Volume Two: The Path to Eminence Chapter 18: The Liquid Ammonia Leak Incident

After Zhu Lishan was transferred, my workload noticeably increased, yet I bore no complaints. On the contrary, the busier schedule made me feel fulfilled. By this time, I had long since emerged from the anguish of being “demoted” and the shadow cast by my first love's disappointment. Although there was still no immediate breakthrough at work, the positive atmosphere and the presence of Shu Xiaoya made me feel fortunate.

Yes, no one is forever lucky in this world, nor is anyone condemned to eternal misfortune. The most unfortunate are those who dwell endlessly on their own misfortune; the luckiest are those who can forget it. This was the insight I gained through all I had experienced. Of course, fortune and misfortune in life do not always bend to one’s will. The same event may bring misfortune to some while bringing luck to others.

One day, I was discussing work in the workshop office with Director Song and Zhang Guoqing when suddenly a shrill alarm rang out.

“Trouble! Liquid ammonia is leaking!” Director Song shouted. This was the first time I had truly heard the liquid ammonia leak alarm outside of safety drills. Director Song immediately stood up. At that moment, Ma Dazhuang, the worker on duty, ran over, gasping, “Director Song, liquid ammonia is leaking! Lao Liu has already fainted!” Before he finished, Ma Dazhuang himself collapsed to the floor.

It was then that Director Song’s calm under pressure shone through. Without panic yet speaking rapidly, he gave orders: “Guoqing, organize people to move the unconscious! Xiao Wang, report this to the security department immediately! I’ll go shut off the valve.”

According to the plant’s emergency plan, it was normally the duty of the on-duty worker and attendant to close the valve. But now both had fainted, so Director Song was assigning the most dangerous task to himself.

At that moment, Director Song and Zhang Guoqing began donning hazmat suits and gas masks. Without hesitation, I grabbed Director Song’s arm, looking him resolutely in the eye.

“Director Song, I’ll shut the valve. I’m younger and quicker.”

Director Song hesitated less than a second, then gave me a deep look and loudly said, “Good. You go. Guoqing, you report.”

Director Song was in his forties, slightly stout, and naturally less agile than I, a twenty-something who regularly played basketball. Time was of the essence—the sooner the valve was closed, the less harm would be done. If it wasn’t closed promptly, a larger accident might occur, possibly even an explosion. Clearly, the younger, faster me could buy more time. Director Song did not act on impulse; he remained calm.

I quickly put on my hazmat suit and gas mask and ran toward the workshop. Inside, a thick white mist filled the air. The automatic sprinklers were running, spraying water continuously, but the ammonia fog still drifted about.

Reaching the valve on the liquid ammonia pipeline, I saw Liu Xiaoqiang, who was usually my closest companion, lying motionless on the ground without a hazmat suit, only wearing a half-face gas mask. Hearing footsteps behind me, I gritted my teeth and ignored old Liu, focusing on the valve. Thick white gas billowed from it. Without a second thought, I took out a wrench and tried to turn the valve.

As a frequent basketball player, my hand strength was decent, but the valve slipped and wouldn’t budge. I tried again, no better. Cold sweat started to pour down my back. Fortunately, I had taken safety drills seriously. In a flash, I recalled the emergency plan for valve failure in the workshop. I immediately gave up on closing this valve and turned to run toward the liquid ammonia storage tank.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Director Song and others lifting old Liu to move him out of the workshop. I exhaled in relief but quickened my pace.

Thanks to my regular exercise, I soon reached the storage tank, about five or six hundred meters away. Near the tank, someone was on duty, but I had no time for words. At the designated spot, I swiftly took out a wrench and handle, and this time the valve shut smoothly.

With efforts coordinated by Director Song and the security department, the leaking ammonia was finally cleared. Though the pungent odor lingered, the explosion risk was eliminated.

After we wrapped up the cleanup, that evening I accompanied Director Song and Zhang Guoqing to the hospital to visit Ma Dazhuang and Liu Xiaoqiang. “Visit” was a formality—they had been transferred directly to the ICU at the People’s Hospital, inaccessible to us. Instead, we met their families, led by Zhu Lishan who had long been there. Ma Dazhuang’s wife was already devastated, barely coherent. Seeing Director Song, she burst into tears, quietly but uncontrollably flooding like a dam breaking. Director Song sat beside her, comforting her:

“Sis-in-law, don’t worry. We have arranged for the doctors to do everything possible.”

But honestly, I could tell Director Song lacked confidence in those words. No one knew what the outcome would be.

Tragedy struck: the next day, the hospital announced that Liu Xiaoqiang had died from lung injuries despite rescue efforts. I was heartbroken—someone so alive was suddenly gone. The bad news didn’t end there. On the third day, doctors declared that although Liu Xiaoqiang’s throat injury was not life-threatening, to prevent infection, he could never speak again. The better news was that one worker had only minor injuries, with a hoarse voice but no serious harm.

Immersed in grief that day, I suddenly received a summons from Deputy Secretary Deng Zitu. Confused, I hurried to his office.

“Xiao Wang, how have you been feeling about work lately?” Deng Zitu greeted me warmly, inviting me to sit.

“Thank you for your concern, Secretary Deng. Work has been fine,” I replied cautiously, unsure of his intent.

“The factory is very pleased with your recent work,” he said as he handed me an envelope. I saw a clear number: 1000. “After deliberation, the factory has decided to award you a special bonus.”

I was momentarily stunned, not immediately taking the envelope. Deng Zitu pressed it into my hand and continued:

“Overall, the factory’s situation is good, though small problems inevitably arise. But they don’t overshadow the factory’s achievements. Sometimes, however, ill-intentioned people seize on these issues to slander the factory’s work and accomplishments.”

I still didn’t grasp his meaning. Seeing my confusion, Deng Zitu looked at me and explained:

“You personally witnessed some recent incidents. You must keep them strictly confidential to prevent them from being exploited. It is every employee’s duty to protect the factory’s honor and prevent its achievements from being tarnished. Can you do that?”

I began to understand. He was clearly referring to the recent liquid ammonia leak—a major accident with one death, one severe injury, and one minor injury—yet he called it a “small problem,” implying the factory wished to cover it up. Was that fair to Old Liu and Old Ma? But I could only think these things silently.

Seeing I remained silent, Deng Zitu added:

“Of course, if anyone tries to damage the factory’s reputation, we will not stand idly by. They will be held accountable. Have you thought about how you will handle this?”

At that point, I knew I had to respond. I whispered, “Secretary Deng, rest assured, I will do as you ask.”

Deng Zitu seemed relieved. “Good, Xiao Wang. I was right about you. Keep up the good work. The factory values the growth of young people.”

Knowing this was the cue to leave, I stood, and Deng Zitu shook my hand.

Back in the workshop, I found a moment with Director Song and cautiously relayed Deputy Secretary Deng’s message, also expressing my sense of unfairness toward Old Liu and Old Ma.

Director Song said, “Xiao Wang, just follow Secretary Deng’s instructions. The factory has given decent compensation to Old Ma, Old Liu, and their families. That’s the explanation. For their families, compensation matters most. If they demand more, it might not benefit them.”

Indeed, the matter seemed to settle quietly. Though I sympathized deeply with Old Ma and Old Liu, who were close to me, and felt their death and injuries deserved more than silence, no one spoke of it. Sympathy aside, there was no recourse. In the face of money and reality, life had little value. Maybe Director Song was right: compensation was the explanation. The families, poor and powerless, perhaps understood that too. Few at the plant knew the details, and fewer still wished to mention it.

Yet the matter weighed heavily on me. Once, while talking about it with my high school classmate Du Yongtao, he laughed:

“Dongshan, you’re still the same passionate youth. Look, the families have no complaints; why worry yourself?”

“It’s a matter of life and death,” I said.

“Whose life? Yours? Maybe the families’, but for your factory’s leaders, it’s about not letting outsiders know. If the incident leaks, someone must take responsibility. And with a fatal safety accident, the blame is serious.”

