Three Knots to Nowhere

by Ted E. Dubay

  Covering the center of the bench section were alarms and associated cutout switches. There was an array of dials and meters scattered on the remainder of the panel. With my head swimming, I stood. I squeezed by Davis and sat in the seat for the electric plant control panel, with hands clasped behind me. I figured this posture would give Davis peace of mind that I would keep my hands off the panel. It must have accomplished the desired effect, because he did not reprimand me. I did notice that his general body posture implied a readiness to prevent me from touching anything.

  Electricians operated the Clay’s major electrical equipment from this panel. The bench portion had an excellent one-line representation of the submarine’s electrical system. There were two complete redundant trains. The left side was a mirror image of the right.

  Davis described the icons, at the top of the mimic, going from left to right. The symbol furthest left represented the port ships service turbine generator (SSTG). Next were the emergency diesel generator (E D/G), the shore power connection, and the starboard SSTG. When the reactor produced enough power, two SSTGs were in service and the electric plant was in a full-power lineup.

  I mentally traced the left portion of the plastic representation. The line went left and then down towards me. Then it proceeded to an icon for the 300 kw motor-generator. I recalled seeing it in auxiliary machinery 2 lower level. To the representation’s right were two large black control knobs. They controlled the M/G’s mode of operation. Exiting the M/G symbol, the plastic line continued down a short distance and took a ninety-degree angle towards the center of the panel. In the middle was a representation of the Clay’s 126-cell battery. I looked at the right half of the panel. It was a mirror image of the left. Embedded at strategic places in both sides of the mimic were circuit breaker control switches.

  The Clay’s normal electrical configuration consisted of two electrically separated SSTGs. Each generator supplied its half of the electrical system, also called a train. The SSTG provided power to electrical busses, which supplied individual loads. The SSTG also drove the motor end of the M/G. The M/G’s generator end produced DC power to various loads and kept the 126-cell battery charged. This was a normal full-power lineup.

  Sometimes, one SSTG was unavailable. In this situation, the electrical operator paralleled the two electrical trains and powered both halves of the electrical system from one SSTG. This was a half-power lineup.

  If both turbine generators were lost, usually because of a reactor SCRAM, the electrical operator used the M/G’s black knobs to swap the AC and DC ends of the motor-generators. The DC end transformed from a generator to a motor and the AC end became a generator. The battery then provided all the power to the submarine. In order to conserve the battery, the crew rigged the submarine for reduced electrical power by turning off all nonessential electrical equipment. Designated compartment individuals aligned equipment according to bulkhead checklists. That extended the time the battery could supply power.

  Various reasons required using the emergency diesel generator. When it is in service, sailors call it snorkeling. On patrol, the diesel was only used as the last resort. Even though it had special mounts to prevent transmitting noise outside the boat, it was still too noisy. The last thing an FBM wanted to do was give away its position to the enemy.

  In port, shore power supplied electricity to the Clay. If there was a loss of shore power, the crew did not hesitate using the diesel.

  I shifted my attention to the reactor plant control panel. I surveyed the bench portion of the panel. It had a representation of the reactor coolant system. There were icons for the reactor, main coolant pumps, pressurizer, and the coolant-loop isolation valves. I spied a pistol-grip switch in the middle of the reactor panel. There was a label below it that read, “In-Hold-Out.”

  Davis saw me staring at the switch and said, “We simply call it the In-Hold-Out switch. It operates the reactor control rods.”

  Later in her career, the Clay’s reactor gained the nickname “Ralph.” A reactor operator was performing a reactor startup. He had spent the previous evening imbibing in too much liquid refreshment and was really hung over. He controlled his queasy stomach until the reactor was critical. While the EOOW made the 2MC announcement that the reactor was critical, the broadcast included the sounds of the reactor operator puking his guts out. From that day on, the nucs called the reactor Ralph.

