Gold & Glory

By Luke Marusiak

Five from Pennsylvania, a diverse group themselves, join one of the most eclectic and talented group ever assembled that includes exU.S. Military fresh from victories in both the Cold War and Desert Storm; young PhDs from the United States, Asia, India, Europe, and Israel, the recent surge of technical women in the workforce; and AT&T Bell Labs expatriates in the 1990s Silicon Valley. This team and their company do what pundits long believed impossiblebeat the Japanese in computer chip semiconductor equipment manufacturing. Defying both the government-subsidized consortium and the presumed inexorable American technical decline, the group takes on all comers in a risky and audacious strategy to dominate an industry long given up as lost. The passionate clashes, heartbreaking losses, and stunning achievements highlight the lives, hopes, and dreams in one of the great untold stories of the 1990s.

This novel is part of the Good Fight Series and continues the stories of the characters from Marx & Ford, Loud & Clear, and Fear & Hope. The Good Fight Series follows these characters into the tumultuous early years of the twenty-first century in the upcoming Thump & Riposte.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499070606

Luke Marusiak

Luke Marusiak was raised in Western Pennsylvania. He served in the U.S. Army culminating with the 1st Infantry Division in Desert Storm. He has resided in the Silicon Valley since the early 1990s working in semiconductors, hard drive media, and vacuum chamber systems in positions from process engineer to chief operating officer and CEO. He draws on his family, friendships, and experiences for his writing.

Book preview

Gold & Glory

Luke Marusiak

Copyright © 2014 by Luke Marusiak.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 09/23/2014

Xlibris LLC

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Contents

Preface

Prologue

PART I CALIFORNIA

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

PART II DEFIANCE

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

PART III PROGRESSIVES

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

PART IV TRIUMPHS

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

About the Author

TO JIM MORGAN

WHO LED A COMPANY WHOSE EMPLOYEES COULD BE TRULY GREAT.

Preface

I wrote my second novel Loud & Clear with several long gaps over a period of twenty years. Gold & Glory is the one I’ve wanted to write for the last twenty years. I knew from the beginning I was living in a special place at a special time. The Silicon Valley semiconductor equipment companies’ dominance in the 1990s was considered impossible in the late 1980s. As the years unfold, my appreciation and admiration for this achievement and experience have grown exponentially. I think it’s important to remember how it all happened.

The place, the incentive climate of stock options, the be the best or die management, the almost-incomprehensible diversity, and raw human desire for gold and glory all combined to make something unexpected, rare, and special. I look back with only one regret: I wish I enjoyed it more. There was a feeling of magic in air—pundits predicted both the dominance of Japan and the end of Moore’s law. We ignored the pundits and set about creating the future. Jack Welch wrote that working for a great company is like being on a gold-medal-winning Olympic team. I know that feeling. Gold & Glory is a historical fiction insider’s view of what made that magic possible. I put my Good Fight Series characters into this world and detailed the passionate clashes, heartbreaking losses, and stunning achievements of one of the untold stories of the 1990s.

I wrote this historical fiction as a untold tale but also since it’s far enough in the past but not too far; I wrote it to inspire those in different places and times, to remember the lessons and to recreate the magic so that others can taste greatness for themselves.

I am grateful to the following:

My wife, Diana, who loved and lived many of the best parts of the adventure.

My son David, a millennial who is yearning to experience that magic.

My early manuscript readers: my wife, Diana Marusiak; Jewel Knofler; and my mom, Rosemarie Marusiak. I appreciate the encouragement, suggestions, and comments on the character arcs. I particularly appreciate your enjoyment at experiencing these escapades through the humble written word.

For my blog and more information on my current and future books, visit www.lukemarusiak.com.

—Luke Marusiak

June 24, 2014

Prologue

Tom Staid sat in the Margaritaville restaurant in Capitola, California, grateful for new experiences and admiring the view of the Pacific Ocean from Monterey Bay. He didn’t know what impressed him more: that he was in California, that a couple who worked in Silicon Valley decided to have a Valentine’s Day wedding, that the diversity of the crowd was nothing like he’d ever seen in Pennsylvania, or that he actually knew a few people here other than his wife, Ruth. He looked over to the bar at the animated conversation among the threesome that included his twin brother John; John’s girlfriend, Michele; and Ruth. I wonder if they’re taking time to enjoy this incredible view.

He lifted a narrow-stemmed, wide-mouthed margarita glass; licked salt off the rim; and sipped the sweet-and-sour drink. I could get used to this lifestyle. He considered the previous year. February is the grimmest month of winter in Pennsylvania, and here I am: three months in this warm, remarkable place. He glanced to the other side of the restaurant and noticed Hank Rudzinski and his wife, Amy. It’s bizarre. I’m here because Ruth works with the groom, Scott Bratson, at Embark Electronics; and my brother John and fellow Winston College alum Hank Rudzinski are here because they know the bride, Kim Monroe, from their company: Processed Technologies. Tom had no sooner thought of the bride than she walked straight up to him, took a seat uncomfortably close, and rested a hand on his thigh.

Listen, John! Kim whispered to Tom in an insistent tone. I’m afraid Scott’s getting cold feet. I know you’ve been discreet, but it’s all the more important that no one hears about us in Ireland.

What the hell is she talking about? Ah, Kim— Before Tom could explain that he was John’s identical twin brother, the groom called and Kim departed. Tom’s mind spun away from the scenic view. John has been with Michele for years but… Ireland? John was with Kim in Ireland? He regarded his brother. Kim thought John was me because my wife, Ruth, is talking to him. Tom remembered the four-year rift with his twin brother over what he viewed as John’s self-centered attitude that ran roughshod over everything. His wife, Ruth, from the moment she heard of the rift, resolved to patch it, which was why she was talking to John at the Margaritaville pre-wedding party.

Tom scanned the diverse crowd, and his eyes rested on the twenty-something bride, Kim Monroe. She was a young ball of energy that deserved a great wedding. She didn’t deserve to have it derailed by his brother. Tom and John patched their rift during their father’s passing and the night of the Monongahela Heights fire. But this? Did John say to hell with Michele and Scott for a lustful moment with Kim?

Tom saw Hank Rudzinski and his wife, Amy, walk up to Kim and Scott and offer congratulations. He felt a pang. John was going with Amy in college, and—look at her—she’s amazing. John let Amy go because of his rapacious greed for money, and now this wedding might be spoiled because of his unfaithful lust for a young thing? He pushed down a surge of anger.

The seating at the restaurant was arranged around familial or friendship closeness to the bride and groom. This left a large group of colleagues and coworkers clustered at a large end table off to the side. Tom grabbed his brother by the elbow as he was about to sit down. I need to tell you something.

So what do you think of California, little brother?

You came out of the womb four minutes before me. Cut out the little-brother stuff. This is important. Tom and John Staid walked outside into the warm February air.

John waved his hand around the vista: orange-and-purple sunset, rhythmic waves crashing in the distance, and palm trees everywhere. It’s sixty-five degrees! You gotta say this is great.

It is, and I was enjoying it, Tom said, until Kim came up, called me John, and told me Scott can’t hear about Ireland.

John laughed. That was nothing and the last thing she needs to worry about.

Nothing? John, what the hell? She’s worried Scott’s getting cold feet.

If he is, it has nothing to do with Ireland. Christ Almighty! She wasn’t even the most memorable.

What? John, what about Michele?

Michele was with a doctor at the time, and shit happens.

Goddammit, John! Shit happens? You might have wrecked this wedding.

Look, it was years ago. It’ll be fine. John scowled. Did you see Amy? Can you believe that?

Sure, I saw Amy. My wife, Ruth, is her best friend.

I know that now, but I didn’t know about Ruth in college, and I didn’t know until the fire that Amy married the soldier boy.

His name is Hank Rudzinski, and so what? They’re a great couple.

So what? Ruth told me at the bonfire that Amy married him a year after breaking up with me.

As I recall, you left Amy, not the other way around.

"She didn’t want to come to California with me in 1983, so in 1984 she marries soldier boy and goes to West Germany? That’s fucked up!"

John, what the hell? It’s 1995.

I need to talk to her.

You need to make sure you don’t screw up this wedding.

Hey, you two, Ruth called from the open door, everyone is taking their seats.

Tom sat next to his wife and watched with concern as John accosted Amy, Hank’s wife and John’s college sweetheart. Why do you always have to be a bull in a china shop? His attention was drawn away from the confrontation to the distinguished Indian in front of him who had just said something. Pardon me?

The man introduced himself as Khushal something, and Tom’s mind was so fixated on getting the odd first name down that he didn’t hear the last name. He extended his hand. I’m Tom Staid.

Of course, Khushal said in perfect annunciated Queen’s English, you’re John’s brother. Identical twins are so rare.

Tom nodded. We’re the only pair I know.

And I understand you know Hank Rudzinski.

Tom nodded again. Hank and I went to Winston College together, and our wives have been best friends since they were kids.

That is so nice. How long has it been since you moved to California?

We moved to Needlegrass last November, so it’s been three months.

Needlegrass—that’s farming country as I recall.

Well, I’m the city manager; and most Needlegrass residents commute into San Jose, Santa Clara, and Sunnyvale.

Of course, Khushal replied. Commuting is the way of the Silicon Valley.

