“Roger that. Hello, Top-Cover, this is Ugly Duckling. We’re nearly done. Another three-zero seconds. Over.”
“Top-Cover. We hear you. We have unfriendly units on route to us. We’ll leave you in ten seconds to head them off. Once you’ve completed, bank hard right and run. I repeat, once complete, bank hard right and run. Good luck. Out.”
The pilot was nervous now. The BN-2T Islander, a high-wing cantilever monoplane, was not cut out for military operations. It was normally only used as a light troop transport or for minor support operations, not to be right up in the front line.
“How long?” he asked again, his nervousness reflected in his voice.
“Fifteen,” responded crewman 2.
The pilot did the countdown inside his head, his co-pilot readying himself for the sharp turn.
“Five.”
The pilot got ready.
“We’re done.”
“Hold tight. This is going to be a tight one.”
The pilot pulled on the stick and banked hard right, the airframe juddering slightly as the g-force kicked in. Once he had made the ninety-degree turn, the throttles of the two engines were pushed forward, power from engines building up as their speed steadily increased to its maximum of 270 kilometres an hour. Whatever happened now, they had done their job. The information had been passed back; the Soviet tank units preparing to assault had been located. It was up to the more conventional means now to confirm the details. Reconnaissance aircraft would now have to take their turn.
Chapter 19
The three Vulcans, Avro Vulcans, officially known as Hawker Siddeley Vulcans, banked left slowly. Flying at a height of 13,000 metres, they were now bearing north high above southern Europe. Although the Warsaw Pact still threatened Southern Europe, to date they had made no moves to invade Italy, Spain or Switzerland, choosing to coax those countries to withdraw their support from NATO and declare their neutrality. The Soviets were advocating that they only wished to remove the threat of West Germany from their borders, and had no axe to grind with what they referred to as friendly countries. In truth, the fight in the central and northern regions of Europe was going so well, they didn’t feel the need to attack NATOs southern flank. The decision had been made by Stavka, the Soviet High Command, to focus resources, including ammunition, fuel and supplies, on the Group of Soviet Forces Germany, with the Northern Group of Soviet Forces attacking Schleswig-Holstein and Denmark, and the Southern Group of Soviet Forces pushing into Southern Germany and Austria, in order to maintain the forward momentum they had achieved so far.
“Romeo-One-One, this is Tango-One. Over.”
“This is Romeo-One-One, ETA. Over.”
“Figures five. Dropping to zero, nine, zero.”
“Acknowledged.”
There was no more that needed to be said. This had been rehearsed, theoretically and in practice, back at RAF Waddington. The Vulcan had a range of 4,000 kilometres. Their journey so far had taken up nearly three quarters of their fuel. A top-up was necessary if they were to hit their target and return safely — Soviet air force permitting that was.
The pilot reduced power, taking them from their cruising speed of just under 900kph to the speed required if they were to be refuelled successfully by an equally ageing Handley-Page Victor tanker, an ex V-bomber, part of Britain’s earlier nuclear deterrent.
The Vulcan was also an ageing V-bomber, and had in effect been stood down from active duty. Operationally disbanded two years earlier, the Vulcans were once again going to be used in anger. Their most recent operation had been during the Falklands War, when single Vulcans flew to the Falkland Islands in order to bomb the runway at Port Stanley and prevent its use by the occupying Argentine forces. But now, only eighteen of the aged Vulcans were serviceable, barely. In order to have enough aircraft available to make a significant contribution to the war effort, additional servicing and maintenance work had been required. Engines and spares were generally plentiful, although some spare parts had been scavenged from every possible source, even reusing items on display in museums throughout the world. Sometimes, it meant cannibalising other Vulcan and Victor aircraft in order to provide enough bombers to participate in the forthcoming action. With engineers working around the clock, the RAF was finally able to wheel out twelve Vulcans that were capable of fulfilling the mission that higher command had lined up for them. There was a mixture of squadrons used: some aircraft and crews were from № 50 Squadron and № 101 Squadron; others were from № 44 Squadron. The question had been asked in many quarters: why? Why use an aircraft that was over twenty-five years old, practically obsolete. Although the Tornado and Sepecat Jaguar ground-attack aircraft were effective in conducting air-to-ground strikes, the number of missions assigned to those squadrons to provide close-air support to the army was ever increasing and far more than there were aircraft and pilots available. Attacks on NATO bases by Soviet bombers, Spetsnaz sleepers and fresh groups parachuted in to bring the battle to the heart of the Western defences, caused major disruption. Also, the consequential loss of airbases as NATO forces withdrew applied more and more pressure to the overstretched air force. With further disruption to desperately needed supplies, the RAF was being pushed to the limit. On top of that, fighting almost continuously for five days, the pilots were on their chinstraps. A solution had to be found. The Warsaw Pact was continuing their advance and they seemed to be unstoppable. The troops on the ground would welcome anything that would slow the Soviet juggernaut down, slow their relentless push west, enabling the allies to catch their breath and regroup.
Unlike the attack on the Falklands, three years earlier, where they had flown distances well in excess of 12,000 kilometres, the shorter European distances would place fewer demands on the aircraft’s airframe, and the number of refuelling top-ups would be significantly less. The navigation requirements were also very different.
“There he is,” pointed out the co-pilot, peering through the three, slanted, very small central cockpit windows, the large V-shaped tail of the Victor tanker visible.
“I see it,” responded the squadron leader and aircraft captain, Ted Merritt.
Probably the most dangerous part of the mission was about to start as the Vulcan bomber slowly gained on the large Victor tanker flying ahead. The pilot of the Victor tanker held the craft steady, although it rocked occasionally when buffeted by a crosswind, but he skilfully kept the large aircraft in place. Merritt steadied the Vulcan bomber, and applied a small amount of thrust, creeping forward until they were in the wake of the Victor. The wavering fuel hose and drogue, at times flickering like a demented snake, was now closer to the cockpit, the tail of the tanker less than seven metres away. The slightest of errors could see an air collision that would cripple both aircraft and put the lives of the crews, and the mission, in jeopardy.
“Steady, steady, steady,” the pilot whispered to himself as probe and drogue got closer and closer, slowly merging as one until the final connection. The red lights on the hose turned to green and the 9,000-gallon tanks of the Vulcan were slowly topped up. Once complete, the two aircraft separated, and it was the turn of the next aircraft in the flight.
“Tango-One, Romeo-One-One. Dropping back, you are clear to receive.”
“Roger, Romeo-One-One. Good flight. Out.”