  Davis pointed out a temperature meter on the vertical section. It was the Tave indicator. Tave is nuclear jargon for the average temperature of the water transferring the heat from the nuclear reactor. As the water passes over the fuel, it picks up heat. The hot water exiting the reactor is called Thot or Th. The liquid then passes through tubes in steam generators and heats up when it produces steam for driving the propulsion turbines and electrical turbine generators. The water leaving the steam generators is relatively cold and is termed Tcold. Nuclear reactors have strict design operating parameters. Keeping the water temperature within limits is crucial to safe reactor operation. Therefore, the Tave meter is very important.

  Nestled in a myriad of indicators, the middle portion of the meter’s indicating range was green. The left edge of the green section was the low limit of the reactor coolant system’s average operating temperature. The right was the highest. The amount of steam sent to the propulsion turbines varied according to the bell the throttleman was answering. As bells changed, the throttleman had to respond quickly. That changed how much heat was drawn from the reactor coolant system. The reactor operator had to match the heat demanded by the turbines with the heat generated by the reactor, by raising or lowering power. If heat demanded was more than what the reactor produced, the temperature of the reactor coolant system could go below the lower limit of the green band and vice versa.

  The chain across the door to maneuvering rattled. Horne was back.

  After entering maneuvering, he asked if there were any changes in plant status. Davis told him everything was the same.

  As Horne settled into the reactor plant control panel’s chair, he commented, “OK, I got it. By the way, Eaglebeak, it was nice meeting you. Don’t make yourself a stranger in these parts.”

  Davis and I exited maneuvering and headed aft on the diamond deck plates paving the walkway. Immediately behind maneuvering was an electrical distribution panel, with rows and rows of 480-volt breakers. Filling the compartment’s overhead was a maze of wires and pipes.

  The smooth curvature of the sub’s hull formed the overhead and sides. We were standing on the centerline of the boat. To our left and right were the port and starboard 2000-kw ships service turbine generators. The walkway extended aft and up two steps between the generators.

  Davis grinned and remarked that the coffee pot just inboard of the forward portion of the port generator was the first piece of gear I would learn to operate. Junior nucs had to make and deliver coffee, especially to the guys stuck in maneuvering.

  At the aft end of the diamond-deck walkway were throttle wheels identical to the ones on the steam plant control panel. These were for use in emergencies. Left and right of them were the main propulsion turbines, normally called the main engines.

  I was about to go up the steps, when he indicated we use the walkway on the outboard side of the port turbine generator. It led us past the port main engine.

  I gawked at the plethora of pipes, valves, emergency air breathing (EAB) manifolds, and battle lanterns. The true shape of the FBM’s round pressure hull was clearly visible. As it continued aft, I could see it tapered down smaller and smaller. I became transfixed with the image of the Clay as a sleek cigar-shaped projectile smoothly slipping though the ocean carrying out its secret missions.

  We stopped just aft of the propulsion turbines. The shaft of each main engine extended into a large housing. It contained the reduction gears. They combined the power from the two propulsion turbines and transmitted it to the Clay’s single main shaft. Embedded in the shaft was the DC emergency propulsion motor (EPM).
It was mainly used when the main engines were unavailable, such as after a reactor SCRAM.

  The area also housed the aft signal ejector and the 2000-gallon-per-day distillation unit. The still was difficult to operate, but Mike Pavlov eventually mastered it.

  We had finally gone as far aft as possible. I could see the pressure hull tapering down. The inside of the boat terminated at a flat bulkhead. Although we had plenty of headroom, the diameter of the space was significantly smaller here than anywhere else in the submarine. Just beyond the bulkhead were the stern planes, rudder, and the screw. Crossing over to the starboard side, he pointed out the main hydraulic pumps. They supplied the hydraulic fluid for operating the planes, rudder, masts, and periscopes. Davis slipped down a vertical ladder to engine room lower level (ERLL). I followed.

  Another cramped area greeted me. It was easy to see how a claustrophobic person could have problems. There were no easy exits.

