Three Knots to Nowhere (11 page)

Even though the welds had passed all examinations, the ultimate test was subjecting them to actual conditions.

So far, they proved their soundness. I prayed they would withstand test depth.

Additionally, the realization that any component exposed to the sea can fail under the unrelenting pressure of the ocean's depths created consternation.

Lewis's reminder that the
Thresher
was lost during her post-overhaul dive to test depth fueled my concerns.

Similar to our situation, the
Thresher
was beyond the continental shelf. She sank in 8400 feet of water. The ocean at our location was not quite as deep. Unfortunately, it was much more than the
Henry Clay
's crush depth. Crush depth is a calculated value. It is 30 to 35 percent greater than test depth. If something went wrong, it would not matter if we were only one foot below the FBM's limit. We would be just as dead.

The most likely initiator of the
Thresher
's demise was the failure of a small seawater pipe. The highly pressurized water sprayed electrical equipment and caused a reactor SCRAM. With the reactor shutdown, the propulsion system became disabled and lost the ability to drive the
Thresher
to the surface. With the influx of water giving her negative buoyancy, the submarine sank even farther. Her captain resorted to his last option. He ordered an emergency blow to the surface. Unfortunately, a design flaw in the blow system allowed the air-lines to become clogged with ice. Unable to lighten enough to reach the surface, the submarine slipped back deeper and deeper to her doom. When
Thresher
imploded, all 129 men died instantly.

The
Thresher
's support ship was unable to do anything to save the submarine and crew.

If we developed similar problems, the only thing our escort, the USS
Falcon
, would be able to do was record our death song.

Metzgus's voice in my headphones interrupted my morbid thoughts. He informed all stations we were starting our excursion into the cold, dark depths of the ocean. The submarine confirmed his statement. Her sympathetic reaction to the ocean swells slowly subsided as the submarine went deeper. Soon, the boat's movement through the sea became undetectable.

When we reached 100 feet, the submarine stopped descending and all stations were inspected for leaks. Although I had been continuously watching for problems, I made a more comprehensive inspection of every nook and cranny of the tunnel. Then I peered through each yellow-tinted lead-glass window and inspected the reactor compartment. Poor lighting and a limited range of vision provided an extra level of difficulty. If a leak developed inside the reactor compartment, the best chance of detecting it would be the glint of water spraying or the compartment fogging. At the conclusion of my inspection, I reported that my areas were satisfactory.

When all the other stations reported similar conditions, the submarine descended another 100 feet. The process would repeat until our arrival at test depth or until we had to abort.

While the submarine was descending to 75 percent of test depth, I heard the sound of someone clomping up the tunnel stairs.

Schweikert entered the space from machinery 2. He walked to my side, looked at the overhead, and said, “Gee, you can't tell where the hole in the hull used to be. The one above maneuvering is the same way.”

Facing forward and looking up, I responded, “Yeah, I've tried to find any evidence of where it was. Those yardbirds did a good job.”

Schweikert added, “Let's hope it's as sound as it looks.”

Suddenly, cold water struck the back of my neck.

Something was leaking.

A knot formed in my stomach. I was on the verge of panic. Controlling my emotions, I recalled a lesson drummed into me repeatedly: remain calm and assess the situation. It was only a stream and not a huge flood; therefore, the immediate safety of the submarine and her crew was not in jeopardy. First, I needed to discover what was leaking.

As my mind drafted a report to maneuvering, I quickly turned towards the stream.

It did not take more than a moment to determine its source.

Lewis was standing in front of me. He started laughing hysterically. In his meaty upraised hand was a partially filled plastic bottle. The spray was coming from it. He directed the flow onto my face and chest until the bottle was empty.

Lewis finally contained himself, “I wish we had a camera. The expression on your face was priceless.”

“You guys got me good. I'll say this, though: I'd rather it be a prank than a real leak.”

As they left the tunnel, Schweikert wondered aloud if they could get anyone else. I scolded myself for falling for such an obvious stunt. There wasn't any reason to doubt the hull's integrity.

Once again, the submarine moaned disconcertingly as we took the next step towards test depth. The sounds made me wonder what the crews of
Thresher
and
Scorpion
had heard as they headed towards destruction. The thought was too morbid to dwell on. I hoped their crews believed they could save their boats and fought valiantly to the end.

The
Thresher
's and the
Scorpion
's hulls were HY-80, just like the
Clay
's. What did I know about the substance?

During Nuclear Power School, we had a course on metallurgy. It mostly delved into the metals involving reactor components, but a small portion taught us about this material.

Its yield strength was 80,000 pounds per square inch (psi). This incredibly large value gives a false impression about how deep a submarine can dive without collapsing. Water exerted 0.433 psi for every foot we descended. The deepest spot in the ocean is 35,810 feet below the surface. That means the maximum sea pressure is 15,505.73 psi.

What does the 80,000 psi really mean?

Yield strength is a measure of how much pulling force a substance can endure and still spring back to its original shape. Highly ductile materials can change shape quite a bit and return to their original form after the stress is gone. Rubber bands are ductile but icicles are not. Our hull, being ductile, would constrict the deeper we went, as sea pressure increased, and then return to its original configuration when the pressure lessened.

More important than its strength was HY-80's ductility.

HY-80 had its limits, as demonstrated by the
Thresher
's hull collapsing. Contrary to what most people imagine, a submarine's hull telescopes in and does not flatten like a pancake. Although the
Clay
could safely dive deeper than
Thresher
, both submarines had to perform their dive to test depth, in waters far deeper than crush depth. A rhetorical question bantered about by submariners: When a submarine sinks, what actually kills the crew? Is it the wall of water or the wall of flame? Either way, it happens too fast for those on board to know what hit them.

Suddenly, I heard several loud bangs in my headphones. Quickly following the unsettling noises was a panic-stricken voice yelling, “Emergency in the galley!”

I expected the
Clay
to rise and escape the crushing sea pressure. Instead, she remained stationary and the headphones were silent. A few minutes later, much to my chagrin, the submarine descended to the next step of the test.

The deeper we went, the more stressed I became. Having water sprayed on me and the mysterious report of an emergency in the galley added to my anxiety. The probability of a leak and the resulting negative consequences vastly increased the deeper we descended. With every level change, the
Henry Clay
's hull complained about the unrelenting sea pressure surrounding her. Random unnerving pops and groans emanated throughout the boat as she reacted to going deeper and deeper. The noises kept the danger of our situation in the forefront of my mind. A submarine operates on the edge of survivability. Our excursion to test depth challenged those limits even further.

Feeling the pressure of my responsibility to the rest of the crew, I constantly checked my spaces for problems.

Finally, the submarine achieved test depth.

I could hardly wait for the
Clay
to escape from the clutches of test depth's unrelenting sea pressure.

It seemed as if we remained at test depth for an eternity. The reports trickled in. The
Clay
's crew were taking their time making comprehensive inspections.

Southerland was the first to report. He had good news. The worrisome shaft seal leakage had only increased a little from what it was at 100 feet. The packing gland was working as designed. A sense of relief washed over me.

My report of no leaks and no problems was similar to the others.

We were still missing one report. As I waited for Mike Pavlov to make his report from lower level auxiliary machinery room 2, my idle mind had time to imagine all sorts of possible troubles.

Pavlov was one of our most diligent crewmen. No matter what he did, he did it perfectly. His reports were always one of the last.

Finally, we heard Pavlov say over the 2JV, “Maneuvering. Lower level AMR 2. All conditions normal. No leaks or problems.”

Metzgus made his required response: “Lower level AMR 2, maneuvering aye.”

Once again, the butterflies in my stomach settled. I exhaled and felt relieved.

Despite test depth's unrelenting sea pressure, the
Henry Clay
had survived.

