B
BrotherSurplice
Guest
A Whiskey Sour
It is January 1985 and the campaign against the red menace continues. My command: USS Phoenix (SSN-702), a Los Angeles-class nuclear attack submarine, the cutting edge of Cold War-era submarine design. My mission: interception of a Soviet submarine task group, suspected to be attempting an insertion of Spetsnaz operatives near the Norwegian port of Narvik. I lie in wait, almost stationary at periscope depth just off the coast of Norway, where the Svalbard-Andoya SOSUS Line meets the land. It isn't long before contact is made at bearing 90. Previous engagements on this patrol have left me with no missiles and less than two full torpedo salvos. A return to Holy Loch may be in order after this engagement. I load up with three Mark 48 wire-guided torpedoes and a MOSS decoy torpedo in the tubes, before closing to 15,000 yards and going to general quarters.
The strength of the contact is decent and soon identified as a Whiskey-class diesel-electric attack submarine. The oldest class of submarine in the Soviet Navy as of 1984, the Whiskeys are primitive, slow and noisy little boats. Special ops insertions are about the only thing that these old ladies are good for in this war.
A look at the local conditions reveals that the ambient noise is low at 81 decibels, the sea floor is over 1000 feet below us, there is a weak layer at 183 feet and the Whiskey is at about 400 feet. I order the boat down to 400 feet, to try and firm up the signal strength.
The Whiskey rises to about 300 feet and puts on a burst of speed, enabling me to get a perfect firing solution on him. But the Soviets almost never send their Spetsnaz-carrying submarines out alone. Where is his escort?
With this solution, we're able to get a visual. This little fellow would not have looked out of place in 1944.
Deciding that prudence is needed here, I cut the engines and drift, intending to let the Whiskey sail right past me. If I can slip behind him into his baffles, I'll be in a perfect firing position.
He turns away, apparently oblivious, so I go back to 5 knots and try to get behind him.
Argh, foiled! I try to close with him by slowly going to 10 knots, but he hears me and starts turning my way. Enough with the stealth, it's time to attack. I fire two Mark 48s, both using active sonar, one set to go straight and the other to go circular. The Whiskey counter-fires, so I go to full speed (33 knots), make a right angle turn and dive deep.
Having travelled outside the range of seeker-head on the Soviet torpedo, I cut the engines and turn back towards the Whiskey. One of my torpedoes has his scent and he tries to make a run for it. The max speed of a Whiskey-class submarine is 13 knots. The max speed of an activated Mk48 torpedo is 55 knots.
He drops noisemakers and tries to evade, but it isn't nearly enough. The second torpedo activates and acquires him. The results are inevitable.
But then the unthinkable happens. The second Mark 48 misses the wreck of the Whiskey, turns, and acquires the Phoenix! Full speed, hard to port, hard to port!
A MOSS decoy torpedo distracts the Mark 48 for a moment, but after sailing past the decoy it reacquires us! I will not be sunk by my own torpedo!
A noisemaker and a quick heading and depth change fool the weapon for a moment . . .
But it still has us! After much frantic noise making, depth changes and course changes, a second (and final) MOSS seems to do the trick. Fingers crossed . . .
There are several, heart pounding moments where the Mark 48 seems to reacquire us after catching up to the MOSS, but it goes back to chasing the decoy and we are at last able to get beyond 4000 yards, the range of its seeker-head. Now we just need to wait for it to detonate.
Amusingly enough, the Mark 48 acquires the wreck of the Whiskey, now lying on the seabed.
Meanwhile, we are able to slip away. The After Action Report shows that my fears were unfounded, as on this occasion the Spetsnaz-shuttling Whiskey was operating alone. Perhaps the Soviets are getting desperate?
Despite the rather embarrassing close encounter with one of my own torpedoes, I can still revel in a job well done. Those Spetsnaz operatives could have caused all sorts of mischief if they'd been able to make landfall. As it is, we've kept our shores safe and deprived the enemy of a useful asset.
Owing to our drastically low supplies, it is with some relief that the next message from COMSUBLANT is an order to return to Holy Loch for some much needed R&R. Mission accomplished!