  The main propulsion shaft exited the submarine through the aft bulkhead. A scary thought flashed in my brain. There had to be enough clearance between the shaft and the hull such that there was not any rubbing. That meant there was an open conduit from inside the submarine to surrounding water. To ensure the ocean stayed on the correct side of the submarine’s hull, engineers designed shaft seals with a very tortuous path between inside and outside. I hoped the engineers did a good job. Every foot of water adds 0.433 pounds per square inch (psi) of pressure. At 400 feet, the pressure increased to 172 psi. That amount of pressure could cut a man in half. There was an even more disconcerting fact. As the pressure increased, the number of gallons a minute from any leak increased proportionately. That is what doomed the USS Thresher.

  We turned and headed forward to the condenser bay. The aft end of it had an opening the size and shape of a watertight hatch. On the other end of the condenser bay, about ten feet forward of us, was a similar one. Unlike the others, these had half doors and were made of thin metal.

  The condensers on either side of the bay converted the steam from the turbines to water. Seawater passed through one side of the heat exchanger. It condensed the steam. Condensate pumps sent the water back to the steam generators.

  Davis showed me a salinity cell. It monitored the conductivity of the water returning to the steam generators. Normally, this liquid was very pure and would not conduct electricity. If seawater leaked into the condensate side of the main condenser, it made the water conduct electricity. Salinity cells detected the current. If it went high enough, the cell sent an alarm to a panel on the back edge of maneuvering. Ninety-nine percent of the alarms were false. The remedy was simply cleaning the salinity cell.

  Exiting the condenser bay brought us into the forward part of engine room lower level. This section was about the same size as the lube oil and condenser bays combined. My head swam, trying to drink in everything I saw—condensate pumps, main seawater pumps, auxiliary water pumps, chill water pumps, trim and drain pumps, air conditioning units, et cetera, et cetera. There was double of everything.

  Davis tapped me on the shoulder, pointed up, laughed, and cryptically stated, “See those three can-looking things? They’re for the bottom posts of maneuvering’s chairs.”

  We climbed up a ladder. To my surprise, we were just port of the Clay’s centerline and a little aft of maneuvering. A glance revealed Horne sitting and scanning the RPCP. I quickly checked the base of the chair. A single metal pole extended down from the seat. About eight inches from the deck was a foot-ring. The pole disappeared into the deck.

  Davis left the engine room. I followed him through the opening. Much to my relief, we silently retraced our path through machinery 2 upper level, the tunnel, and into machinery 1 upper level. I scanned the compartment one final time before climbing the ladder and exiting the submarine.

  My first encounter with life on the Henry Clay was complete. The demands of submarine duty caused questions to whirl through my mind. Prior to my joining the Navy, outside activities dominated my life. How would I react to confinement in a submarine for months on end? Could I adapt to submarine culture? Even though prototype had exposed me to casualty conditions, would I maintain my composure in actual life-and-death situations when over a hundred other men were depending on me? The Henry Clay was capable of annihilating millions of people. How would this awesome level of involvement in the Cold War affect me?

  Any doubts of my ability to make it as a submariner were tempered. I was 20 years old with unbridled confidence and determination. My previous prototype success was also comforting. With regards to the dangers, the “can’t happen to me” attitude of “indestructible youth” was strong within me and did not allow me to fully comprehend the actual dangers involved. I made a promise to myself that I would measure up and become a top-notch submariner.

  Managing to pass through the rigorous gauntlet of qualifying for submarine duty was only the first step of becoming a true submariner. Graduating from Submarine School had earned me the designation of submarine unqualified (SU). Qualified submariners called SUs non-quals. We were considered the next to lowest level in the Navy. In a submariner’s eye, the only Navy people lower than submarine unqualified sailors were skimmers. In order to lose the moniker of SU, I needed to learn all of the USS Henry Clay’s systems and pass extensive examinations.

  I developed a plan. The first step was getting a concept of the general layout of the major equipment. Qualifying would be like prototype: I would learn one system at a time. The Clay’s piping tab, a pocket-sized booklet with one-line drawings of all of the FBM’s systems, would be my guide through the journey.

  I knew the quest of receiving a submariner’s Holy Grail, my Dolphins, would not be easy. When aboard the Clay, I’d have to devote all of my spare time towards qualifying.

