Major Heavy Industry: Starting with a Fake Marriage

The car drove onto Chang'an Avenue. Chang'an Avenue is wide and straight, stretching as far as the eye can see. Tall buildings line both sides, some new, some old, and some under construction. Tiananmen Square flashed past the car window, its red walls and yellow tiles standing out vividly against the gray sky. It was Sun Deming's first time in Beijing; he was pressed against the car window, his eyes darting everywhere.

"Brother Jiang, is that Tiananmen Square?"

"right."

"It's huge. Bigger than in the photos."

Huang Deqing also looked out the window, saying nothing. His face was expressionless, but there was something in his eyes—not excitement, but an indescribable sense of感慨 (gǎnkǎi, a complex emotion encompassing both feeling and reflection). The last time he came to Beijing was twenty years ago, to attend the national commendation conference for learning from Daqing in industry. Back then, he was young, his back didn't hurt, his hair wasn't gray, and he walked with a brisk, powerful stride.

Now, he's sitting in a van without air conditioning, working on airplane engines.

The van drove into Zhongguancun and stopped in front of a gray building. The building wasn't tall, only five stories, its exterior walls covered in ivy, the leaves a dark, almost blackish green. A sign hung at the entrance, white background with black lettering: "Institute of Aeronautical Materials." Two sentries stood at the entrance, rifles slung over their shoulders, their backs ramrod straight.

Chen Siyuan showed his identification, the sentry saluted, and let him pass. The van drove into the yard and stopped under a large locust tree. The locust flowers were in full bloom, and the white petals were scattered all over the ground, soft and fluffy underfoot, with a faint sweet fragrance.

Chen Siyuan led them up to the third floor and pushed open a door. The conference room wasn't large, containing a long table and a dozen chairs. Some people were already there. Old Zhou sat in the main seat, wearing a short-sleeved white shirt with the cuffs rolled up, revealing his thin arms. He saw Jiang Cheng enter, stood up, walked over, and shook his hand.

"Xiao Jiang, you're here."

"Old Zhou."

Old Zhou grasped Huang Deqing's hand again. "Master Huang, I've long admired your name. Xiao Jiang often mentions you, saying that without you, he wouldn't be where he is today."

Huang Deqing was a little embarrassed by the compliment. "Mr. Zhou, you flatter me. I'm just an old fitter, nothing special."

"So what if I'm a fitter? I started as a fitter too." Old Zhou smiled, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes crinkling together. "Come, sit down and let's talk."

There were a few other people in the meeting room. One was a man in his fifties, wearing a military uniform with stars on his shoulders—Jiang Cheng recognized him as Deputy Director Zhang, who had visited Shenyang last time. Another man, in his early forties, wore glasses, had a refined air, and was dressed in a dark blue Zhongshan suit; a stack of documents lay open in front of him. There was also an elderly woman in her sixties, with gray hair, wearing a gray polyester shirt, her expression serious, and holding a red and blue pencil.

Old Zhou pointed to the man wearing glasses. "This is Chief Engineer Zhao from the Ministry of Aviation Industry, you've met him before." He then pointed to the old woman. "This is Chief Engineer Chen from the Materials Research Institute, a leading authority on turbine blade materials in China."

Chief Engineer Chen glanced at Jiang Cheng, her gaze scrutinizing him. It wasn't unfriendly; it was more like the instinctive reaction of a seasoned expert facing a "layman"—you're just a fitter, trying to work on turbine blades? Her gaze lingered on Jiang Cheng's tooling for a moment, then moved away.

"Old Zhou, is this Comrade Jiang Cheng that you mentioned?" Her voice wasn't loud, but it was very clear, and every word sounded as if it had been measured with a ruler.

"Yes. It's him."

Chief Engineer Chen nodded without saying anything more. But Jiang Cheng knew that she had something on her mind that she wasn't saying.

He wasn't afraid of her questioning him; what he feared was her not questioning him at all—not questioning him meant she didn't take it seriously, and not taking it seriously meant that the project was already dead in her mind.

The meeting began. Deputy Director Zhang spoke first, emphasizing the importance of the WP-7 turbojet engine and the urgency of the turbine blade issue. His voice was soft but powerful; each word was crisp and decisive, like nails driven into a board.

He said the WP-7 turbojet engine is the core power source for the J-7 fighter jet, and there are currently more than 300 in service. Substandard blade lifespan means the lifespan of these engines will be reduced. The military needs them urgently, and the Commission of Science, Technology and Industry for National Defense has issued a strict order that a solution must be found by the end of the year.

Chief Engineer Zhao then proceeded to discuss the technical aspects. He turned on the projector, and a photograph of a turbine blade appeared on the screen. The blade was silvery-white, shaped like a twisted willow leaf, with fine air film pores on its surface. He zoomed in on the photograph, pointing to a crack in the middle of the blade.

"The problem lies here. After about 180 hours of bench testing, cracks appear in this area. The cracks propagate very quickly, penetrating the blade in less than ten hours, causing the blade to break. We have analyzed the fracture surface and believe it is the result of the combined effects of high-temperature creep and thermal fatigue. The material itself is fine, and the cooling structure is also reasonable. The problem lies in the manufacturing process—microscopic defects generated during the casting process become crack sources at high temperatures."

He turned a page, and a metallographic photograph appeared on the screen, showing densely packed crystal grains with a few black dots in the middle.

"This is a defect. The pore size is between fifty and one hundred micrometers. According to the standard, this size of pore is acceptable. But in this location, at this temperature, it becomes a crack initiation point. We have tried many methods—improving the casting process, adjusting the heat treatment parameters, optimizing the cooling structure—but none of them have been able to completely solve the problem."

The conference room fell silent. Everyone stared at the metallographic photograph on the screen. The black dots, like ticking time bombs, were buried within the blades, waiting to explode.

Chief Engineer Chen spoke up. "Chief Engineer Zhao, may I interrupt? We've tried all of what you've mentioned. But there's one direction you haven't explored—surface modification. Not eliminating defects, but preventing them from becoming crack initiation points. Applying a coating to the blade surface to delay crack initiation."

Chief Engineer Zhao frowned. "A coating? Chief Engineer Chen, turbine blades operate at temperatures exceeding a thousand degrees Celsius. What kind of coating can withstand that?"

"Thermal barrier coating. Zirconia-based, plasma sprayed. It's already being used abroad, while we're still in the lab stage. GE in the US started researching this direction in the mid-1970s and has already achieved preliminary results. No one in China has succeeded yet." Chief Engineer Chen looked at Jiang Cheng, "Comrade Jiang Cheng, I heard you wrote a research report on thermal barrier coatings?"

All eyes turned to Jiang Cheng. Sun Deming sat next to him, barely daring to breathe. Huang Deqing sat in the corner, his face expressionless, but his eyes were fixed on Chief Engineer Chen.

Jiang Cheng took a deep breath. He knew this moment had arrived. He couldn't back down, nor could he be reckless. He needed to convince these people that he wasn't just a boastful fitter, but a truly skilled technician. But he also couldn't appear to "know everything," as that would arouse suspicion.