Vulcan 607

by Rowland White

  The refuelling window had long been and gone. Jeremy Price wanted the Nimrod at the Rio RV using its state-of-the-art navigation suite and Searchwater radar to bring the Vulcan and Victor together. The first time they’d trialled the technique with the new Mk 2 Nimrod out over the North Sea from Marham it had failed completely. But then, as one of the Nimrod crew had mentioned to a Victor pilot, someone hadn’t turned the bloody radar on properly. Subsequent trials had shown the big, long-legged maritime-patrol jet could be of huge assistance in helping two old V-bombers find each other in a vast empty sky. But the Nimrod was only supposed to be holding station off Rio between 0915 and 1030. Unlike the Victor and Vulcan its air-to-air refuelling capability wasn’t yet operational – in fact the first-ever successful transfer of fuel to a modified Nimrod had only taken place two days earlier. If the big jet handling the RV hit bingo fuel, it had to head back to Wideawake. And it was already starting to eat into its reserves.

  It wasn’t just the returning Vulcan and Victor that were low on fuel. They could now add the Nimrod to that list. In the Ops tent, George Chesworth, sent from Northwood to oversee the success of BLACK BUCK, was worried about the possibility of none of the three jets making it back to Ascension. Unknown to Jerry Price, he drafted a signal to Sir John Curtiss that said just that. Then he kept it clasped in his hand, holding his nerve and resisting the temptation to send it to the fiery Air Commander unless it became absolutely necessary to do so.

  Converging from the north and south, the two Victors closed on each other at a speed of over 600 mph, both heading for the patch of sky chosen for the RV by Tuxford’s Nav Plotter, John Keable. Tux brought his jet down from its 41,000-foot cruise to make contact with the TAT. Flown by his squadron boss, the heavy tanker needed to transfer fuel at a lower level to give the pilot an acceptable level of controllability. The engines were less responsive in the thin air and the stall speed was higher. The one and a half feet clipped from the Victor’s slender wingtips to reduce fatigue when they were converted from bombers to tankers didn’t help either. At a range of 150 miles Mick Beer had established good radio contact on the VHF. Ernie Wallis could see them on the radar. The tanker called the shots. They would come together with an RV Bravo – a head-on join. The two jets continued directly towards each other at the same altitude. In a continuous two-way dialogue, the two Captains counted down the range between them, all the time confirming and refining the headings. At a separation of twenty miles, the tanker broke into a wide arcing turn through 180 degrees to U-turn on to the same heading as Tuxford’s Victor. If it all went according to plan he’d roll out directly ahead of them.

  In beautiful, pale-blue skies, decorated by the odd patch of thin cloud, Tuxford scanned ahead for the tanker. Conditions for refuelling were ideal; for the first time on BLACK BUCK a clear horizon was visible. The basket was stable. Tuxford tried to relax for the most critical refuelling of his career.

  Don’t want to make a mess of things at this point, he told himself. Tanker captains took great pride in making contact first time and without drama. And took a fair amount of bar-room abuse if they started missing. He saw the tanker level off ahead of them, trailing its hose. Colin Seymour’s crew hadn’t been prepared to gamble on the HDU working when they needed it. They’d flown most of the way from Ascension with the drogue towed behind them. Through his helmet, Tux heard a radio click that signalled a transmission from the tanker.

  You’re clear to join.

  Smoothly, even tentatively, Tuxford nudged the throttles to set up the overtake and his Victor began slowly reeling in the tanker to move into position behind it.

  The rest of his crew listened to the sound of him breathing in and out as he closed on the basket. Navigators and AEOs became adept at gauging the pilot’s state of mind from the speed and regularity of his breathing as he jockeyed the Victor towards the contact. Sometimes they’d even had to intervene. For God’s sake take a breath, one pilot had been told, or we’ll all be dead!

  With gloved hands on the throttles and control yoke, Tux edged the Victor’s refuelling probe towards the basket. Then, at the point where a relieving clunk from a safe contact should have been heard, he watched as the tip of the probe gently slid past the basket.

