POWER DOWN

The snow muffles the sound of the tracks. Deep snow, up to the top of the rails, makes the sound of the steel wheels nearly silent. It has been snowing all day, last night, and yesterday. It was snowing when I left for Chicago, and is still snowing now. I work for Amtrak. I'm a conductor, and this is my train. It is running very quiet.

My train is nearly empty, now. It was pretty full, for a weekday, leaving Chicago this afternoon. A little over two hundred folks traveling east. But now, nearly six hours later and almost to our final destination of Pontiac, Michigan, there are only twenty or so passengers and three other crew members. The engineer, a former conductor himself, my assistant, and the lounge car attendant. The remaining passengers are all in the head car, at this point. The cafe car, where my office is located, is the rear car in this particular consist. We load the train out of Chicago with this configuration in mind. We load so that the train fills from the rear and empties to the front. In other words, the first passengers to arrive at their destination and detrain are sitting at the rear of the train. This consist has six ‘working’ or revenue cars. If it had seven cars, I’d be entitled to another assistant. It is being pulled by a relatively new GE Dash 8 locomotive. Then five coaches and the lounge car. Bringing up the rear is a NPRCU, Non Powered Remote Control Unit. A cab car, or cabbage car as it is sometimes called. A former F40 locomotive that has been gutted, except for the control stand in the operating cab. The entire engine room is now a baggage area. I know, bad idea.

This train used to have an actual baggage car. That was a good idea. We handle a lot of baggage on this route. Folks going to Chicago are often traveling further west and have their suitcases for a two or three week journey. All the stations have baggage floats, or carts, that were built with the idea of handling baggage on and off these baggage cars. The floor of a baggage car is the same height or distance above the rails as a coach. And it is possible to go into the baggage car while the train is moving, through a weather proof vestibule, just like going from coach to coach. Here is what is bad about the idea of having a baggage/NPRCU: the floor doesn't line up. It is higher. So the ticket agents have to lift suitcases higher to get them onboard. The train crew can't get into the NPRCU while the train is moving, even in good weather. Too dangerous at seventy nine miles an hour to try and step across and up from the coach level to the wildly bouncing rear end of the cab car. So, new floats were ordered, taller than the old ones. Now the ticket agents can't step up onto them. The electric doors that were installed in the side of the cab car to give easy access for loading and unloading baggage looked pretty spiffy that first summer. None of them made it through that first winter. They stuck when full of ice and snow. They stuck when they were trying to close, of course. Now imagine digging your suitcase out from two or three feet of snow and slush, and think what a happy camper you will be? I could go on.

I could tell you how passengers that decide to get off at an earlier stop are now unable to have a crew member secure their checked bags for them before hand. Therefore causing delays at the station. But I won't. I'll tell you that the eerie quiet had suddenly grown louder. Rolling over deep snow, the usual noise of the wheels and tracks that would bounce between the bottom of the coaches and the roadbed ballast stones, is muffled. The deep snow is like R40 insulation, absorbing the noise. Until the train enters tracks owned by the former Grand Trunk Railroad. The GT still has many miles of the old jointed rail in service. So even in deep snow, the clickety clack of the wheels going over the rail joints seems pretty loud, after so many miles of whisper quiet ride on welded or ribbon rail. It is almost a welcome sound, at this point, because it means that we are on the home stretch, only another twenty nine miles to reach Pontiac. Two more station stops and we can put the train away and let the mechanical forces begin to prepare it for the morning's return trip to Chicago.

The Royal Oak stop came and went. The same for Birmingham. Now just thirteen miles to Pontiac. It is about one thirty AM. We are only thirty minutes late. There are about nine or ten passengers remaining in the head coach. That's when it happened. The train went dark. Initially I didn't let this concern me very much. It is not unusual to lose HEP, or head end power, to the coaches. There are literally hundreds of reasons why this might occur, but what was consoling me was the fact that we were so close to Pontiac that none of them mattered. We could pull the train into the station dark. Without electricity. Let the mechanical folks figure out what to do.

