Courtyard Houses: From Bronze Compasses to Global Reach

Chapter 326 Preparing to Dismantle Bretton Woods

December 1968, 12

The setting sun hung low on the horizon, turning the dilapidated pagodas and charred walls of Hue a dark yellow, and the air still smelled of gunpowder.

Tom the Cat was behind a half-broken wall, his face smeared with mud and sweat, his lips cracked and dry. He mechanically fiddled with his M16, his movements so practiced they seemed mindless, but his eyes, like those of a startled deer, were fixed on the empty street ahead. His finger unconsciously rubbed the trigger; not far away lay a bloated corpse, flies buzzing around it.

Tom glanced at it, but didn't react, continuing to gnaw on the sawdust-like compressed biscuits. The war had long since dulled him; now he was left with only instinct—the instinct to survive, and the fleeting emptiness that followed the end of the mission.

A sergeant crouched low as he crawled through the rubble: "Tom, the company commander wants to see you. Go to company headquarters."

Tom didn't say anything, stuffed the last bite of the cookie into his mouth, patted his pants, and followed.

The company headquarters tent wasn't much better than outside; it was so stuffy it was hard to breathe. Tom stood in front of the company commander, his face showing his usual wariness. The company commander looked at the young face and sighed inwardly.

"Soldier," the company commander's voice was calm, yet carried an unusual undertone, "the assessment is in... you can return home early."

In the dim light, Tom's facial muscles twitched. His pupils dilated slightly, his Adam's apple bobbed, and he squeezed out two words:

"clear."

As he turned and stepped out of the tent, his steps were unsteady, as if he were walking on clouds. Had this damned nightmare really come to an end just like that?

In the humid jungles of Guangnan Province, the grass was waist-high, vines tangled everywhere, and the air was stifling like a steamer. Occasionally, sporadic gunfire could be heard in the distance. Mike had just finished an engagement and was leaning against a muddy foxhole, catching his breath. He unscrewed his water bottle, took a small, careful sip, but his eyes, like those of a wary leopard, scanned every swaying leaf around him.

Another dark figure fell to his gun during the firefight, but he didn't have time to think about what it meant. All that remained was the emptiness after the adrenaline subsided, and a deeper sense of vigilance. The jungle had long since transformed him into a different person—able to pinpoint locations by sound, to set traps, and to fire at the slightest disturbance.

The platoon leader walked over, his footsteps crunching through the thick layer of fallen leaves, and said in a low voice, "Mike, pack your things. The brigade headquarters has ordered you to be selected for early rotation back home."

Mike's hand, which was wiping the knife, suddenly stopped, his knuckles white from gripping it so tightly. He looked up, his face masked by makeup, but his eyes, after a brief moment of blankness, suddenly burst into wild joy. He took a deep breath, as if he could smell freedom.

"The message..." His voice was terribly hoarse, "Are you sure?"

After receiving an affirmative nod, Mike slowly leaned back against the pit wall, raised his filthy sleeve, and roughly wiped his face, whether to remove the paint or to hide his expression, it was unclear. His body, tense for months, relaxed slightly for the first time.

He might have actually survived. But he knew in his heart that the young man who left New York with his luggage had long been swallowed up by this cannibalistic jungle, leaving not even bones behind.

On January 23, 1969, the doorbell rang in the afternoon at the villa.

When Charles opened the door, his gray eyebrows lifted slightly.

"Mr. Tom? Mr. Mike?" The old butler quickly concealed his surprise, a sincere and gentle smile appearing on his face. "Good heavens, please come in, it's too cold outside."

When they entered the living room, Lin Yan was standing with his back to them in front of the huge floor-to-ceiling window. The sound of footsteps made him turn around.

Before he could even speak, two figures rushed forward and embraced him tightly from either side. The force was so great that it was almost suffocating.

"Lin..." Mike's voice was muffled by the shoulder of his cashmere sweater, choked with uncontrollable sobs, "You did it, didn't you? My mom told me everything... She said you promised you'd find a way..."

Tom tightened his grip on his friend's arm, his knuckles turning white from the force. All the lingering fear, gratitude, and excitement of being reborn were silently contained in this embrace.

Lin Yan didn't say anything, but simply raised his hand and gently patted their slightly trembling backs, as if comforting two brothers who had gone through hardships and finally returned home.

He neither admitted nor denied it.

The firewood crackled in the living room fireplace, filling the air with the scent of pine and the warmth of black tea. Some feelings don't need words, just like the warmth in the room.

That evening, after seeing off the emotionally charged Tom and Mike, Lin Yan's gentle smile gradually faded. He stood alone by the study window, the New York night view flickering in his deep eyes.

He closed his eyes, and an invisible divine thought instantly crossed the ocean, clearly resounding in the minds of all his core subordinates:

"Listen up, everyone! Except for Lin San, who will remain in China, all other regional leaders, depart immediately and come to New York to see me!"

There was no explanation, no room for discussion, only a concise and urgent order.

The next moment, responses from all over the world, filled with absolute respect and execution, resounded in his mind one after another:

"Alexander from the Americas team, received!"

"Albert from the European group, understood!"

"Oceania James, as you command!"

"Southeast Asia, departure immediately!"

……

Two days later, when Albert, Lin Yi, and the others arrived at the villa on New York's Upper East Side, Lin Yan was standing in front of the world map in the study, deep in thought. The group quietly went upstairs and took their seats in the study.

"Gentlemen," Lin Yan said, his eyes gleaming as he turned, "the Bretton Woods system is crumbling." He tapped the European section of the map lightly with his finger. "Last time, 'Operation Fortress' accelerated this process, and we netted eight billion. This time—" his gaze swept over everyone present, "I want to see at least two hundred billion in profits."

The study was so quiet you could hear the swirl of cigar smoke. Lin Yan took a document from his desk drawer and pushed it to the center of the table: "I need a complete short-selling plan within a week. Albert will be in charge of the ripple effects in the European market, and Lin Yi will coordinate the allocation of funds in the Asian pool."

He tapped the table lightly at the end: "Alexander, you're in charge of the office. Next Wednesday, still here, I want to see a plan that will make Wall Street tremble."