By this time, the large table filled, and Tom saw that Amy and Hank were at one end and John and Michele were at the other. I wonder, he mused, if Hank interrupted John’s conversation with Amy. He wanted to gawk, but Khushal was asking him something.

After three months, you must’ve drawn some conclusions. What do you find most unique about the Silicon Valley?

That’s a good question. He looked around the restaurant as the servers offered varieties of quesadillas, wafer-thin corn chips, and salsa to go along with the copious alcohol. The people.

The people?

The diversity is amazing, and everyone takes it in stride.

It’s true, Hank Rudzinski, who was opposite Tom and two over from Khushal at the table, agreed. In my hometown of DuBois, which has a whopping population of three thousand, three massive Catholic churches were built within blocks of each other: Saint Michael’s for us Polacks, Saint Joseph’s for the Lithuanians, and Saint Catherine’s for the Italians and the rest. Why? Because no way could those three immigrant groups sit down together. Hank waved his hand around the room. Just look at this.

Hank is one of our rising stars at Processed Technologies, Khushal said with a smile, because he notices things.

Tom regarded Hank’s direct gaze, considered that he was a combat veteran, and thought it best if John keep his distance. He turned to Khushal. So why did you come here?

Khushal laughed. Do you mean from India or New Jersey? He waved his hands. I left India for AT&T’s Bell Labs, spent time in Sematech, and, for the last four years, have been in California at Processed Technologies. I have made each move for the same reason: opportunity.

I suspect everyone would say that, Tom said.

That’s why I’m here, a female voice to Tom’s right said.

Tom looked at a young Asian woman with high cheekbones and wide smile. Tom leaned behind Ruth and extended his hand. Tom Staid.

I’m Jiao Lui, and I agree with Khushal. My husband and I are from Hong Kong and made plans to move here before the Chinese takeover in 1997. Opportunity fueled by stock options drives the Silicon Valley.

Tom smiled. I think my answer’s right, Khushal. The weather and geography are fantastic, but it’s the people that make it special.

"It’s like in Atlas Shrugged, John said from the other side of the table. People flee the countries and areas with too much government and bureaucracy and come to places where their talents can be best utilized and rewarded."

That is true, Khushal agreed. That is why you see so many in Silicon Valley that have fled socialist India.

Tom glanced around. That’s probably the largest non-U.S. group here.

Khushal followed Tom’s glance. I see four Indians, but there’s other groupings in this diversity.

What about ex-military? Hank asked. There’s two ex-soldiers and two former Navy nukes here.

Yes, ex-military from the ‘peace dividend’ of winning the Cold War helped the Valley, Khushal admitted.

What about native Californians? Tom asked.

The group looked around. I can’t point to a single one, Jiao said, but if you lump Mandarin speakers together—which includes those from Hong Kong, Taiwan, and mainland China—I also count four.

California is a cultural education, Tom thought. A number I talked to are from Chicago. They seem to move away from cold winters.

I’m pretty sure there’s only three from Chicago, Hank replied, and I’ve also counted three from Ireland here. He laughed. You’re right, Tom. This is a diverse group.

Did you two know each other in Pennsylvania? Khushal asked.

Well sure. Amy seated next to Hank and across from Ruth said with a laugh, Tom, John, Hank, and I went to the same college; and Ruth and I are best friends.

Khushal’s interest was piqued. And you all are from Pennsylvania?

Tom laughed. Western Pennsylvania—the old steel country.

I think we’ve found our largest group, Khushal announced. It seems we count five from Western Pennsylvania.

Tom looked down the table and ticked off Ruth, John, Hank, and Amy. "I’ll be darned. Five are from Western Pennsylvania."

And you and your lovely wife, Ruth, were the last to come.

That’s right, Tom answered. Ruth works in the Embark Electronics California office with the groom, Scott Bratson, and I’m the Needlegrass city manager. The two opportunities intersected.

And your brother has been here a while, Khushal said.

I was the first one out here, John answered. He turned and stared at Amy. I came out here solo in 1983.

Khushal missed the glance between John and Amy. He turned to Hank. And after Desert Storm in 1991, Hank left the Army and came here with his lovely wife.

So when Ruth and I moved out here, the trail was well blazed, Tom said. He shook his head. Five, wow, five wedding guests are from Western Pennsylvania.

Hank responded to Khushal’s previous comment, Although we came to the Silicon Valley in 1991 for training, Amy and I didn’t live here until 1992. He smiled at Khushal. Did you forget you sent me to Albuquerque to work on JOSEL’s tungsten for a year?

Of course! You’ve done so much since then I’d almost forgotten.

I haven’t forgotten, Hank replied. I thought I was going to get fired at the beginning.