There is one reason for loss of head end power that I was forgetting. The huge generator that supplies the 480 volt electricity to the coaches is driven by the same engine that makes electricity for the traction motors that move the locomotive. I wasn't allowing for that. If the thirty five hundred horsepower locomotive engine wasn't running, causing the 480 volt generator to stop making electricity, the train would soon come to a stop. Very soon, in this case, as it is all uphill from Birmingham to Pontiac. We were definitely slowing down, too. One gets a sixth sense over the years for whether or not the train is coasting or under power. I had one other thing going to help keep me abreast of the situation, in addition to my keen intuition; the engineer's voice on my handset, saying quietly, "Sure is peaceful up here." Peace and quiet on the engine is bad.

"I'll be right up there." I made a brief and hopefully reassuring announcement to the folks as I passed through the head coach on my way to the engine. Yep. Quiet up there. No ear splitting roar as I worked my way along the very icy and slippery catwalk alongside the engine room, and towards the cab. The 500 series Dash 8's do not have a covered or enclosed engine room, as do most other passenger engines. Quiet, and actually rather beautiful, the moon trying to show between the snow clouds, and only a few scattered flakes falling at this hour. The train still rocking along gently at about fifteen miles an hour. Coasting through the sleeping suburbs of the affluent, residents blissfully unaware of our predicament on this cold winter night.

Really cold. The temperature must have dropped thirty degrees in the last four hours, and it wasn't warm earlier. Well below freezing, now, and with the wind chill I was already wishing for my gloves as I reached the relative warmth of the cab. "Alright, why'd you kill the engine? Doesn't this job pay enough already?"

"I wish. It just died in sixth notch. I've tried a restart twice, no luck."

"What's the computer say?"

So there we stood, both facing the rear control panel behind the engineer's seat, which always seems odd to me. Nobody facing forward, watching where we're going. But out here, in the middle of ten miles with no crossings, there is not really much to watch. So we applied our combined forty plus years of experience to interpreting the computer’s display, to glean some insight as to why the engine won't restart.

"Says, 'engine start' error."

"Oh, really? That certainly clears things up. Better pick a stretch were you'd like to park this thing, and I'll call the dispatcher."

That is the first order of business. We must let the Grand Trunk dispatcher know that we are not moving over his/her railroad in our usual timely fashion. "Hello, TD Two?"

"GT TD two. Go ahead."

"This is Amtrak #354. We've lost motive power here at MP 18.3. We haven't had a chance to look it over yet, but we're going to have to park for a bit. Over."

"Roger that, Amtrak. Let me know. TD two, out."

Usually when the engine dies, whatever has caused the internal 'fault' that killed it, will be stored in the computer. In other words, if the engine has overheated, or has run low on oil, these items of interest will be stored in the computer’s memory. So, one of the first orders of business to get the thing going again, is to see what the stored ‘faults’ might be? That is, after trying the obvious, like hitting a few resets and just cranking the thing over to see what happens? That is what the engineer had already tried while we were coasting along. To no avail. Getting at the stored faults is level one stuff. The computer has several levels of access, and all but level one require passwords.

My radio came to life. "Amtrak #354 AC to the conductor, over."

"Conductor, Amtrak #354, go ahead."

"Better get back here, we got a problem."

I know my AC well enough to realize that he wouldn't call me unless it was serious. "On my way."

I told the engineer to see if he could get at the faults, and that I'd get back as soon as I could. Retracing my footsteps along the catwalk I was again impressed with how cold it had become. I made a mental note to grab my coat and gloves. Entering the first coach I immediately became aware of the problem. A woman was wailing, and loudly. My AC was coming to meet me. "What's up?" I asked. "I don't know. She just started whimpering, then it got louder, and now this."

"Have you talked to her?"

"I tried, but she just sits and rocks back and forth. Those are her kids, there. The daughter says her mom is upset."

"Smart kid." I went to the lady's seat and kneeled in the aisle. "What is it, ma'am? What's the matter?" She wouldn't look at me, and just continued her high pitched wail. Rocking back and forth all the while. I turned to the daughter, about eleven or twelve years old.

"What's the matter with your mom, honey, do you know?"

"She's upset."

"I'll say. Do you know what's bothering her?" At this point, the woman suddenly spoke.

"We're all gonna' freeze! There's no heat in here and it's dark, and we're gonna' all die!"

It was chilly in the coach, but nothing like what it was outside, or what it would be in a little while. "Ma'am. Please calm down. We're trying to get the engine started and the heat back on. It's going to be all right. Please try to calm down, and think of your children."

