‘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 aboard 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.