Vulcan 607

by Rowland White

  The small hours were always the worst, when every problem seemed more intense. Since the invasion, John Fowler had frequently found himself lying awake at night in his house on the Stanley harbour front, worrying about what the weeks ahead held in store for him and his young family. On the morning of 1 May though, Fowler had been sleeping, only to be woken just after four o’clock by the sound of one of his children crying. He got up, leaving his wife Veronica in bed behind him. He settled the child but he knew he’d never get to sleep again. He padded through to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

  As John Fowler’s kettle boiled, a couple of hundred miles to the north the Vulcan was descending towards the sea at a rate of 2,000 feet a minute. As they sank through the air, Bob Wright and Gordon Graham checked the bombing offsets – the distinctive features over which Wright planned to place his markers: Mengeary Point to the north-east, Cape Pembroke at the eastern extremity of the hammerhead of land on which the airfield was built, and Ordnance Point, just over one and a half miles to the north-west. Wright also hoped that a hangar he could see marked on the Public Works map might break out of the ‘green porridge’ too.

  ‘Watch your speed,’ Withers called out to Pete Taylor as he noticed the airspeed starting to drop off. Taylor lowered the nose. In the back, Gordon Graham was also watching his airspeed indicator, or ASI. His warning appeared to echo the one from Withers.

  ‘Watch your speed…’

  ‘I know, I know. I’m watching it,’ Taylor told him, lowering the nose still further.

  The jet was gathering speed in a dive, but as Withers watched, waiting for the needle on his ASI to respond, it was telling him they were about to stall. ‘Watch it!’ he called again to his co-pilot, his voice urgent now. Aircrew are trained to believe what their instruments tell them. Ignoring them, trying to fly by the seat of the pants in the wrong conditions, had killed a lot of pilots. But on board 607, the instruments were wrong. It was the roar of the wind around the cockpit that told the truth this time, and Withers was the first to realize what was happening. The pitot tube had iced up in the cold, humid air. This insignificant-looking protrusion held the key to measuring the aircraft’s speed through recording and comparing changes in air pressure; if ice seals the pitot’s opening, the ASI in the cockpit will no longer work. Once the problem had been identified, it was easily contained, but it was another reminder of how far away from safety they were. A wake-up call. Taylor raised the nose and the excess speed bled off.

  At 2,000 feet above sea level, a safe height even if their forecast pressure settings were wildly inaccurate, they levelled off, before descending more gently down to 300 feet above sea level. Below the radar. Dropping through a scattered cloud-base towards the sea, Withers was surprised by what he could pick out. Despite the darkness there was enough light from the moon to catch the moving planes of the sea’s surface, although its distance below them was impossible to judge. He asked Wright for a height find on the Radio Altimeter, a device which worked by bouncing radio waves back and forth from the jet. Once 300 feet was confirmed, the NBS was updated again. Assuming Graham and Wright’s bisection of the two Carousel readings was accurate, the old ballistic computer was now loaded with the information it needed for Wright to get the bombs on target. But until they switched on the radar they wouldn’t know for sure that they were where they thought they were. Both Navigators’ greatest concern was that, after flying nearly 4,000 miles, they would miss the islands altogether. It remained an unsettling possibility.

  Gordon Graham called the distances to run until the pop-up as the bomber streaked towards her target, low above the uninviting sea. Now Withers took back control from Pete Taylor. Hugh Prior’s eyes were fixed on his banks of numbers, screens and dials. He made sure the chaff and infrared decoy flares were set up, satisfied himself that the Dash 10 pod that had tripped at Wideawake was ready to go and checked that the transponder telling the British fleet who they were was squawking on the right frequency. And he listened. For the same reason he and Barry Masefield had decided not to use the ‘Spanish Tape’ he did nothing that might give away their position. Through his headset he picked up the faint sound of his crew breathing and he strained to hear the tell-tale pulse of British and Argentine search radars. The Royal Navy were supposed to be operating a ‘weapons tight’ during the Vulcan’s approach, but it only needed one nervous mistake under pressure to cause a tragic accident. There were less than a hundred miles to go. Twenty minutes.