"I am thinking of them. They're gonna' die!"

I didn't know what to make of this woman. Was she really that upset? No one else was anywhere near hysterical. Did she have some ulterior motive? Fortunately, another woman sitting a few seats back, came forward and offered to sit with this lady and her children. She began trying to comfort her, as I had. Although the lady kept up her moaning and rocking, she did quiet down a little, and I took advantage of the opportunity to return to the engine.

"Let me know if she goes off, again?" The AC didn't look too happy to see me leave. I don't blame him. There is something very unsettling about a human being in distress. And it tends to upset everyone else.

Grabbing my coat and gloves I returned to the engine. The engineer was still pushing buttons. "Any luck?"

"Nope. Only recent faults showing are a ground relay and some kind of open circuit. The ground relay's been reset and logged, and I can't get anything more out of it about the open circuit. Except that it wasn't today." There really isn't any proscribed plan for trouble shooting. It is largely a matter of experience and a certain amount of luck. There is so much that can go wrong, on this, or any engine. The crew is expected to do what they can, and once having exhausted their resources, call for help. It is always a matter of pride, necessity, timing and patience when to give up and call. There are many things to consider and in this case the weather was one of them. "What was the problem, back there?" A lot of engineers wouldn't even have thought to ask, but this one was an old friend, as well as an ex conductor.

"Lady losing it, wailing her head off, upsetting her kids and the other passengers."

"Want me to go back there and smack her?"

"Thanks, but the AC'll probably handle the light work. What was that about an open circuit?"

"I don't know. Something about an interlocking device."

"Hey! That happened to us on #351 last summer. Some of the cabinet doors have electric switches that tell if the door is open. Won't run unless you close the door."

"Yeah? Which doors?"

"Well, that's a problem. The engine room door was one, and a couple of the high voltage outside access doors under the catwalk on the engineers side. And one or two others. Dang. I can't remember them all." And this is how it goes. You compile your knowledge and experience, weigh the options, and try to decide what to do. It is getting noticeably chilly in the engine cab. The outside quiet is somehow less serene. I am beginning to wonder about my passengers. The engineer is putting on his coat. "I’ll check the outside doors, Dave. You’re better at computers, you see what you can get out of it." He knows that I have the codes for levels two and three.

"Wait a minute. If the problem wasn’t today, let’s skip that. It’s pretty damn cold out there, let’s reboot the computer and see what happens?" This means shutting everything down that isn’t already off, and pulling the main battery knife switch. A monster over a foot long. Only seventy two volts but significant amps. Your car starts on twelve volts, to give an idea. Then flip the computer power switch, and then power everything back up. A complete reboot has been known to work miracles. We do this. Lo and behold, the error indication goes away, and the computer reads ‘ready to start’. However, as soon as we try to crank it over, the same error message pops back up. ‘Engine start error’. Back to square one. In view of the hour and the circumstances, I elect to call Amtrak operations. The engineer heads out to check those interlocked doors, just in case.

My Amtrak cell phone croaks just as operations comes on the line, so I try again using my personal cell. I’ve long ago learned to carry as many extra batteries for my personal phone as I own. After the usual delays and various prompts, I finally get a live voice at operations. I identify myself and the problem. Operations agrees to try and patch me through to the diesel pit in Chicago, where hopefully some Dash 8 tech will be available. Once again I find myself on hold. The engineer returns, having opened and closed some eight doors, hoping that one of them was causing the fault. We query the computer, but it is still feeling that good reason exists to avoid firing off the motor. I finally get a tech guy on the phone. He seems to know Dash 8’s. He asks me for the engine number, and I go back on hold while he hunts up the log for that specific engine. About this time the AC calls back, over the handheld portable radio, "Dave, better come back here, again." I know better than to ask, ‘Why?’ Giving my phone to the engineer, it is back down the catwalk, and back to the coaches.

It is genuinely chilly in the coach, but nothing severe. But I can hear the lady’s wailing, from forty feet away. We really don’t need this added aggravation. I decide to go right to the source, in this case, and bend over in this woman’s face. "Ma’am. I am the conductor. Everything is alright. Why are you yelling?"

"It’s so cold. Can’t you do something?"

"Ma’am, we are doing everything that we can. It is going to be OK. There is help on the way. (A slight exaggeration.) Please try to keep your voice down. Do you know that you are being very loud?"