  Christ, he’s missed it!, thought Ernie Wallis as he watched from the back more in frustrated expectation than concern. But Tuxford kept his composure, satisfied that as far as such a thing was possible, it was a perfect missed contact. He hadn’t snatched at it. He still had the Victor exactly where he wanted her. He lowered the engine revs and calmly dropped back from the tanker to set himself up for another approach.

  This time he nailed it. The end of the probe speared straight into the centre of the reception coupling without touching the guiding cone of the basket. It locked home and the green lights on the tanker’s belly flicked on. For a moment, Tux continued to close on the underside of the jet ahead of him to trigger the fuel pump. Then, over the RT, came confirmation from the tanker’s Nav Radar.

  Fuel flows.

  The claustrophobic little crew compartment of Tuxford’s Victor erupted into a backslapping celebration of joy and relief. Underneath the black oxygen mask that covered his face as he held formation behind the tanker, Tuxford was smiling.

  Twenty minutes later, Red Rag Control received a message through the static. ‘Three Foxtrot Tango Nine from Lima Six Whiskey. Three Foxtrot Tango Nine from Lima Six Whiskey. Be advised that transfer to Charlie Five Tango, Charlie Five Tango is complete.’

  ‘Roger, out.’

  The HF transmission was from Colin Seymour’s tanker. Charlie Five Tango, Tuxford’s Victor, was safe. In the pressure-cooker of the Ops tent, the suffocating tension lifted a little. And George Chesworth, holding the signal to Sir John Curtiss, dared hope that he wouldn’t have to send it. But there were still the Vulcan and Nimrod to worry about. And the Nimrod should have turned for home nearly an hour earlier.

  On board Barry Neal’s Victor, heading south-west on a bearing of 220 to recover the bomber, they shared the same concern.

  ‘If the Vulcan’s much later, there won’t be a Nimrod!’

  They weren’t far wide of the mark. Their Nimrod that had loitered off Rio to shepherd the two V-bombers together was already flying for home, throwing help over its shoulder as it tracked north-east to Ascension. Both Neal’s Victor and the Vulcan were now using local call signs – Zero Five and Two One, respectively. To the north of them, the Nimrod issued instructions.

  ‘Make your heading Two Zero Zero. Tell him to go on to Zero Two Zero.’

  The message was relayed south to the Vulcan by Neal’s AEO, John Ingham.

  ‘Two One, make your heading Zero Two Zero.’

  ‘Zero Two Zero.’

  They recognized Dick Russell’s Hampshire burr. Nav Radar Del Padbury trailed the refuelling hose. Without the reserve, which had had to turn back to Wideawake with an unserviceable HDU, all on board knew that everything depended on their own working perfectly. Padbury followed through the periscope as the line reeled out behind them.

  ‘She’s going out quite steadily… looking good, going out nicely…’

  ‘Keep an eye on it,’ Neal interrupted.

  ‘I am… stable… and stable.’ They were in business, listening to the Nimrod’s regular updates on the position of the Vulcan.

  ‘Zero One Four, range Eight Six.’

  ‘Zero One Four, range Seven Seven.’ Heading and distance.

  Aboard the Vulcan, Dick Russell was cursing 607’s hopeless TACAN – an air-to-air range finder. They were only forty miles apart and he couldn’t get a lock on. His headset crackled with another instruction from the Victor.

  ‘Two One, make your heading Zero Three Zero.’

  ‘Zero Three Zero,’ he confirmed while, next to him, Withers gently rolled into the turn.

  ‘Two One, transmit for bearing.’

  ‘Two One transmitting.’

  The transmission from the Vulcan was locked on to a
board the Victor, pointing to the bomber’s direction, but Russell and Withers were picking up nothing in return. On a crisp clear morning at 27,000 feet, but for the reassurance over the RT they could have been utterly alone. Then Victor announced the turn that should bring them together. Russell could only keep his fingers crossed. He had to assume they were twenty miles away – in the right place – but for all he knew it could have been fifty.

  ‘Seven India Echo, ceasing transmissions unless requested.’ The sound of the Nimrod leaving them behind.

  Withers and Russell were still scouring the sky ahead of them when, like deliverance, the Victor rolled out of its turn directly in front. Russell could barely believe it. The chances of that happening in training were one in fifteen, one in twenty even. And now, when they needed it most, the Victor was right on their nose with its hose trailing.

  Most beautiful sight in the world, thought Withers, while Russell thumbed the RT button.

  ‘Contact One, dead ahead. Zero Five reduce speed… Zero Five, you have a playmate!’

  ‘Negative,’ came the reply. The Victor couldn’t see them – at least, it hadn’t spotted them. The tanker asked them to transmit for bearing again.

  ‘Two One transmitting,’ Russell answered, but his voice betrayed his exasperation. ‘Look, I’m right behind you – about three or four miles!’ Then finally a flash of recognition. They were all set.

  ‘You happy?’

  ‘Yes, I’m happy now,’ Russell replied. It didn’t take much more than the sight of the tanker for that.

  ‘You’re clear to join, Dick. As you like. Can I check your fuel requirements, please?’

  ‘As much as you can give me… but the first priority is to plug in.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ replied Neal soothingly. He just didn’t want any surprises. He knew he had 70,000lb of fuel on board, but he had no idea what the Vulcan needed. Given the progress of BLACK BUCK so far, nothing could be taken for granted. ‘But just give me some idea…’ he pushed.

  ‘About thirty-six?’

  ‘Okay, we’ll manage that nicely,’ Neal reassured him. ‘You wouldn’t believe the ructions we’ve had already tonight…’

  Chapter 42

  ‘Half a mile in your five o’clock,’ reported Del Padbury to his pilot as he watched the Vulcan close in. ‘There’s no doubt about what that aeroplane is!’

  The most distinctive shape in the RAF was usually a stranger to the Victor crews. Those Nav Radars that had seen the Vulcan through their periscopes had last done so twenty years earlier. Padbury was enjoying the novelty.

  ‘HDU’s looking good, radar’s ready and the red light is on.’

  At the first attempt, the Vulcan missed the basket and dropped back to wait for the hose to stabilize before trying again. Padbury continued his commentary.

  ‘Here he comes again… still closing. Better approach this time…’

  Then the tip of the probe glanced the rim of the basket, knocking it out of its steady flight through the air.

  ‘No damage… closing up… Contact! And fuel is flowing. Like it’s going out of fashion! He’s taking it at nearly 5,000lb a minute.’

  Padbury was transfixed by the view of the mean-looking delta filling his scope.

  ‘I bet they’re feeling absolutely shagged in there…’

  ‘Yeah… I bet they’re feeling fucking good though!’

  Bob Wright had got up from his seat in the back and was standing on the ladder between the two pilots, ready to enjoy the final refuelling. He watched as Martin Withers, at his third attempt, made contact with the basket with a satisfying clunk. With the solid connection made, Withers and Russell couldn’t help but relax a little. It was too soon. The green lights flashed on and, as if to taunt them, fuel immediately flushed over the windscreen of the jet, completely destroying their view forward.

  ‘I can’t see,’ Withers said over the intercom, trying to keep his flying steady while he held formation on little more than the green lights on either side of the Victor’s HDU. The wipers rocked inadequately to and fro across the glass but made little impression. Dick Russell was sure it was a soft contact – that the probe hadn’t properly engaged with the drogue. Standard Operational Procedure, he argued, dictated that they should break the contact and try again. But as they followed the Victor out to sea, Withers wasn’t prepared to take the risk. As things stood, they had a contact of sorts. Fuel was washing into their empty tanks, albeit at a reduced rate. If they broke off now, there was no guarantee that the next attempt wouldn’t fail completely. And if that happened, with the RV already 200 miles further south than planned, they were unlikely to make it to Brazil, their only possible diversion. As Captain, it was Withers’ decision. They stuck with it, but shared the job of maintaining contact in testing conditions. Control of the jet passed between Withers and Russell, the AARI finding that while the blurred outline of the Victor was enough to keep him from drifting left or right, maintaining his distance behind the tanker was nearly impossible. In the back, Hugh Prior said a little prayer to himself.

  The struggle going on inside the Vulcan wasn’t fully appreciated on board the Victor. Padbury could see that they were a little unsteady and noticed that 607 kept dropping back.

