safe, so I asked him to come back and keep you company."

"I've often heard people say that Chiang Kai-shek was a transport battalion commander. Walker is at least a lieutenant general, so he could be considered a 'transport platoon leader,' right? This gift is just right for you."

The command post was deathly silent.

All the staff officers gaped, looking at Walker on the ground and then at Shen Jinghong, who remained calm.

That's a US Army lieutenant general!

This is a capture!

We've been fighting in the Korean War all this time, and we've never arrested an official this high-ranking!

"Good! Good lad!"

General Peng slapped his thigh, his face flushed with excitement, and rushed over to hug Shen Jinghong tightly. "You've really ripped the Americans' face off! This attack will paralyze the US military's command system for at least three days!"

"Someone come here! Keep a close eye on him! He's our star attraction!"

Just as the command center was filled with jubilation.

Tokyo, thousands of miles away, the Supreme Commander for the Allied Powers.

"Bang!"

An exquisite crystal ashtray was smashed to pieces on the ground.

MacArthur paced back and forth on the huge Persian carpet, his hands behind his back, his face as somber as the sea before a storm.

"Missing? What does 'missing' mean?!"

He pointed at the intelligence officer and roared, "A lieutenant general, with a platoon of guards, just vanished into thin air during the retreat? Without even sending a distress signal? Are you trying to tell me he was abducted by aliens?"

"General... the on-site investigation shows no signs of intense firefight, and the vehicles were not destroyed. It's as if... as if they were instantly rendered incapable of resistance." The intelligence officer trembled.

"That's enough!"

MacArthur waved his hand, interrupting his report. He walked to the window, looking at the bustling Tokyo night view outside, a mad and cruel glint flashing in his eyes.

In conventional warfare, we have already lost.

With the equipment advantage gone and the commander captured, this battle can no longer be fought according to conventional methods.

"Since they don't follow the rules, don't blame me for being inhumane."

MacArthur turned around and took out a long-sealed black file folder from the drawer.

The file folder had a skull logo printed on it, with a line of small print below: **[Project B]**.

"Order the remaining personnel of Unit 731, as well as the expert team from Fort Detrick, to immediately depart for North Korea."

MacArthur's voice was icy cold, devoid of any warmth, like a demon from hell:

"Since steel can't kill them, let the plague solve the problem."

"I want to turn both banks of the Yalu River into a no-man's-land!"