"I am?"

I begin to realize that this woman has a slim, if any, grasp on reality. If she doesn’t know that she has been virtually screaming, then who am I to tell her to be quiet? I look to the woman that voluntarily came forward to help out, "Has she been doing any better?"

"Well, sometimes she quiets down for a few minutes."

"Could you keep talking with her? I think we might be able to get this thing going again, in a few more minutes?" Always fight adversity with confidence, I believe.

"Sure, I’ll try."

"Thank you, ma’am."

Soon I am back on the engine. "Any luck?" I inquire.

"Well, shit. This guy means well, but so far it’s by the book, and we’ve done everything twice. He’s trying to tell me to reboot, after I told him we’d already tried that."

I take the phone.

"Hi. This is the conductor. Who is this?"

We make acquaintances. The guy sounds pretty young. But he is a Dash 8 tech, and I do have him on the phone. We discuss everything that we know. We discuss everything that we’ve tried. He seems a pretty bright sort of guy.

"Have you guys looked at the faults?" he asks.

"Roger that. The ground relay was noted, but no longer shows. The interlocking fault was yesterday, but we’re dead in the water today. The engineer already checked all the interlocked doors.’

"Must be something else. Stand by."

In the meanwhile, the engineer and I have been taking advantage of every opportunity to check out everything that we can think of. Our combined forty plus years of experience are getting us nowhere. This is most frustrating. We’ve been sitting for nearly two hours.

The radio crackles to life. "GT TD Two, Amtrak #354, over."

I pick up the receiver, "Amtrak #354, over."

"You fellows still tying up my railroad, over?"

"Roger that, TD Two. We apologize for tying up the main. We have operations and the diesel pit on the line, and hope to be under way shortly, over."

"Roger, #354. You guys need a shove, let me know. I’ll get somebody out of the yard."

"Roger that, TD Two. Thanks. We’ll get back with you shortly. #354, out."

We know that this dispatcher’s business picks up substantially, in about three hours. We also know that our passengers will be frozen stiff in less time than that.

I address the engineer, "Keith, old buddy, what the fuck, over?"

"Got me. It just fucking died. One minute it was running fine, the next minute it was dead."

"Dang. What else interlocks?"

"Shit, everything."

"Anything else we can check?"

"I think we’ve done it all."

Well, we had nearly done it all. The phone at my ear came back to life. "You guys got the 518, right?" the Dash 8 tech, finally locating the records.

"Yepper. Bigger than shit and twice as smelly."

"I just found a footnote, at the back of the file.’

"Don’t keep us waiting now, brother."

"Says here, ‘Run switch walks out.’’’

"Say what?"

"You know, the run switch. On the ceiling, behind the visor."

"Behind what visor?"

"Behind the engineer’s sun visor, there’s a RUN switch."

Well. Do you know what? There is such a switch. Right in the grillwork behind the engineer’s sun visor is a switch, labeled ‘run/stop’. It is some sort of emergency switch, that cuts off fuel to the engine in a situation where the only likely source of salvation is to cut off the fuel supply to the motor. To my knowledge, it has never been used. Who knew it was even there? Certainly not me or my erstwhile compatriot, the engineer. And in our particular situation, we happened to have the engine number 518, where it had been noted in the records, that the run/stop switch, ‘walked out’. Meaning, due to vibration or whatever other earthly or other worldly forces, this particular ‘run/stop’ switch would gradually allow itself to travel to the ‘off’ position! And in the ‘off’ position, the computer would allow that there was an, ‘engine start error’. And on a certain winters night, the crew of Amtrak #354 would find themselves freezing to death, with absolutely no way of knowing what the problem was.

One might wonder why, since the Dash 8 tech DID know what the problem was, it had never been addressed , in the field, as it were. Good question.

By the simple expedient of pushing this button back in, we were able to get the engine fired back up. Within moments we had heat and lights. Clapping my friend on the back, I once again traversed the catwalk back to the coaches. It is amazing the difference that light can make. Coaches lit by emergency lights are pretty dark and not really very comforting. But with all systems ‘go’ and the heat pouring out, our hysterical lady was once again just fine. And so were the rest of our passengers, as we finally pulled into the Pontiac station. Warmer, and actually, somewhat wiser, at least about the ‘run/stop’ switch.