Reborn in 1950: Shorting the Federal Reserve at the Start

Korean Peninsula, front line of the Fifth Campaign.

Inside the headquarters of the U.S. Eighth Army, Van Fleet stared at the battle map hanging on the wall, a sinister smirk playing on his lips.

He pointed to the winding supply line, holding a coffee in his hand, his tone as certain as if he were reciting a royal decree:

"Gentlemen, that's the end."

"According to intelligence, China's fuel reserves have run out. No matter how sturdy their tanks are, without fuel, they are just a pile of scrap metal parked on the side of the road."

"The president has cut off all their lifelines. Not even a drop of oil will get into China!"

He turned around and looked at his staff:

"Order the armored divisions to advance across the entire front! As soon as their tanks break down, we will..."

"Boom—!!!"

Before he could finish speaking...

A deafening roar of engines, like muffled thunder, rolled in from the direction of the front line, making the coffee cups on the command table dance.

Van Fleet was stunned.

He burst out of the tent and raised his binoculars.

In the footage, dust flies everywhere across the mountains and fields.

Those Chinese People's Volunteer Army tanks, which he had predicted would "break down soon," were now charging towards the American positions at an almost frenzied speed, like a herd of rhinos on steroids, trailing long plumes of black smoke!

That speed was three points faster than usual!

The engine roared with great vigor, showing no signs of being "anemic".

"This...how is this possible?"

Van Fleet spilled his coffee all over the floor, scalding his feet, but he didn't care. "Where did they get the oil? Weren't they starving?"

"Sir! Report from the front!"

The communications officer stumbled over, his face deathly pale, as if he were telling a ghost story:

"The Chinese tanks... they seem to have no shortage of fuel! Our reconnaissance plane just saw them even using excess diesel fuel to wash the mud off their tracks!"

"What?!"

Van Fleet felt a sudden darkness engulf him and nearly suffered a stroke.

Washing tracks with diesel fuel?

Is this something a human being would do?

This is blatant flaunting of wealth! This is treating the sanctions imposed by the United States of America like a rag to be trampled on!

……

Washington, D.C., the White House.

President Truman stared at the top-secret CIA report in his hand, and fell into a daze of questioning the meaning of life.

"Can anyone tell me what's going on?"

He pointed to the glaring data on the report, his fingers trembling:

"We blockaded the Strait of Malacca, we blockaded the Pacific Ocean, and we even threatened the Soviet Union. Logically, Chinese oil should be more expensive than gold right now!"

"But why? Why has a large quantity of cheap refined oil suddenly appeared in the Southeast Asian market?"

"Moreover, this batch of oil is of extremely high quality, yet its price is 30% lower than ours!"

The intelligence chief wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, his voice hoarse:

"Mr. President, we have traced the source."

"This batch of oil... came from the Fok family in Hong Kong."

"And the place of origin..."

The intelligence chief swallowed hard and uttered a single word with difficulty:

"China"

"China?"

Truman's eyes widened. "That oil-poor country? That country that can't even afford kerosene lamps?"

"Yes," the intelligence chief said with a wry smile. "Not only that, they're also dumping their products on the European market. Even... even some of the oil our Seventh Fleet refuels at Yokosuka Port is Chinese oil that they buy through middlemen."

Truman slumped into his chair.

blockade?

Lockdown my ass!

They not only have no shortage of oil, but they also sell oil all over the world and even earn American dollars to make bullets to fight Americans!

This is hardly a sanction.

This is clearly giving that giant dragon of the East wings to take flight!

"Investigate! Investigate!" Truman waved his hand weakly. "Is their ground covered in oil? Are they drinking directly from the Earth's major arteries with straws?"

……

Northeastern border region of China.

This place is no longer the desolate Great Northern Wilderness.

The towering chimneys of the oil refinery spew white smoke day and night, and trains loaded with oil tanks, like black dragons, roar as they head towards all corners of the motherland.

A state-owned gas station.

"Fill it up! Fill it up completely!"

A truck driver with a full beard shoved the fuel nozzle into the fuel tank and patted the truck door with an air of bravado.

In the past, you needed a ticket to fill up your gas tank, and you had to be obedient to people. Even getting ten liters of gas required begging and pleading.

Now?

"Okay!" The gas station attendant cheerfully flipped the switch.

The dark, shiny diesel fuel gushed into the fuel tank, overflowing a little and trickling down the car body.

"Ouch, it's spilled!" the apprentice next to him cried out in distress.

"What's wrong with spilling a little?"

The driver lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and exuded an air of wealth and power.

"This used to be called 'golden juice,' but now? Hey! In Daqing, oil sprays higher than a fountain!"

He pointed to the overflowing oil stain, grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth, and said something that would infuriate Van Fleet:

"Director Shen said we have so much oil now we could use it to wash our feet! It's just that the smell is a bit strong, otherwise I'd like to fill two bottles and use them for cooking!"

"Ha ha ha ha!"

The gas station was filled with cheerful laughter.

That suffocating feeling of being choked, that frustration of being penniless, all vanished completely with the continuous flow of oil.

When the lifeblood of industry is flowing smoothly, the very structure of the nation comes alive.

Tractors roared in the fields, factory machines turned day and night, and tanks galloped across the front lines.

Behind all of this lies one name—Shen Jinghong.

……

Beijing, China Central Bureau.

Three months later.

Shen Jinghong finally returned here from the oil-staining and muddy front line of Daqing Oilfield.

He was wearing a military overcoat whose original color was no longer recognizable, his hair was a mess like a bird's nest, his beard was unkempt, and he carried a smell of crude oil that he could never wash off.

Despite his disheveled appearance, his eyes shone with an astonishing brightness.

"This was a resounding victory."

Shen Jinghong carried her luggage and walked briskly down the corridor of the office building, even humming a little tune.

With the oil crisis resolved and enough foreign exchange earned, funding for the next satellite program is secured.

All he wanted to do now was to see Lin Qinghan as soon as possible, share this joy with her, and, incidentally... ask for a hug.

"Qinghan, I'm back!"

Shen Jinghong pushed open the office door, a bright smile on her face.

however.

He was greeted not with a warm embrace, nor with gentle greetings.

Instead, it was just a cold, lifeless back of the head.

Lin Qinghan was sitting at her desk, holding a pen and furiously stabbing something on a piece of paper. Hearing the door open, she didn't even turn her head; her back exuded a chilling aura that kept strangers at bay.

The air pressure in the office was frighteningly low.

"Well……"

Shen Jinghong's smile froze.

He keenly sensed that something was wrong, a feeling that was even more dangerous than facing an American B-29.

"That...Qinghan?"

He carefully approached and gently placed the bag of hazelnuts—a local specialty he had brought back from Northeast China—on the corner of the table.

"I brought you something delicious, these hazelnuts smell amazing..."

"Take it."

Lin Qinghan finally spoke.

The voice was as cold as the deepest layer of permafrost in the Daqing Oilfield.

She turned around, pushed up her glasses, and her gaze swept over Shen Jinghong's dirty coat before settling on his ingratiating face.

His eyes were filled with resentment, and a hint of...

A strong sense of jealousy.

"Director Shen, you finally decided to come back?"

Lin Qinghan slammed the pen in her hand on the table, making a crisp "smack":

"It's been three months."

"Three whole months, not a single phone call. If I hadn't seen your name in the newspaper, I would have thought you'd fallen into an oil well and were living off the oil!"

"What? That dark, murky oil looks better than me?"