Reborn in 1950: Shorting the Federal Reserve at the Start

Panmunjom.

The negotiation tent, hastily erected with canvas, was as stuffy as a steamer.

Vice Admiral Joey, the chief U.S. negotiator, sat at one end of the table, having already finished his third jug of cold water. He frequently raised his wrist, and under his gaze, the expensive Rolex gold watch ticked as slowly as a snail; each tick of the second hand felt like a tap on his heart.

Opposite him were several empty chairs.

nobody.

There wasn't even a ghost in sight.

"God damn it!"

Joey finally snapped, loosening his tie in one swift motion. His once pampered, rosy face flushed a deep purplish-red, and he slammed his fist on the table, roaring in fury:

"Do Chinese people even have a sense of time? We agreed to meet at 9 a.m., and it's already 3 p.m.! Are they trying to make us spend the night here?"

The liaison officer beside him wiped the sweat from his brow, his face filled with bitterness and helplessness:

"General, we have already sent three telegrams urging us to hurry. But..."

"But what?"

"But the other party replied that... their representatives were on the front lines inspecting the farming effects of the 'new agricultural tools' and were temporarily unable to leave."

"New farm tools? Tillage?"

Joey was stunned for a moment, then realized what was happening and was so angry that he almost spat out a mouthful of blood.

What farm tools? Those are modified Type 59 tanks used to crush their tanks like scrap metal! What farming? That's plowing their positions with 155mm heavy artillery!

This is a blatant insult! It's a disgrace to the United States of America!

……

Thousands of miles away, in Beijing.

The atmosphere in the meeting room of Zhongnanhai was relaxed and comfortable.

Shen Jinghong was sitting with his legs crossed, holding the "Request for Ceasefire Negotiations" sent by the United States in his hand. He glanced at it twice as if it were a joke, and then casually tossed it aside.

"Talk? What are we talking about now?"

He picked up his teacup, blew away the foam, and spoke with the shrewdness of a businessman and the ruthlessness of a hunter:

"In the current battlefield situation, we have the advantage. They've been hurt and want to catch their breath and cut their losses. Talking to them now is like giving them medicine."

"But if we keep fighting like this, we'll be exhausted too."

One leader in charge of finance expressed some concern, saying, "After all, the whole country is involved in this effort, and the pressure on economic development is immense."

"pressure?"

Shen Jinghong smiled, stood up, walked to the economic trend chart on the wall, and drew a heavy line on the curve for that year:

"Sir, you've read it backwards."

"The longer this battle lasts, the more advantageous it will be for us."

"Why? Because the Shenzhou Bureau's production capacity has already exceeded its limit!"

Shen Jinghong's eyes were burning, as if he could see that massive industrial machine running at high speed:

"To support the front lines, our heavy industry is operating at full capacity. Steel mills are smoking, chemical plants are producing, and textile factories are rushing to meet deadlines. This demand of war is forcing our industrial system to upgrade rapidly!"

"Moreover, our oil, our pharmaceuticals, and our light industrial products are being sold continuously to Southeast Asia and even Europe through the Huo family's supply chain."

"We're making money all over the world to fight this war!"

He turned around, his gaze sharp as lightning:

"So, my suggestion is—let it air out."

"Let's leave him hanging for three months!"

"Make him anxious, make him panic, make him lose sleep watching the daily rise in casualty figures!"

"We must beat them until they submit, beat them until they lose everything, beat them until they don't even have the courage to bargain at the negotiating table!"

"good!"

Marshal Nie slapped his thigh and shouted, "Just listen to Jinghong! Tell the front lines to keep the music playing and the dancing going! Beat those Americans to a pulp!"

The next three months were an endless nightmare for the US military.

The Chinese People's Volunteer Army did not stop its offensive because of the willingness to negotiate; on the contrary, it fought even more fiercely.

In the direction of Tieyuan, a torrent of steel surges forward, eroding the US military's defenses every day.

In the sky, the "Sabre Corridor" has become a no-go zone for US military pilots; if an F-86 dares to take off, it is basically a one-way trip.

And in the rear.

Because of the complete industrial system brought by Shen Jinghong, the domestic economy not only did not collapse due to the war, but instead presented a strange "war prosperity".

Factories sprang up, railways were built to the border regions, and people's pockets were even fuller than before the war.

Shen Jinghong turned this battle into a textbook example of "using war to sustain war".

Until the first snow of winter fell.

Shen Jinghong is in the Shenzhou Bureau's laboratory, studying the blueprints for the next generation of jet engines.

"Ring ring ring—"

The red phone rang again.

"Jinghong, come here."

Marshal Nie's voice sounded somewhat complicated, a mixture of anticipation and a headache, "The front lines are stable, the Americans are on the verge of collapse. But... we have guests at home."

"Guests?" Shen Jinghong was taken aback.

"That 'Big Brother' in the north."

Marshal Nie sighed. "The Soviet expert team has arrived. They say they're here to help us with construction and implement those 156 projects."

Upon hearing this, Shen Jinghong's smile instantly turned playful.

Soviet experts?

In my past life's memories, these people came with the arrogance of "teacher masters".

They have second-rate technology but act like they have first-rate people, pointing fingers at China's industry and even trying to impose a technology blockade.

"It's finally here..."

Shen Jinghong put down the pencil in his hand, took off his glasses and wiped them, a cold glint flashing in his eyes.

"Okay, I'll go pick them up from the airport."

"Perfect timing, it's time for our Shenzhou Bureau's mess to be seen by 'Big Brother'."

……

Beijing Nanyuan Airport.

The wind was biting cold.

An Il-14 special plane painted with a red star landed with a loud roar.

The hatch opened.

A group of Soviets, dressed in heavy fur coats and wearing tall fur hats, walked down with their heads held high.

Leading the way was Ivanov, the Soviet Union's chief industrial expert.

He was tall, with a ruddy complexion and upturned nose. His expression didn't seem like that of a governor coming to help with the reconstruction, but rather like that of a governor inspecting a colony.

"Is this Beijing?"

Standing on the gangway, Ivanov didn't even glance at the waiting reception staff below. He merely surveyed the somewhat rudimentary airport facilities with disdain and spoke to his entourage in Russian:

"That's too outdated."

"It's practically a desert. Looks like we'll have to start by teaching these Chinese people how to tighten a screw."

The entourage burst into laughter, their eyes filled with a sense of superiority.

however.

They didn't notice.

At the very front of the welcoming crowd.

A tall, well-built young man in a black trench coat stood with his hands in his pockets, quietly watching them.

Shen Jinghong looked at this group of arrogant "big brothers" and a dangerous smile crept onto his lips.

"You think we're backward?"

"Okay."

"Then let me show you what... epoch-making shock really means."