  ‘Have a good trip, and don’t shoot the Vulcan down!’ joked pilot Steve Thomas as he handed his fighter over to his boss, 801 Naval Air Squadron’s CO, Commander Nigel ‘Sharkey’ Ward. Sea Harrier 003 sat on the deck of HMS Invincible – a calmer place now that days of storms had abated. Thomas had been sitting on alert in the cramped cockpit of the little jet for hours, ready to launch at a moment’s notice in response to any airborne threat to the Task Force. Bearded and charismatic, Ward was a self-styled maverick, the epitome of the swashbuckling naval fighter pilot. A few minutes later, after realigning the navigation system, he checked his engine, pushed the throttles forward to 55 per cent and rode the brakes. As the Flight Deck Officer whipped his glowing green wand down to touch the deck, Ward opened the throttle, accelerated down the deck and was forced into his seat as the jet was thrown into a ballistic curve by the ski jump over the bows. As his speed increased, the V/STOL fighter’s wings bit the air and he rotated the jet nozzles backwards. Armed with twin 30mm Aden cannons and a pair of AIM-9L Sidewinder all-aspect heat-seeking missiles, he was flying Combat Air Patrol for the Vulcan, tasked with keeping her safe from any marauding Argentine fighters. And he was pretty pissed off about the whole affair. Only the RAF, he thought, would have the gall to insist on a weapons-tight procedure in a war zone. Ward was incensed by what he saw as the RAF poking their noses in where they weren’t wanted. He could see no merit in a mission he thought his Sea Harriers should be performing. In his righteous indignation he stubbornly overlooked the fact that to carry the same weight of bombs as the single Vulcan would put nearly his entire squadron of precious air defence fighters in harm’s way. Still, he thought, watching the RAF’s back got him into the air, and if he was lucky he might get to see some explosions. He switched his Blue Fox radar to standby, levelled off 200 feet above the South Atlantic and set course for the islands.

  Gordon Graham waited anxiously for confirmation of his position while, as the estimated range to the target dropped below sixty miles, Bob Wright reached forward to switch on the old H2S radar. Although dependable and familiar, by 1982 it was a relic that, in an earlier incarnation, had been used by the Lancasters of RAF’s elite Pathfinder force as they fought the Battle for Berlin in the autumn of 1943 and early 1944. Its results were, to say the least, open to interpretation, its effectiveness largely dependent on the skill of the operator. During the Second World War, Air Vice-Marshal Don Bennett, the commander of the Pathfinders, had been so unimpressed by the sight of an indecipherable H2S map of Berlin that he simply screwed it up and threw it in the wastepaper basket. The Mark 9A version of the H2S in the nose of 607 was a vast improvement on its predecessors, but a lot now depended on Wright’s dexterity with it. As he’d flown south the young Navigator had played out his role in his mind, mentally rehearsing the procedures which, at the long mission’s furthest reach, he’d have one chance to get right.

  The H2S scanner in the Vulcan’s nose was over six and a half feet across. Switched off during the flight from Ascension, it had hung, face down, from its mountings. When Wright switched the power on from the crew compartment, the black tangle of machinery supporting it whirred into life. Wright glanced to his right to check that the power supply indicator was on then focused on the cathode ray display that dominated his work station. Random, phantom returns flickered green against the black background like static but there was no clear image. As Withers kept the jet low, on track towards Stanley, the distance to run towards the target ran down. Another mile every ten second
s. Wright’s eyes darted around the radar set’s control panels, looking for the problem. To his left he noticed the Scanner Position Indicator dancing restlessly.

  In discussing the Vulcan raid, the overriding concern of the politicians and Defence Chiefs in Whitehall had been the safety of the islanders. Without absolute reassurance that the runway could be attacked at no risk whatsoever to the civilian population, they would not have approved the operation. Wright knew it. Unless he could bring up a reliable picture on the green porridge, they’d have to throw away the mission. Without a functioning bomb-aiming radar, at night, trying to hit the target would literally be a shot in the dark. Irrespective of whether or not they hit the runway, dropping the bombs without it would be a gamble that threatened the safety of the very people they were trying to protect.