Like before, the submarine announced the start of our ascent by moaning, popping and creaking, as the merciless sea relaxed its deadly grip.

Before long, I heard a welcome announcement to secure from deep submergence.

I stuffed the 2JV headset into its storage locker and headed aft.

When at the bottom of the steps in AMR2, I saw Southerland. He was having a conversation with Marchbanks and Lewis. Curious, I wandered over.

Marchbanks was describing the mysterious emergency in the galley report. “It really wasn't an emergency. Just some sheet-metal rivets popping. A piece of sheet metal wasn't the right size. It flexed too much as the hull shrunk. The mess cook had every reason to be scared. The rivets were ricocheting like crazy.”

After sea trials, the
Clay
returned to Charleston and we turned over the boat to the Blue Crew.

Our stay in Charleston went by quickly. As with all nuclear submarine crews, training filled our days. Southerland and I managed to squeeze in stimulating the local economy and playing basketball while hung over.

Before we knew it, it was time to take control of the
Clay
from the Blue Crew. We would be conducting sound trials out of Roosevelt Roads, Puerto Rico. The
Clay
and the Blue Crew were waiting for us.

First, the Gold Crew had to get to Puerto Rico. We flew in a propeller-driven troop transport from Charleston. The 1000-mile journey was the worst flight I had ever experienced. The plane did not have a bathroom. If someone had to urinate, there was a hole on the port side of the plane. The trip was over the ocean, so people below were safe. Anyone needing to do “number two” had to use a bag and dispose it when we landed. The seating accommodations were not much better. There were four rows of web seats, running parallel to the sides of the aircraft. The middle two rows were back to back. The backs of the outside rows were against the sides of the plane. To make matters worse, the facing seats were so close the people in the middle and outer rows had to interlock their legs. That even included me, in spite of my short legs. Tall men like Southerland were worse off. If someone wanted to move forward or aft, he had to walk along the backs of the seats in the middle of the aircraft. Submariners are used to close quarters, but this was ridiculous.

Things did not get much better after we landed. Our transportation was tractor-trailer trucks with wooden benches. It was a miserable trip from the airport to the barrack at the Roosevelt Roads Naval Base. The heat and humidity of Florida did not hold a candle to the climate of Puerto Rico, especially while we were stuffed in unventilated sweatboxes. By the end of the trip, my dress white uniform was soaked with sweat. The barrack was not bad, but we were grateful to move back into the submarine.

That evening we discovered an enlisted man's club within walking distance of the
Clay
. Being good submariners, the Gold Crew paid it a visit. It turned out to be our last. A shot of rum was ten cents and we capitalized on the deal. I was sitting on the club's outside patio with Southerland, Souder, and several other crewmates. Our waiter would take drink orders, but he would not pick up the empty glasses. This turned into a problem, because the bartender was running out of glasses. We in turn, due to our inebriated state, refused to get up and take the glasses back. I cannot remember who threw the first empty glass off the patio onto an asphalt parking area fifteen feet below us, but we all joined in, whenever there was an empty glass. It wasn't long before the shore patrol showed up and banned us from the club. We were lucky to escape the brig. I think it was because there were so many of us and we had to begin sound trials the next morning.

As scheduled, the
Clay
and her hung-over crew left for sound trials the next morning.

Sound trials determined the
Clay
's noise level. A stationary barge packed with sophisticated listening devices recorded our sounds, as the submerged submarine sailed past it. Each pass was carefully scripted. Hundreds of cards delineated every imaginable combination of equipment and speed of the submarine. We aligned the equipment as required and then sailed past the barge. When the sensors captured an adequate recording, we made the next alignment. The process was repeated over and over.

After experts analyzed each recording, we would know which combination was best for certain situations. One of the more significant conditions was ultra quiet. It was the
Clay
's absolute quietest combination. The analysis also determined the
Clay
's signature. A signature is like a fingerprint. Every vessel has one; each is unique and is used for identification.