Major Heavy Industry: Starting with a Fake Marriage

Back at the center, Han Zhiguo's office light was still on. Jiang Cheng walked over and knocked on the door.

"Come in."

Han Zhiguo sat at the table, holding a document in his hand. A sheet of paper lay open on the table, covered with a densely drawn table. He looked up and took off his glasses.

"You're back? How did the meeting go?"

"Successfully." Jiang Cheng put his bag on the chair and sat down. "The Commission of Science, Technology and Industry for National Defense asked us to give lectures to the troops and teach the coating technology to the repair shops."

Han Zhiguo nodded without saying anything. He placed the document in his hand on the table and tapped it with his finger.

"The review panel's final decision is in."

Jiang Cheng's heart tightened. "How many points?"

"Seventy-eight points. Pass."

Jiang Chang let out a long sigh. He clenched his hands on his knees for a moment, then relaxed them.

"Zhou Chuanming..." He paused, "I ran into him at the entrance of the provincial government building."

Han Zhiguo looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

"He said, 'What's past is past.' He said he doesn't hold grudges." Jiang Cheng looked at the evaluation form on the table. "I don't know whether to believe him or not."

Han Zhiguo was silent for a moment. "Whether you believe it or not is not important. What's important is that his people are gone, and your project is a success. Time is on your side."

Jiang Cheng didn't speak. He stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the streetlights were on, casting an orange glow on the snow. In the distance, the faint roar of machinery could be heard, like someone snoring.

"Director Han, I'm going to give a lecture at the military base next week. Sun Deming is coming with me, and Lao Zhao is going too. Please take care of things at the center."

"Go ahead." Han Zhiguo paused for a moment. "I'll help you shovel snow in the yard."

Jiang Cheng turned around and looked at Han Zhiguo. Han Zhiguo had already lowered his head and continued reading the documents.

Jiang Cheng walked out of the office and gently closed the door. The corridor lights were motion-activated; he stomped his foot, and the lights came on. The white light shone on the green wainscoting, reflecting a cold glow. His footsteps echoed in the empty corridor, each beat like a heartbeat.

He went downstairs and pushed open the main door of the center. A cold wind rushed in, making his hair fly wildly. He stood in the doorway and looked up at the sky. There were stars in the sky, not many, but very bright. One particularly bright one hung motionless above the factory's chimneys. He didn't know the name of that star, but he knew it had always been there.

-

On the train back from receiving the award in Beijing, Jiang Cheng kept thinking about one question—why do good news and bad news always come together, as if they've made a pact not to give anyone a chance to breathe?

The good news was laid out on the table: an official document with a red header and the large red seal of the Provincial Machinery Department. Han Zhiguo's hands trembled when he received it, not from fear, but from joy. He slammed the document on the table; the sound wasn't loud, but everyone in the office heard it. "It's done. The qualification assessment is qualified." Sun Deming was the first to rush over, reading the document from beginning to end. When he got to the words "provincial-level technology promotion agency," his voice was so loud it sounded like a command.

Old Zhao clapped enthusiastically beside him, his palms turning red from clapping. Jiang Cheng took the document, glanced at it, and said nothing. He put the document back on the table, pressed his finger on it, as if trying to imprint the official seal into his fingerprint and take it with him.

Sun Deming asked him, "Brother Jiang, why are you unhappy?" Jiang Cheng replied, "Happy. Happiness doesn't necessarily mean laughing."

Actually, he was happy. The happiness wasn't the elation of winning an award; it was something deeper—like a stone falling to the ground, creating a crater filled with things accumulated over the years: the factory director's tears during the rolling mill's trial run, the silence of the military inspector when the landing gear was delivered, the angle at which Master Zhang from the Liuhe Agricultural Machinery Factory handed him the wrench… These things don't usually surface, but they automatically come to the surface at certain times, like seashells exposed on a beach after the tide has receded, each one carrying the salty taste of the sea.

Before the joy could even warm his heart, Han Zhiguo called him to his office.

The moment the door closed, he noticed Han Zhiguo's fingers tap twice lightly on the table—a habit he had when nervous, one Jiang Cheng had never noticed before, because Han Zhiguo was never nervous. He always seemed to have everything under control, keeping documents and rules separate, and never stuttering when he spoke. But now he was nervous, and his fingers betrayed him.

It didn't sound like knocking; to be precise, it was more like tapping, like someone standing outside the door late at night, hesitating, afraid of waking the person inside.

Someone from the provincial department wrote an anonymous letter of complaint and sent it to the Ministry of Machinery Industry and the Provincial Commission for Discipline Inspection.

The letter stated that Jiang Cheng had undertaken a defense project in Beijing without local approval, constituting a violation of regulations and exceeding authority. It also claimed that he signed the contract in his personal capacity, with the profits going to him personally, thus constituting embezzlement of state assets. Han Zhiguo spoke slowly, as if reading a verdict he didn't want to announce. He paused after each point, giving Jiang Cheng time to process it. Sunlight streamed in through the window, illuminating the documents on the table, making the edges of the paper gleam and the words appear scorched. Jiang Cheng didn't interrupt him.

After he finished speaking, Jiang Cheng asked, "Where's the evidence?"

Han Zhiguo took off his glasses, rubbed his nose, and the glasses left two deep red marks on either side of his nose. "A copy of the contract, with your signature on it. The contract was signed between the research institute and you, not with the center. There are indeed procedural flaws."

Jiang Cheng leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. One end of the fluorescent light tube was blackened, the blackened portion spreading several centimeters inward from the edge, like a drop of ink spreading on rice paper. The tube flickered, then flickered again, as if about to go out, but held on. He remembered the day he signed the contract in Beijing, when Old Zhou said, "Special cases are handled specially; the official seal is affixed first, and the formalities can be completed later." He was just a fitter; what did he know about contract procedures? He only remembered that Old Zhou had signed with an old fountain pen, the nib leaking ink, the last stroke of the character "Zhou" leaving a thin ink mark that spread across the paper like a tiny tadpole, its tail trailing as it swam to the edge. He had read the contract twice, only looking at the numbers and dates, not the terms. Who would have thought there was a trap in the terms? It wasn't a knife; it was a metal clamp hidden in the grass, waiting to bite when you stepped on it.

"Has the whistleblower been found?"

"Anonymous letter, can't be found. But not hard to guess." Han Zhiguo put on his glasses, his eyes behind the lenses squinting as if trying to discern something in the distance. Sunlight shone on his lenses, reflecting a spot of light that landed on the wall, round and gleaming white, like an eye without a pupil.

"The turbine blade project encroached on other people's interests. The Commission of Science, Technology and Industry for National Defense provided funding directly, bypassing local authorities, which made some people envious. You were too prominent in Beijing, and some people wanted to control you. If they couldn't control you, they would follow your procedures. Once the procedures were controlled, you couldn't escape either."