  Wright reset the controls, resisting the temptation to switch the scanner off altogether to avoid letting it drop again. He retuned the display, willing the circular image in front of him to settle down. Around him, the five other members of the crew waited anxiously for confirmation.

  With fifty miles to run, the picture stabilized. The ageing radar had come good but, ahead of them, where he should have been picking up an echo from the 2,313-foot peak of Mount Usborne, thirty-three miles to the west of Stanley, there was nothing. He passed on the news over the intercom.

  Ahead of him, Withers considered the situation for a moment. They had to find the islands before climbing for the bomb-run. Unless they knew they were in the right place, it didn’t matter how well the radar and NBS were working. Totally out of the question was the possibility of loitering at altitude before getting established on the bomb-run, or worse, running in twice. Both would hand a decisive advantage to the Argentine air defences. All surprise would be lost. Neither would amount to anything more than a straightforward request to be shot down. Perhaps, he thought, they were just too low for the H2S to pick up the mountain’s summit. If they could just gain a couple of hundred feet of altitude, it might allow the scanner enough of a view forward to confirm their position. There was a danger that in doing so they would climb into the view of the Argentine search radars, but Withers, suffering from a disconcerting feeling that they didn’t actually know where they were, felt it was a risk worth taking. It’s got to be worth a quick preview, he thought, and gently pulled back a touch on the joystick to raise the bomber’s nose.

  The elusive peak immediately hove into view on Wright’s screen. I’ve got it, he told the crew. After over eight hours aloft, without a single opportunity to check or confirm their position, they were just a mile away from where Gordon Graham had calculated they should be. A combination of skilful dead-reckoning and the new twin Carousels had worked as advertised. Bob Wright moved his joystick a fraction to bring the green glow of Mount Usborne’s radar reflection under the cross-hair markers on his screen. Withers relaxed his grip on the Vulcan’s stick to take her down to 300 feet again. And Dick Russell flinched as he heard a menacing pulse through his headphones. Hugh Prior’s voice cut through the background of the intercom.

  ‘Echo-band radar, twelve o’clock. Possible Argentine search radar.’

  Listening intently to the Passive Warning Receiver for threats to the jet, Prior had heard the slow ticking of an AN/TPS-43 radar at the same time as Russell, its tell-tale PRF beating at ten-second intervals. On a 3-inch display ahead of him an unbroken green line told him the radar was sweeping from the south-west, right in front of them.

  ‘No threat at this time,’ he told the crew.

  Russell, sitting in the dark, wasn’t as reassured as he wanted to be. He sat on his hands in a comforting, but clearly hopeless attempt to protect himself.

  On Sapper Hill, just over a mile to the south-west of Stanley, the men of Colonel Arias’s GADA 601 anti-aircraft unit maintained a twenty-four-hour watch for intruders as their powerful American-built radar swept the skies around East Falkland. For weeks they’d trained, gaining confidence and skill by tracking the movements of their country’s own Air Force. Now, just before 4.30 in the morning local time, they briefly picked up an unidentified contact to the north-east. She was low, coming in on a heading of 245 degrees, travelling over the water at around 300 knots. Then she disappeared.

  Chapter 38

  ‘Sharkey’ Ward pushed forward the throttle lever with his left hand and pulled the SHAR into a climb. At 20,000 feet, he dimmed the cockpit lights of the little fighter. Above him, the southern-hemisphere stars shone brightly, but cloud obscured his view below. He doubted there would be any trade for him tonight, but he still hoped he’d get lucky. With his own Blue Fox radar on standby, he listened out for surprises reported by the naval escorts on radar picket duty. Twenty minutes after getting airborne, he pressed the RT transmission button to welcome the Vulcan to the Falklands.

  ‘Morning!’ he offered cheerily, but heard nothing from the bomber in reply. They weren’t playing, so he left them to it. He’d wait for her to broadcast news of the attack and depart the area in one piece, then he’d head back to the blacked-out flight deck of HMS Invincible.