  ‘I think he’s having to work at it a bit,’ he told his crew, sounding relaxed. He could see the fuel leak too, but didn’t realize how much it was obscuring the Vulcan pilots’ visibility. Instead his concern was the fuel flowing backwards into the jet’s number 2 engine. Not enough to cause a flame-out, though, he thought. And when the bomber dropped back far enough for him to have to reset his fuel pump, he assumed it was a deliberate attempt to try to stop the fuel seepage. Even though the contact was less than perfect, the fuel was still flowing out of the Victor at 4,600lb a minute.

  The situation on the Vulcan’s flight deck was more alarming. If he stooped, Bob Wright could see a small swatch of glass that had somehow escaped the path of the fuel streaking down the jet’s fuselage. Without invitation, from his position on the ladder between the pilots’ ejection seats, the Nav Radar began a commentary on what he could see. He expected to be told, sharply, to shut up. But for ten minutes he peered up at the Victor through the clear patch at the bottom of the windscreen giving instructions to Withers.

  Up a bit… In a bit, he directed, and Withers and Russell listened. Wright thought that what he was telling them was probably rubbish, but it wasn’t. They were managing, just, to maintain contact, and they were taking on fuel.

  Thirty-three thousand pounds.

  Thirty-four thousand.

  Thirty-five.

  Thirty-five and a half, six, seven, eight, nine…

  As the numbers passed through 36,000lb, the Vulcan’s dark shape began to drop backwards out of Padbury’s view.

  ‘He’s going back smoothly… and he’s free.’

  With the fuel transfer complete, Barry Neal raised the Vulcan over the RT.

  ‘Clear the position as you wish.’

  ‘Going to starboard,’ Martin Withers answered, back at the controls of his jet.

  ‘Well done. Right, we’ll take you home.’ Neal left it a moment then, almost as an afterthought, he asked how it had all gone. ‘Did you have a successful mission?’

  There was a long pause, filled with static, as Withers thought about how to respond. Then the RT clicked.

  ‘Not so bad.’ He sounded utterly exhausted.

  Chapter 43

  Bob Tuxford and his crew touched down on Runway One Four just after one o’clock in the afternoon. Over the previous fourteen hours, sufficient fuel had transferred in and out of his Victor’s tanks to power a fleet of ten family saloon cars around the entire circumference of the planet. Twice.

  During the final leg of the flight, once the success of the last RV had assured his aircraft’s safety, Tuxford’s mind was free to consider how on earth they’d even got into such a terrible situation. At every bracket and with each new contact, the carefully constructed refuell
ing plan had gone more and more awry. Worn out at the end of an epic fourteen hours, he tried to pick through the bones of the mission. He knew one thing: in reporting the night’s events, he decided, he wasn’t going to hold back.

  After taxiing to dispersal, he and his weary crew shut down the aircraft’s engines and systems, unstrapped and gathered their kit. Warm tropical air filled the cabin as soon as the crew hatch was opened. As they fell out of the jet like wet rags, they were filmed by an Ops officer with a rattling 8mm movie camera. Each man was handed a cold beer before being escorted to the Ops tent for hot-debriefing by Jerry Price and Alan Bowman. Tuxford didn’t pull his punches. Every tanker crew, he felt, had pushed themselves to the limit to get the Vulcan south. The memory of the disappointment he’d felt as 607 had followed them round towards the north was still fresh in his mind. No one yet knew all the facts, but Tuxford felt let down and angry. And the focus for his unhappiness was the Vulcan detachment.

  Monty was no more aware of the big picture than Tuxford. And although at midday news had reached Wideawake that the Vulcan’s final RV had been a success, his friend, Martin Withers, and his crew were still out there. It was also evident that they must have had a nerve-shredding time over the South Atlantic. So when the terrier-like Scot learnt from one of the American civilian air traffic controllers that a tanker had to be scrambled to bring Tux home, he began jumping to the wrong conclusions. It was clear that BLACK BUCK had come close to disaster; and as he felt all eyes start to turn on him and the Vulcan’s performance, Monty, perhaps understandably, tried to look elsewhere for answers. And Tuxford’s captaincy came under his scrutiny. For the Victor pilot to have put himself and his crew into such a perilous position – to have pressed on like that – Monty thought, was unforgivably irresponsible. As he met Tuxford after the hot-debriefing with Price and Bowman, he challenged him about it.