  In spite of the arduous task ahead, pride welled within me. I could visualize Dolphins on my chest and being a member of the elite submarine force.

  Since I was still technically a fireman, I spent the first part of the Clay’s overhaul as a shipyard mess cook. The lowly duty only lasted a few months. When the official results of my third-class electrician’s mate test arrived, mess cooking ended and I began performing electrical work.

  The promotion to petty officer third-class was effective from the date of the exam. I received the back pay in a lump sum. Southerland, Souder, and I used some of it for a nice celebration at a notorious local establishment.

  The overhaul would convert the Clay’s missile system from the shorter-range Polaris A-2 to the much longer-range A-3. I found one modification comforting. Workers were repairing a design flaw in the emergency blow system. The same flaw had prevented the USS Thresher from reaching the surface and condemned her to doom.

  Chapter 9

  * * *

  Test Depth

  As the overhaul progressed, I gained the ancillary assignment of logroom yeoman. I was responsible for all the engineering department paperwork and technical manuals.

  Just as Davis suspected, he became my mentor. I was happy with the arrangement. The man was a wealth of knowledge, a patient teacher, and a good friend. As workers slowly reassembled the Clay and in between my logroom tasks, there were more opportunities for him to impart his experience.

  By the end of the overhaul, I was performing electrical duties on my own, such as taking battery gravities, operating and monitoring equipment, cleaning salinity cells, and making minor repairs. I also became an expert on the lube oil sumps’ electrostatic precipitators.

  Davis encouraged Lewis and me to join him on the Henry Clay flag football team. We went undefeated, won the Charleston area championship, and played in the Naval District playoffs in Memphis, Tennessee. True to traditional submarine camaraderie, the team unanimously voted to stay intact and not replace anyone with stars from other teams. We did not advance far, but we were competitive against Naval Air Base teams, which had more than 50,000 potential players. The team unity made me proud of being in the submarine service.

  In Aug
ust of 1969, I took and passed the rating advancement test for second-class electrician’s mate. The result surprised me, because 75 percent of the test was on electrical elevators, an item foreign to submarines.

  In March 1970, the Clay’s overhaul was complete. The officers and men assigned to the Clay during her refurbishment were divided into the Blue and Gold Crews. I became a member of the Gold Crew, under the command of Commander Robert Montross.

  The Gold Crew’s first evolution was performing a fast cruise. The name is a misnomer; the submarine didn’t travel anywhere. Fast had nothing to do with speed. The submarine remained tied fast to a pier.

  Under these conditions, we could safely test almost all of the Clay’s systems. If something went wrong, plenty of assistance was readily available and the boat could only sink a few feet before settling to the bottom.

  It was a grueling test of the crew and submarine. The Clay’s complement had to react to normal and casualty situations. Not meeting established standards required repeating the evolution until we were judged satisfactory.

  The fast cruise revealed a problem with one feedwater surge tank’s level indicators. With a smile on his face and reminding me of his prediction, Davis assigned me to make the repair. After giving me some pointers, he obtained the new level column, a wrench, a drop light, and an air hose. I shoved the wrench into my pocket. We walked to the tank, which was located forward of maneuvering. The tank’s manway was near the bottom. Davis put the hose into the tank and initiated ventilation. Feeling nervous, I lay on my back and stuck my head into the opening. Davis handed me the drop light and level column. My feet pushed against the back of the SPCP and propelled me into the tank. As soon as my head touched the side of the tank, I angled it up, until my back was against the side. With feet continuing to push, my back slid up the tank, until I was standing. There was barely enough room to move my arms. I told Davis to push the hose further into the tank so it was close to my face. I took a couple of deep breaths and let the butterflies in my stomach settle. Feeling secure about my air supply calmed me and I quickly replaced the level detector. Exiting was the reverse of entering, although gravity assisted my descent. My feet exited first and I hoped they were not going to slip and make my back slide down too fast. Leaving the tank went smoothly, and other than being covered in black corrosion products, which took weeks to disappear, I suffered no ill effects. The task proved I was not the least bit claustrophobic.