It is January 1985 and the campaign against the red menace continues. My command: USS Phoenix (SSN-702), a Los Angeles-class nuclear attack submarine, the cutting edge of Cold War-era submarine design. My mission: interception of a Soviet submarine task group, suspected to be attempting an insertion of Spetsnaz operatives near the Norwegian port of Narvik. I lie in wait, almost stationary at periscope depth just off the coast of Norway, where the Svalbard-Andoya SOSUS Line meets the land. It isn't long before contact is made at bearing 90. Previous engagements on this patrol have left me with no missiles and less than two full torpedo salvos. A return to Holy Loch may be in order after this engagement. I load up with three Mark 48 wire-guided torpedoes and a MOSS decoy torpedo in the tubes, before closing to 15,000 yards and going to general quarters.
The strength of the contact is decent and soon identified as a Whiskey-class diesel-electric attack submarine. The oldest class of submarine in the Soviet Navy as of 1984, the Whiskeys are primitive, slow and noisy little boats. Special ops insertions are about the only thing that these old ladies are good for in this war.
A look at the local conditions reveals that the ambient noise is low at 81 decibels, the sea floor is over 1000 feet below us, there is a weak layer at 183 feet and the Whiskey is at about 400 feet. I order the boat down to 400 feet, to try and firm up the signal strength.
The Whiskey rises to about 300 feet and puts on a burst of speed, enabling me to get a perfect firing solution on him. But the Soviets almost never send their Spetsnaz-carrying submarines out alone. Where is his escort?
With this solution, we're able to get a visual. This little fellow would not have looked out of place in 1944.
Deciding that prudence is needed here, I cut the engines and drift, intending to let the Whiskey sail right past me. If I can slip behind him into his baffles, I'll be in a perfect firing position.
He turns away, apparently oblivious, so I go back to 5 knots and try to get behind him.
Argh, foiled! I try to close with him by slowly going to 10 knots, but he hears me and starts turning my way. Enough with the stealth, it's time to attack. I fire two Mark 48s, both using active sonar, one set to go straight and the other to go circular. The Whiskey counter-fires, so I go to full speed (33 knots), make a right angle turn and dive deep.
Having travelled outside the range of seeker-head on the Soviet torpedo, I cut the engines and turn back towards the Whiskey. One of my torpedoes has his scent and he tries to make a run for it. The max speed of a Whiskey-class submarine is 13 knots. The max speed of an activated Mk48 torpedo is 55 knots.
He drops noisemakers and tries to evade, but it isn't nearly enough. The second torpedo activates and acquires him. The results are inevitable.
But then the unthinkable happens. The second Mark 48 misses the wreck of the Whiskey, turns, and acquires the Phoenix! Full speed, hard to port, hard to port!
A MOSS decoy torpedo distracts the Mark 48 for a moment, but after sailing past the decoy it reacquires us! I will not be sunk by my own torpedo!
A noisemaker and a quick heading and depth change fool the weapon for a moment . . .
But it still has us! After much frantic noise making, depth changes and course changes, a second (and final) MOSS seems to do the trick. Fingers crossed . . .
There are several, heart pounding moments where the Mark 48 seems to reacquire us after catching up to the MOSS, but it goes back to chasing the decoy and we are at last able to get beyond 4000 yards, the range of its seeker-head. Now we just need to wait for it to detonate.
Amusingly enough, the Mark 48 acquires the wreck of the Whiskey, now lying on the seabed.
Meanwhile, we are able to slip away. The After Action Report shows that my fears were unfounded, as on this occasion the Spetsnaz-shuttling Whiskey was operating alone. Perhaps the Soviets are getting desperate?
Despite the rather embarrassing close encounter with one of my own torpedoes, I can still revel in a job well done. Those Spetsnaz operatives could have caused all sorts of mischief if they'd been able to make landfall. As it is, we've kept our shores safe and deprived the enemy of a useful asset.
Owing to our drastically low supplies, it is with some relief that the next message from COMSUBLANT is an order to return to Holy Loch for some much needed R&R. Mission accomplished!
Last edited by a moderator:
