Reborn in 1950: Shorting the Federal Reserve at the Start

Beijing Nanyuan Airport.

A cold front from Siberia, carrying sand and dust, swept across the empty runway.

An Il-14 transport plane, painted with a striking red star, clumsily touched down to the ground with a loud roar, its tires scraping against the earth and sending up a plume of pungent blue smoke.

The hatch slowly opened.

A group of Soviets, dressed in heavy dark gray woolen coats and wearing tall leather hats, walked out with their chins held high, like nobles inspecting their territory.

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

He was as burly as a brown bear, with a full beard, deep-set eyes, and an innate arrogance in his blue-gray eyes.

"Is this Beijing?"

Ivanov stood on the gangway, not even glancing at the welcoming crowd waiting below.

He pulled out a handkerchief, covered his nose with disgust, and muttered to his assistant in Russian:

"My God, this isn't an airport, it's more like an un-leveled potato field."

"Look at those running tracks, the cement grade is definitely not high enough. And those dilapidated houses, they'd probably collapse in a gust of wind, wouldn't they?"

The assistant quickly put on a fawning smile, but his face was also full of disdain:

"Professor, you have to understand. This is China, an industrial wasteland. They can't even make a single screw properly, which is why we need to come here."

"Too."

Ivanov snorted, straightened his collar, and adopted the air of a condescending "teacher":

"We're here to help the poor, to be saviors. When you see those Chinese later, put on your dignity and don't embarrass the Soviets."

A group of people laughed and joking as they descended the gangway.

Although the Ministry of Foreign Affairs staff in charge of receiving them couldn't understand what they were muttering, they could tell from their expressions that it wasn't something nice. They all looked embarrassed but didn't dare to say anything.

After all, this was a team of experts sent by the "Big Brother".

Holding the blueprints for 156 aid projects in his hand, which are the lifeblood of the country's industrialization, who would dare to offend him?

"Welcome! A warm welcome to the Soviet expert team for their guidance!"

The reception team leader forced himself to go up to them, his face beaming with a warm smile, and extended both hands.

Ivanov merely glanced at him indifferently.

He didn't reach out, but nodded very perfunctorily, without even taking off his gloves.

"We need to see the person in charge here."

Ivanov uttered a few words in broken Chinese, then immediately switched back to Russian, his tone becoming stern and impatient:

"Stop with these fancy welcoming ceremonies. Our time is precious; we're not here to play house with you."

"Take us to see your industrial plans. I heard you're thinking of building jet aircraft? That's wishful thinking! Figure out how to build tractors first!"

The reception team leader was stunned, while the translator next to him was sweating profusely, unsure how to translate this humiliating statement.

Just then.

A clear, deep Russian voice, with a pure St. Petersburg accent, cut through the awkward silence like an ice scalpel.

"Comrade Ivanov, we can build tractors."

"As for jet aircraft, whether or not they can be built is probably not for you to decide."

The entire room fell silent.

Ivanov turned his head sharply, a hint of surprise flashing in his arrogant eyes.

The welcoming crowd parted automatically.

A young man, tall and straight as a pine tree, wearing a black wool trench coat, walked out slowly with his hands in his pockets.

He wasn't wearing a hat, and the cold wind ruffled the stray hairs on his forehead, but it couldn't dispel the mocking glint in his eyes.

Shen Jinghong.

"Who are you?"

Ivanov looked the young man up and down, his brows furrowing deeply. "Your Russian... is very fluent."

Not only is it authentic.

The elegance and indifference in that tone even gave him the illusion of being facing an upper-class Moscow aristocrat.

"I am Shen Jinghong."

Shen Jinghong walked up to him, neither groveling nor overly enthusiastic.

He simply extended one hand calmly; that hand was long and clean, yet it exuded an undeniable strength.

"The director of Shenzhou Machinery Bureau is also the person in charge of this technical exchange between the Chinese and foreign parties."

"China National Space Administration?"

Ivanov scoffed, not shaking hands, but instead circling Shen Jinghong with his hands behind his back, his eyes filled with skepticism:

"Never heard of it. Is it some small workshop?"

"Besides, you're too young."

He stopped in front of Shen Jinghong, pointing and gesturing condescendingly:

"What's needed for industry is experience, the frost on your beard, not a pretty boy like you. It seems China really is running out of talent."

"Is there anyone who doesn't judge a book by the length of a beard?"

Shen Jinghong withdrew his hand, not angry. He simply took out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one, took a deep drag, and slowly exhaled the smoke onto Ivanov's red face.

"Ahem!"

Ivanov was choked and took a step back, glaring angrily.

"And Comrade Ivanov."

Shen Jinghong flicked off his cigarette ash, a mocking smile playing on his lips:

"You just said this airport looks like a potato field?"

"Indeed, our place is a bit simple. But..."

He paused, his gaze sharp as lightning, piercing the other person's eyes:

"Right here in this 'potato field,' our air force just blew the Americans' B-29s to smithereens. And you, with so many beautiful airfields and so many advanced MiG-15s, don't seem to have gained much advantage on the Korean battlefield, do you?"

"you!"

Ivanov's face instantly turned a deep liver color.

This is a slap in the face.

A blatant slap in the face.

Although the Soviet Air Force's secret participation in the war was not made public, it was an open secret within the high command. While the MiG-15 was formidable, it did not possess an absolute advantage against the American F-86.

On the other hand, China has recently achieved brilliant results, and has even earned the reputation of the "Sword Corridor".

"What a silver tongue!"

Ivanov gritted his teeth, suppressing his anger. He knew this was China, and he couldn't afford to really turn against them.

"Since you're so confident, then let me see what makes you so bold!"

He waved his arms like an enraged bull:

"Take me to your so-called... China Bureau!"

"I want to see with my own eyes how you Chinese, who can't even build a truck, manage to boast so much!"

"I want to examine your blueprints and correct your ridiculous mistakes! This is the authority Moscow has given me!"

"Want to see?"

Shen Jinghong smiled.

A seemingly nonchalant smile conceals a deep trap.

He turned to the side, made a "please" gesture, and pointed to the convoy that had been waiting for a long time not far away.

"no problem."

"Since you're so enthusiastic and insist on guiding our work, then I'll gladly accept your offer."

Shen Jinghong opened the car door and looked at Ivanov, who was angrily getting into the car. A sly glint flashed in her eyes.

"However, Comrade Ivanov."

He murmured to himself, in a voice only he could hear:

"When you get into the workshop later, don't let your jaw drop..."

"Let's go! To the western suburbs!"

The convoy started, kicking up clouds of dust.

Sitting in the passenger seat, Shen Jinghong looked through the rearview mirror at the Soviet experts still gesturing wildly in the car behind them, and suddenly felt quite pleased.

In our past lives, these people used substandard blueprints to exchange for countless agricultural products and minerals from us.

They also have to put on a condescending attitude.

this life?

"hehe."

Shen Jinghong sneered.

"Want to be a teacher? Sure."

"Then let's go to my 'homemade steelmaking' workshop first... and have a good lesson."

He took out a walkie-talkie and gave instructions to Lin Qinghan on the other end:

"Qinghan, remove the camouflage netting from Workshop No. 1."

"Bring out that big guy that just rolled off the production line, Big Brother!"