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.