  Forty miles out, low over the water on a heading of 245 degrees, 607 accelerated to 350 knots in preparation for the pop-up. As the big delta powered south-west, Gordon Graham counted down.

  Five, four, three, two. On one, Martin Withers spooled the four Olympus engines up to maximum revs and pulled her smoothly into a 15-degree climb to altitude. The roar of the engines in the back of the crew compartment signalled the arrival of the critical part of the mission.

  As she left the cover of low level, 607 flew straight into view of the Argentine search radars. Every ten seconds the sweep of their scanners provoked a beat from the bomber’s Radar Warning Receiver. As before, Hugh Prior reported the radar to his crew, finishing the same way: ‘No threat at this time.’

  It didn’t feel like that to Dick Russell, the only man on board with nothing to do to displace his anxiety. Now the enemy could be in no doubt about their presence nearby, Prior switched on his IFF transponder. At Wideawake, he’d been given settings that simulated an Argentine maritime-patrol aircraft. Like the rest of the tricks at the AEO’s disposal, the principal value of the bogus call and response of the transponder was that it might buy them time. But, with the Vulcan’s own bombing radar now painting every Argentine RWR in its path, he knew that, ultimately, well-drilled air defence crews would see through their deception.

  Among the radar operators of GADA 601, perched on their rock-strewn hill, 400 feet above sea level, there was uncertainty. They could see the incoming bomber on their screens, but what was it? One of their own, perhaps – likely even. This had not, so far, been a shooting war after all. The young crew’s first reaction was to check whether or not there were any Argentine aircraft in the area. It was only minutes, though, before the air defences took on a more threatening posture. Around BAM Malvinas, Skyguard fire-control radars were getting ready to search the sky for targets, their operators preparing 35mm Oerlikon batteries to defend what they passionately and proudly believed was theirs.

  At 9,500 feet, Martin Withers eased the power back, the bomber’s upward momentum carrying her the final 500 feet to 10,000-foot altitude for the bomb-run. Twenty miles to run. Three minutes. As the Vulcan levelled off on a heading of 240 degrees, Withers trimmed her to settle into the bomb-run. Speed was good: 330 knots indicated air speed, a speed over the ground of nearly 440 mph; not so fast as to unsettle the bomber’s equilibrium. An altitude of 10,000 feet: as well as stability, height was crucial too – if it wasn’t exact, the bombing computer couldn’t calculate the forward throw of the bombs or even measure the plan range to the target. Withers pulled down the smoked-glass sun visors around the cockpit windows to prevent exploding flak and bright lines of tracer destroying his night vision. Next to him, Pete Taylor pulled down the visor on his Bone Dome. Withers again cursed the failure of his own helmet’s intercom at Ascension. The thin cloth cap he was wearing made him feel intensely vulnerable.

/>   At the Nav Radar’s station, Bob Wright was setting up the NBS for the bomb-run, making live the switches. He talked to the crew as he tuned and retuned the old radar to get his cross-hair markers as fine on his offsets as possible: Ordnance Point, Cape Pembroke and Mengeary Point. The three headlands were distinct on his display, green illuminations returning from solid ground meeting the blackness of the sea.

  ‘I’ve got the offsets. Everything looks fine.’

  With the offsets’ positions relative to the target fed into it, the NBS had everything it needed to get the bombs on target: the bearing and slant range to the target; the aircraft’s height and true airspeed; a wind component; and the forward throw of the bombs. Now Wright could let the old computing machine begin directing them to the release point. From here on, this was Bob Wright’s show. Everything that happened aboard 607 was designed to position or keep the bomber where he said it needed to be to get the bombs on target.

  Go to bomb, he said over the intercom. Ahead of him, a meter began to indicate the range to target. The NBS was working. And from it, a steer signal was sent to Martin Withers on the flight deck. A left–right needle displayed on the bomber Captain’s instrument panel told him whether or not he needed to adjust his heading.

  Check demand, Wright asked his Captain. Withers reported back the correction his indicator was asking for. Without taking his eyes off the green porridge, Wright responded.

  Take it out, he asked and Withers gently brought the nose into line. Demand zeroed, he confirmed to his Nav Radar.