PART I

CALIFORNIA

Chapter 1

Hank Rudzinski looked out the fourth-floor window of the AMREP building in Rio Rancho, New Mexico, at the distant snowcapped Sandia Crest. At least in winter I don’t have to worry about blowing sand, he thought. He sighed as the night shift field engineers came in from the JOSEL semiconductor fab. Hank glanced at the calendar. Tuesday, November 26, 1991—we’re coming to the end of this bizarre year. The year 1991 was ripe with bundled thoughts and emotions, but Hank had no time to ponder. His urgent problem beckoned.

He wondered if something as ridiculous as tungsten haze was going to get him fired. Hank closed his non-particle-shedding clean room notebook, secured it in his briefcase, and turned away from the window. He regarded Dan Mason, the hands-on lead field engineer for the day shift who looked every inch the high school football running back he once was.

Your troublesome chamber is still down, Dan said. We hit that chamber’s ceramic with plasma for fifteen minutes, then four hundred and seventy-five degree heat for ten hours. We’ve got the lowest base pressure of any tungsten chamber, and we still got haze.

Hank pulled his briefcase off his cubicle desk. Is it still the donut shape around the outer edge of the wafer?

Yep. It hasn’t changed in the last week through showerhead, mixing block, and ceramic changes. Dan slapped Hank’s shoulder with the back of his hand. You’re supposed to be the Tungsten Product Division’s answer to these problems. You have any more ideas?

Loopbacks.

What?

Hank shook his head. I need to get in there. Is there anything more in the pass down?

I’d say that’s enough.

Hey, Dan! Shirley Pright, a tall attractive field engineer, grabbed the lead’s bicep. You’re going to have some time for me, right?

Dan smiled. You know it.

Hank didn’t know how to regard this open supervisor-subordinate romantic relationship. That would have been impossible in the Army. He turned and walked toward the door when the site manager shot out of his office and accosted him.

You need to see me before going in the fab, Sam Fisher said as he placed himself in Hank’s path.

Why?

Sam ignored the question. Can you fix this? We’re burning a lot of hours on haze. It’s getting expensive for your division.

Hank considered the pasty-faced balding pudgy manager who dressed in absurd three-piece suits and didn’t have the sense to trim the top lip overhang of his moustache. You act imperious? "Your guys log hours to watch a screen?"

If I send a field engineer in, we have to charge your installation budget. We had two guys work last night’s shift on your problem. That’s twenty-four chargeable hours. The TPD—Tungsten Product Division needs to pay.

We have to fight our Japanese competitor Osaka Equipment, a Sematech-government-sponsored American competitor SilEq, and your biggest concern is a night’s hourly charge? You realize if we don’t get more orders, your tungsten gravy train is over.

Sam choked at the direct statement. "That’s why you’re here. That’s why we let you have a cubicle in our field office. You have to fix this. My boss was an Army West Pointer, so don’t think being a big war hero counts for anything."

And don’t think that pushing a pencil behind your desk is going to win my respect. I need to get in there. Hank turned and walked to the exit.

How many hours is it going to take? Sam called after him.

I don’t know. Hank walked to the exit and saw the receptionist, the first out of the closet homosexual he ever worked with. It didn’t matter the day or the time; Johnny Rho never had a hair out of place, always wore impeccably pressed clothes, and shined manicured fingernails.

Johnny pulled the book he was reading to his chest as Hank walked up. Good luck in there, he said with a sincere smile.

Thanks. Hank noticed the book. "You’re reading Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged?"

Yes! Have you read it?

Hank nodded. It changed my life.

I know! I’m amazed that anyone could be so lucid.

Hank was disconcerted and wanted to continue the conversation, but urgent actions called. He nodded, exited the AMREP building, went to the parking lot, and got in his 1988 Plymouth Sundance. He shivered as he started the car. I asked to get in this fight. He shook his head. I just never knew it would be so weird. He drove out of the parking lot and down the hill toward the second largest semiconductor clean room in the world: JOSEL’s Fab Rio Submicron, known by the nickname RioSub.

He pulled his Sundance into the contractor parking area, which was a good two city blocks from the building; extracted his clean room notebook as well as his contractor RioSub and RioSub clean room badge from his briefcase; took off his jacket; and got out of the car. He inhaled the biting cold air and paused to relish it. His enjoyment was cut short by the beeping of his belt-clipped pager. He looked at the number and recognized the 408 area code. Damn! That’s Santa Clara.

He looped the badge lanyard over his neck, walked across the parking lot, flashed his badges to get through the security checks, and went into the cubicle area reserved for his company: Processed Technologies. The area was identified by a partition sign stenciled with its more common nickname: P-Tech. He picked up the phone and dialed the number from his pager.

Hank! Thanks for returning my page. Things are heating up. Kim Monroe’s voice came over the phone with a breathy, flirtatious sexuality that reminded him of Demi Moore in About Last Night.

How’s that, Kim? Hank replied to his tungsten division JOSEL marketing engineer counterpart. She was based at P-Tech’s headquarters in Santa Clara, California, and prided herself as being in the know on all aspects of JOSEL’s business.

JOSEL needs another thousand wafers per week out of their new line starting workweek forty-nine. They’re threatening to go with SilEq for future buys if we fail.

I’m in the fab now. I’m on it.

But workweek forty-nine starts this Sunday, December 1!

I know when the workweek starts. Hank exhaled. I don’t need everyone to tell me how important this is.

Did any of last night’s troubleshooting work?

No, we still have haze on chamber B of PW-103, Hank answered using the designation that indicated the third P-Tech tungsten tool in the fab. Kim, I need to get in there.

Kim’s voice dropped to a bedroom whisper. There’s a lot of escalation going on. I want you to know Hank I’m pulling for you. We’re all pulling for you.

Thanks. He hung up the phone. I need to see what’s going on. Hank took his clean room notebook, ensured his ballpoint pen was clipped to the coiled plastic spiral binding, and went down the hall to the fab entrance.

Gowning up to go into a Class 1 production clean room took time. Hank always liked simple rules of thumb, and as he pulled on his disposable booties, he considered that the room he was about to enter took the average of thirty-five million particles per cubic meter in normal room air and filtered that down to thirty-five. He put on his hair net, grabbed his notebook, and walked across the tacky mat, which was like walking on the sticky end of a large piece of tape. That’s why we have to dress like this. Humans shed the most device-killing particles of anything in the HEPA—high-efficiency particulate air filtered, top-to-bottom laminar flow, raised honeycombed floor, cool humidity-controlled clean-dry-air environment.

Hank pushed the button at the end of the tacky mat, and one door opened of a small four-by-eight-foot room. He stepped in the room, the door closed behind him, and he raised his hands above his head as the jet engine sound of the air shower fired up. He rotated as the air blew off loose particles. Once the air stopped, the door opposite opened, and Hank stepped into the formal gowning area. He pulled on fingerless particle-resistant gloves that fit snug on his hands. He covered those with yellow latex gloves that he stretched onto his fingers.

Hank went to the silver metal rack area that held contractor clean room suits, got his suit off the hanger, and pulled on the hood that fully covered his head and face save for a small oval for the eyes. If I don’t fix this tungsten haze and JOSEL buys SilEq for their next tungsten tool, I’ll get fired. He put one leg and then the other in his clean room overalls, pulled them to his waist, put his hands into the arm holes, and, in a quick movement, pulled the suit over his shoulders. He pulled his JOSEL RioSub contractor clean room badge off his lanyard, affixed it to the outside, zipped his suit to his neck, and fastened the suit to this hood with six collar snaps.

Hank went back to the metal rack, got his boots, sat on the stainless steel bench, and pulled each of the knee high boots on. He ensured the boot tops were tightened so as to not slip below his calves, stood, and went to the glasses bin. He pulled a plastic covering off the certified clean safety glasses and slipped them on. I’m now dressed like spaceman, he thought. Or… like I was in my Army chemical suit. He picked up his notebook, checked his gowning work in a full-length mirror, and went to the inner air shower. He punched the button and repeated the process of entering, rotating in the blowing air, and exiting the other side.

After all that, he was finally in the clean room. JOSEL’s clean rooms were separated into bay and chase sections. The bay was where the six-inch or 150 mm device wafers were carted, in closed containers, in twenty-five wafer batch carriers from one process tool to the next. Walls separated the front of the process tools, where the device wafer carriers would be placed, from the back of the tool. All tools were placed such that the fronts faced each other and the walls created the bays. Wafer fab bays were narrow ultra-clean, foreboding white hallways that Alfred Hitchcock, if he were alive, would have a field day using as a setting for a horror dystopia film.

Behind the wall of the bays was the chase area. The chase was worse than the bays. This was where the equipment chambers and robots were accessed. This is where the cleaning called PMs—preventive maintenance took place. The chase was filled with corrosive wipes, hydrogen-fluoride cleaning baths, hydrochloric acid baths, toxic gas cabinets, high-power RF—radio frequency racks, and robots powerful enough to rip limbs off. Gas leaks, if any happened, would occur in the chase first.

On most days, Hank spent his time in the chase ensuring that the chamber and robot setups were correct. Today, he went into the bay and to the front of the three Processed Technologies tungsten machines. PW-101 was installed in August by a roving product engineer. Hank relocated to New Mexico in September and, as the resident division expert, installed PW-102 and PW-103. Things went well for PW-102, and it was signed off to JOSEL’s production in record time. PW-103 had a recalcitrant lemon chamber that never ran well and was threatening to destroy Processed Technologies tungsten business and perhaps the Tungsten Product Division along with it.

Hank picked up a light pen. The light pen was Processed Technologies’ tool interface. It was used to write recipes and control every aspect of the tool: pointing it would highlight an area of the screen; and clicking the select button would toggle valves, change screens, and pull down menus. He went to the fifteen-inch CRT—cathode ray tube screen and checked the status of each tungsten deposition tool. Eight out of nine chambers are running the important submicron test lots. He inhaled and felt the hood fabric press against his mouth. I can’t do anything until these runs are done.

There he is! an ebullient voice bellowed behind him.

Hank turned and smiled at Clark—no relation to the famous actor—Gable. What are you doing here Clark? Night shift ended an hour ago.

Oh, I know, the JOSEL operator answered. There’s a big meeting going on about starting our full product run of our Swift-7 line. He pointed to the tungsten tools. I had to make sure these test lots got done today so we can get the results by workweek forty-nine.

Hank nodded and was thankful his wife and son were visiting family in Pennsylvania for Thanksgiving. I have four days where I spend as many hours as it takes to figure this out. So PW-103 is tied up now?

Yep. We need the two well-running chambers for this priority run. Clark Gable shook his head. I don’t get it. Our old line runs fine with 96 percent yield. Why don’t we use that for Swift-7?

Hank turned to Clark. I know the answer to that. He opened his clean room notebook. He went to a blank page, drew a straight horizontal line, and then drew a dashed line above and parallel to the straight line. He drew short vertical lines from the edge of the dashed lines down so that the diagram looked like long rectangular boxes sitting on a floor. He pointed to the floor area. This is the silicon layer where the transistors—the semiconductor switches—are. He pointed to the boxes. This is the silicon dioxide dielectric layer—think of a ceramic electrical insulator. He drew a solid line above the insulator boxes. This is aluminum; it is patterned and connects the transistors through these vertical connections called vias into circuits.

So I asked why we need tungsten.

I’m telling you. This silicon, silicon dioxide, aluminum trinity powered the semiconductor industry for over thirty years—since 1959 when Bob Noyce invented the integrated circuit and Fairchild used it in their flip-flop circuit.

That’s what I’m asking. If the silicon, silicon dioxide, aluminum trinity works, why change it?

Because it only works so far. Hank pointed to the vertical alleys between the dielectric buildings. Aluminum is sputtered; that means PVD—physical vapor deposition. Think of how snow would fall on this row of buildings. Hank drew curved lines along the vertical walls and a hump at the bottom of the via. This all works fine until the distance between these dielectric buildings gets less than one micron. Then not enough snow—aluminum—can get in the via, and it’s particularly thin at the top corners.

So a connection can’t be made.

Or even worse, the device works for a while until the thin connections at the corners separate due to electromigration of aluminum molecules. Then a once-working device craps out permanently in a customer’s device. Semiconductor companies have gone out of business due to electromigration. He drew a crystal pattern filling in the via. That’s why we use tungsten. It’s CVD—chemical vapor deposition that overcomes the sputter issues and allows the connections of the transistors to the metal layers at vias of less than one micron.

And what’s that buy us?

Hank did a double take. What’s that buy us? He pointed to the old non-tungsten line. That line runs Swift-3s, which currently power the industry but are being copied at lower price by the Japanese. Each Swift-3 has three hundred and ten thousand transistors. He pointed to the tungsten machines. When they start Swift-7s on this line with tungsten, each device will have one million one hundred thousand transistors—nearly four times as much. Depending on yield, JOSEL will get eighty to a hundred good devices on a six-inch wafer. No one in Japan is even close!

Well damn! Let’s get this fucking haze problem fixed!

That’s why I’m here.

Another JOSEL engineer, Mark Whisek, came up to the two. Clark, did you get the test lots running?

All done.

Good, then you’re off until six this evening.

Clark nodded and departed. Mark turned to Hank. We’ve got a big tungsten meeting upstairs. You need to be there.

When does it start?

In ten minutes, at eight o’clock.

Damn! I just got in here.

The meeting was an internal JOSEL RioSub discussion on the bottleneck of the upcoming Swift-7 run: the tungsten haze problem. A small conference room, with walls mounted with whiteboards, was the scene of the discussion.

We need to map the wave patterns of the gas flows using Fourier transform functions, Joseph Block, materials science and engineering PhD from MIT—Massachusetts Institute of Technology, said with a straight face. He waved his hand that displayed his MIT brass rat ring. There must be a wave pattern concentrating at the outer edge of the wafer causing the haze.

No, Joe, that’s not the way to go, Charlie Wong, chemistry PhD from Caltech—California Institute of Technology, countered. This is a hydrogen-reduced thermal reaction, and we know something is poisoning the edge of the wafer. We need to hook up an RGA—residual gas analyzer to the chamber ports so we can figure out what’s happening.

No no no! Tamil Ramesh, physics PhD from the University of Michigan, said with exasperation. You’re making it too complicated. We need to hook up chart recorders to all the MFCs—mass flow controllers and pressure-sensing capacitance manometers so we can map out the partial pressures of each gas. This is a chemical vapor deposition reaction and…

Hank sat next to Mark Whisek and noted that Mark was silent during the debate. This is a complete waste of time. He cleared his throat. Why don’t we baseline the chamber?

The three PhDs turned to him with surprised expressions. You think because you shimmed a robot in the Santa Clara marathon that you get to tell us how to do process? Joseph Block asked.

Look, I’ve got some experience in troubleshooting complex pro—

Do you even have a graduate degree? Tamil asked.

Well, er… yeah… from the University of Southern Mississippi, but that’s not—

The three burst into laughter. Where? You got a graduate degree from where?

Well I got most of my credits from the Air Force and—

Stop! Just stop, Charlie Wong said. If we’d have gone with Sematech’s recommendation of SilEq tungsten tool, we wouldn’t have to collect this data ourselves. P-Tech didn’t do its homework, and now we’re going to miss our Swift-7 wafer starts. He turned back to Joe and Tamil. "Why don’t we do both chart recorders and RGAs?"

Hank sat despondent in the Processed Technologies cube area after the meeting. How the hell can I get this fixed by Monday? These guys love to churn data and won’t even acknowledge my input. He put his elbows on his knees, dropped his chin to his hands, and found no path save failure. Why did P-Tech even send me here?

Hey, Mark Whisek said as he entered the P-Tech cube area.

Hank lifted his chin and turned to the only JOSEL engineer that was silent throughout the meeting. Yes?

The test wafers will be done at six. You may want to get some ideas together from your P-Tech experts.

I’ve got some ideas, but how am I supposed to do anything?

We never signed the tool off, so technically, you’re still in charge.

Like your PhD friends would go for that. Hank looked at Mark. You didn’t say anything in there.

Mark shrugged. They were talking about science experiments on a production tool. That makes no sense.

I’m glad to hear you say that. Are you a PhD?

Mark shook his head. No, I’ve got a Master of Science in Electrical Engineering from Cal Poly—California Polytechnic State University in SLO.

Cool, I was an EE undergrad. What’s SLO?

San Luis Obispo—a great college town. Anyway, the Cal Poly motto is ‘Learn by doing,’ and that’s what I suggest you do at six.

What’s that?

Do something!

Hank left JOSEL at lunchtime and drove down the hill to his apartment in Corrales, New Mexico. He parked and noticed a pair of horseback riders that were pointing to three hot air balloons on the hazy horizon. He liked that the small town of Corrales managed to keep its horses and sleepy Western culture while sandwiched between Albuquerque and Rio Rancho. He entered his apartment and felt impending failure. How the fuck am I supposed to go up against three PhDs?

He went to the cupboards and decided on a toasted cheese sandwich with tomato soup for lunch. I can’t wait for Amy and Michael to get back. This is the third time in four days I’ve had this. His wife also took their dog on the Thanksgiving visit. I can’t even play with our sheltie Lenny. My whole family is having a fun family visit while I face this calamity. No matter how urgent the problem, Hank couldn’t do anything until the test lots were done. He ate his sandwich and was finishing his soup when a loud rap on the door interrupted his contemplation.

He opened the door and faced a delivery man. Yes?

Are you Captain Hank Rudzinski?

I’m Hank Rudzinski. I got out of the Army five months ago.

We have your box.

Box?

I’ll need your help to unload it.

Hank followed the deliveryman outside and did a double take when he saw the large black footlocker. I forgot about this!

The man pointed to the paperwork and the white stenciled letters on top. See, it’s even labeled Captain Rudzinski on top.

That’s mine. I last saw this in Iraq.

Really?

I forgot this was coming back by ship.

The two manhandled the heavy box into his apartment and placed it next to his bedroom desk. After the deliveryman departed, Hank sat in his desk chair and stared at the talisman from a different world. After all these months, this shows up? He reached in his pants pocket, withdrew his keys, and examined the contents of his key ring. The largest thing on his ring was a dog tag, and he rubbed the impressed letters with his thumb. From my first set of dog tags I got in boot camp in Fort Sill, Oklahoma. He flicked the dog tag aside and looked at the barrel key he last used to secure this box. I wonder why I kept this on my key ring. He nodded. My past self wanted to make sure I could open it when the time came. He lifted his eyes to the box and considered the dent on the side. That stupid box saved my life in West Germany.

He worked the sealed wire around the left catch and unlatched it. He paused and regarded the right locked catch. Is it really a good idea to open this with everything on my mind? He shrugged. Like I could stop now. He inserted the barrel key into the lock, twisted, extended the shackle, and removed it. He popped the right latch and, without time for further misgivings, opened the box so that the top stopped nearly vertical by its side chains. Sand drifted down, and a faint, but unmistakable, desert aroma hit his nose. The hair on the back of Hank’s neck stood on end.

He reached in the box and pulled out a sand-colored Iraqi helmet liner that had symbols painted on the side. His stomach tightened. Fucking souvenirs! He pulled out his sheathed, double-edged ten-inch dagger and sat there holding the helmet in one hand and the knife in the other. What fucking good is any of this now? He looked in the box, snorted at seeing a plastic bag full of Iraqi sand, and then noticed another item. He placed the helmet and dagger on the floor and extracted a bagged sand-covered black beret with a pinned brass insignia. This is from that Iraqi Republican Guard prisoner I helped capture. He felt the insignia under the bag. From the Hammurabi Division.

He shook his head. What the fuck am I doing? He replaced the items and slammed the lid shut. A light cloud of sand puffed out the sides. He wanted to turn his head away, but his eyes were riveted to the Captain Rudzinski stenciled letters on the lid. He pounded the top with his fist. I was a U.S. Army captain, I led a fucking convoy in a war zone, saw tank-on-tank combat, captured prisoners, and now I’m at the mercy of three JOSEL PhDs? His brow furrowed. What was the charge all the way from ROTC, West Germany, and Iraq? He remembered his ROTC sergeant major’s advice just before getting commissioned. All great victories, all decisive battles, all great achievements occurred and will occur when the guy in charge bets the farm on a do-or-die move.

Hank stood and paced in the hallway. I don’t know the do-or-die move. The sergeant major from his past instructed him. He could still hear the voice in his head. And the last thing is a trick to get the job done when your superiors are ducking and covering their ass. When all is going to shit and you figure out the one move that saves the day—the one go-all-in move—most of your superiors will not support it because they’re looking for someone to blame. That’s when you bet your bars. If you can find the stones to bet your bars—and let your soldiers see you doing it—you’ll have unlimited power. And then you’ll learn, and I suspect enjoy, the magic that follows; for when you’re willing to bet your bars on a course of action, all the forces in the universe come to your aid.

His stomach tightened. But it’s not the same! He walked into the living room. I don’t know the right move, and I don’t have bars to bet. His pager beeped. He went to the kitchen shelf area where he piled his pocket contents, lifted the pager off his contractor badges, and looked at the number. That’s the clean room phone next to the tungsten tools. He called and was informed that PW-103 would be available in a half an hour. He set his pager down and picked up his badges. A mission is a mission. It’s not about blame, and it doesn’t matter that I don’t know how to do this. It’s about accountability—ultimate accountability. Hank looked at his badges. I may not have bars, but I can bet my badge! If that doesn’t make things move, nothing will. He looked at the clock and realized he’d have the evening shift to come up with something. I need to get in there and figure it out. He thought of the black box in his bedroom. I always do my best work on night shift.

He drove to the JOSEL fab and realized that accountability was the be all and end all. In his mind’s eye, he pulled aside the curtain of Mickey Mouse obfuscation and saw the situation anew. The PhDs don’t know. They’re hiding behind their education. The site manager, Sam Fisher, doesn’t know; the lead, Dan Mason, doesn’t know; tungsten division in Santa Clara doesn’t know; they all just want this problem to go away or, failing that, have a smokescreen that absolves them of blame. He pulled into the parking lot. The only way to break through this is to utterly own it—utterly own it. That’s where I come in.

He entered the clean room, and Clark Gable was waiting for him. I’ve got a hundred test wafers lined up for you, Clark said as he pointed to a rack next to the front of PW-103.

Hank pointed to the other two tungsten tools that had green production lights on. What are they doing?

Still running. We’ll finish the test lots on those two tools in a couple of hours, but we have your haze tool free. I hope you’ve got some ideas.

I do. I’ve decided to own this thing. Hank stared at the green lights. Two tools are running without issue. They have the same hardware and the same chemical process recipe. I need to find out what’s running different in my haze chamber. He went behind the tools into the chase and accessed the screens of the running tools. He heard the pneumatic valves’ rhythmic popping,