“Responsibility,” yes—who wants to bear it? Who should? I thought: Director Song, his workshop had the accident; surely some blame falls on him. What about Factory Manager Shi, who oversees production? And Factory Director Gao? As the top leader, he must bear some too. But these are just my thoughts. Without knowing the cause, no one can say for certain.

Another time at Shu Xiaoya’s home, after dinner, it was time for my regular chess match with my “future father-in-law,” Shu Zhongquan. Because of Old Liu and Old Ma’s plight, I was distracted, a fact not lost on Shu Zhongquan. After a move, he asked, “Something on your mind?”

Having come to admire his analytical skills—he was like the reincarnation of Zhuge Liang or Liu Bowen—I shared the factory’s situation in detail. After a pause, he smiled:

“That’s good.”

Seeing my puzzlement, he continued:

“Investigating the cause of the accident is crucial. Though things seem calm, all parties are likely working hard behind the scenes.”

He paused, then added:

“No matter what, Gao Huqiang will bear some responsibility. No matter how he tries to cover it up, paper can never conceal fire. If the higher-ups learn of the accident, hiding it will only worsen his burden.”

He sipped tea and went on:

“Gao Huqiang is shrewd; he shouldn’t have made such a low-level mistake covering it up. But rumors say he’s up for promotion. An accident would hinder that, perhaps blinding him with the lure of power. People often lose their judgment facing temptation.”

“If just the accident happened, he might only face disciplinary action. But covering it up could mean dismissal. If he’s also involved in corruption, this incident could be the final nail in the coffin.”

“Whether Gao is dismissed or worse, it’s an opportunity for you. Whoever becomes factory director next, your situation will improve. From what you’ve said, Shi Guangsheng succeeding is best for you. But since the accident occurred under his watch, he faces a great test. If it was a production management issue, he bears heavy responsibility. If not, it’s a different story. Your Director Song handled the scene well, and you played an important role. Now, your fate is tied to Shi and Song’s. You must consider your next steps carefully.”

After hearing Shu Zhongquan’s analysis, I finally grasped the crux. Now was not the time for grief; I needed to summon my strength to help Director Song uncover the truth. If the fault lay in the workshop, I might bear some responsibility, but I could still turn my fortunes around.

Unexpectedly, the next day while reading the Huajiang Business Daily, I saw a small report about the safety accident at Oriental Chemical Plant resulting in one death and two injuries. The article clearly described the accident and detailed the prompt response, which surprised me. How did they know? At the end, I saw the reporter’s name: Wan Xia—a name I recognized.

Wan Xia was a high school classmate from the neighboring class, also from a rural background. She was modest and average in academics, unremarkable among peers. Yet by the time of the college entrance exam, she had been admitted to the prestigious Chinese Literature Department of a neighboring province’s top university. Later, she joined a newspaper as a reporter.

In high school, she often came to discuss literature with me. I was the top student, applying to the same department at the neighboring university, though I didn’t get in. Wan Xia, with average grades, did. My best friend Du Yongtao once joked that Wan Xia liked me, but I was focused on studies and paid no mind. Even when Du Yongtao said Wan Xia had applied to the same university as me, I didn’t fully believe it until she was admitted.

How did Wan Xia learn about our factory’s situation? Instinctively, I thought of Du Yongtao. Aside from him telling her, I couldn’t imagine another source. I called Du Yongtao, who laughed and admitted it, joking:

“Now you’re a hero. How will you thank me?”

I was furious. If Deng Zitu learned I’d leaked the story, I’d be in deep trouble.

Du Yongtao seemed to read my mind. “You’re still the honest guy you always were. No one will know it was you. Besides, I know your situation at the plant. This leak only helps you, no harm. Stop worrying.”

He teased, “Wan Xia still has a soft spot for you. Someone so outstanding and still single—you’re really letting her down.”

Wan Xia was still single—that surprised me. But I felt we had little connection beyond similar backgrounds and shared interests in high school. We corresponded when we first entered college, but after I started dating, she stopped writing. Since then, we lost contact.