Major Heavy Industry: Starting with a Fake Marriage

Chapter 100 Sun Deming

After arriving in Changchun, Sun Deming called back every day.

The first phone call came after he arrived, around 2 PM. His voice held a hint of nervousness, but his tone was steady. "Brother Jiang, we've arrived. Someone from FAW picked us up; his surname is Song, the deputy head of the equipment department. We met him last time we went. They've arranged for us to stay at a guesthouse; the conditions are alright, just a bit noisy, and the street is right outside the window. We'll be going to see the equipment tomorrow." Jiang Cheng said, "Good. Good to see you. Get some rest."

The second call was made after inspecting the equipment, the following evening. Sun Deming's voice was more steady than the first. "Brother Jiang, that line is more serious than we thought. One of the machining centers on that line has severely worn spindle bearings. We've replaced the bearings three times, and each time they broke down in less than a month. I checked, and it's not a bearing problem, it's a lubrication problem. There are impurities in the lubricating oil, and the filter is clogged. If the lubricating oil isn't clean, the bearings will wear out quickly. My solution is to clean the lubrication system and replace it with a high-precision filter. I've checked the filter models; there are domestic alternatives, so we don't need to import them." Jiang Cheng said, "Okay. Pay attention to the filter selection. Too high a precision filter will clog easily, and too low a precision filter won't filter properly. Find the balance. First, check with the factory to see what model of filter they used before and if they have any in stock."

The third call came after work had started, on the morning of the fourth day. This time, Sun Deming's voice was different, tinged with anger, and his speech was faster than usual. "Brother Jiang, the technicians at the factory aren't cooperating. I asked them to help disassemble the main shaft, and they said, 'This is East German equipment; can you afford to pay for it if you damage it?' I asked them to prepare kerosene for cleaning, and they said, 'The warehouse is closed; we'll talk about it tomorrow.' Tomorrow? The machines are stopped, the production line is stopped; aren't they in a hurry? I went to their deputy section chief, and he said, 'The technicians are afraid of taking responsibility; there's nothing I can do.'"

Jiang Cheng held the microphone, silent for a moment. He could picture the scene—Sun Deming standing alone in the workshop, surrounded by a group of strangers who didn't trust him. He'd seen those looks in Liuhe, in Benxi, and even when he first joined the factory. It wasn't hostility; it was something far more hurtful—distrust. They didn't believe he could fix it, didn't believe he was better than them, didn't believe an outsider could solve a problem they couldn't.

"Deming, listen to me. Go find Section Chief Song from their equipment department. He was the one who received us last time we went there, and we have a good relationship. Explain the situation to him clearly and ask him to mediate. The technicians are afraid of taking responsibility, so they get the section chief to speak up. Once the section chief speaks up, they won't dare not cooperate."

"Section Chief Song is away on a business trip and won't be back until next week."

"Then go find their factory manager. Didn't you see him last time? The one surnamed Li, the one with glasses. Go find him, explain the situation clearly, and say that if this machine isn't repaired, the whole production line will have to stop. No one should dare to disobey the factory manager."

Sun Deming remained silent for a long time on the other end of the phone. Jiang Cheng heard his breathing, deep and shallow, like someone panting after a long-distance run. Then he said, "Brother Jiang, I'll try again. I don't want to go straight to the factory manager and make myself look incompetent. I'll talk to the workshop foreman first."

Jiang Cheng didn't say anything more. He knew that Sun Deming needed time and needed to face those people on his own.

For the next two days, Sun Deming didn't call. Jiang Cheng was a little worried, but he didn't call back. He stayed in the lab late every night, sitting in that old chair, looking at the clock on the wall.

The clock was an old-fashioned wall clock, which Huang Deqing had brought from the factory. The second hand ticked away, each tick seeming to remind him of something. Sometimes he would stand in front of the telephone for a while, pick it up to listen for a dial tone, and then put it down. He knew that Sun Deming needed to solve his own problems, and if he made the call, Sun Deming would feel that he had someone backing him up and wouldn't exert his full strength.

On the third night, the phone finally rang. Jiang Cheng practically ran to answer it, and the phone cord got tangled, almost causing him to trip.

Sun Deming's voice was a little hoarse, as if he had a cold or had lost his voice from shouting. But his tone was different, like someone who had just finished a long run, tired but with bright eyes, and his voice carried something indescribable—excitement, relief, and a feeling of "I did it."

"Brother Jiang, it's all done."

"How did you manage to do it?"

"I found the workshop foreman. His surname is Wang, he's in his fifties, and he has a loud voice. I told him the situation, and he said, 'If the technicians aren't cooperating, come to me, and I'll make them cooperate.' He called those technicians over and, in front of me, said, 'This Master Sun is from Shenyang, his skills are better than yours, you should learn from him.' Then everyone cooperated. The spindle was removed, the lubricating oil was changed, and the filter was replaced. Reassembly will begin tomorrow. Brother Jiang, you didn't see it, those technicians' faces were red and green, it was quite a sight."

Jiang Cheng smiled. He could picture the scene—Sun Deming standing there, the workshop director standing beside him, and the technicians standing opposite him, heads bowed, not daring to look at him.

"Deming, you've grown up."

"Brother Jiang, don't laugh at me. I haven't slept well these past few days, afraid of messing things up. Last night I dreamt about disassembling bearings, I was doing it all night, and my hands were sore when I woke up this morning."

"Don't worry if you mess it up. I'll cover for you."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone. Jiang Cheng heard Sun Deming's breathing, which was heavier than before. Then Sun Deming said, "Brother Jiang, thank you. Without you, I'd still be repairing those old lathes at Ansteel, tightening screws all day long, not even knowing what I'd be good for when I retire."

"Alright, stop getting sentimental. Go to sleep early, we have work to do tomorrow."

After hanging up the phone, Jiang Cheng stood by the window. The moon was bright, shining on the poplar trees and making the leaves appear silvery-white, each leaf's outline clearly defined. He lit a cigarette, took a drag, and slowly exhaled. He remembered the first time Sun Deming called him "Brother Jiang"—back then, Sun Deming had just been transferred from Anshan Iron and Steel Group, standing in front of him, unsure of what to do with his hands, and stammering. Now, this man was in Changchun, all alone, facing a production line imported from East Germany, facing a group of technicians who didn't trust him, and he had gotten the job done.

He stubbed out his cigarette, turned around, and walked back to the lab.

Sun Deming stayed in Changchun for three weeks. Three weeks later, the production line's precision was restored, and the scrap rate dropped from 25% to 4%.