And then Tux made contact with a clunk. Relief. Fuel began to flow through the unstable hose that joined the two jets like an umbilical cord. But with barely half the transfer complete, as Tux fought to remain tucked in behind the tanker, the heavy, fuel-filled hose began to whip violently again as powerful waves travelled up and down its length. Tuxford knew the danger it posed. Forced to make a quick, agonizing decision, he throttled back to sever the contact and preserve the probe. If the force of the hose’s fierce movement ripped off the tip of his probe too, BLACK BUCK would be over.
He’d saved the integrity of the airframe, but the formation was still flying south, away from the haven of Ascension. They were way past the bracket limit, he didn’t have the fuel he needed to take the long-slot and still wasn’t sure he could transfer fuel to the Vulcan anyway: Put that one to the back of my mind, at least, he told himself. His pulse was racing and his breathing uneven. Physically and mentally drained, he knew he was on the edge of what he was capable of, the limit of his flying ability. But if this was going to work, there was no choice other than to make contact with the tanker again. A flash of lightning revealed the silhouette of the Vulcan in his peripheral vision to the right. Tuxford flew the bucking jet back into position behind Biglands’ Victor and, with his gloved hands on the throttles and control yoke, focused on the unsteady circle of fluorescent lights around the rim of the basket. He began to lunge for them, cursing each failure to connect. As they were thrown around in their chairs, in the back of Tux’s Victor, Ernie Wallis looked across at John Keable. The look between the two Navigators, only their eyes visible above oxygen masks, shared their recognition of the severity of the conditions.
Something’s going to break, thought Dick Russell as he watched Tuxford try to strike for the centre of the basket. Minutes passed as the Victor surged forward and dropped back hunting in vain for the basket. Throttle response from the Conways wasn’t instantaneous and sometimes Tux missed by eight or nine feet as his jet lunged in underneath the tanker’s tail before dropping back to try again. The stirring spectacle gripped Russell. True grit, he thought, as he watched Tuxford’s struggle. Russell wasn’t sure many of his fellow pilots could or would have done it, but as the hose twisted and reared around the sky, Tuxford rammed the throttles and locked the probe into the drogue. Yes! Russell reacted instantly, the tension as he had watched ending as surely as if he’d just seen a penalty hammered home in a cup final.
At the moment the fuel began pumping through the long hose into the Victor’s tanks, Tuxford began to see stars twinkling around the edges of the tanker filling his view forward. The storm released its grip on the formation as quickly as it had enveloped them. The turbulence subsided and, for the first time in over twenty minutes, the three V-bombers began to settle in the air while the hose connecting the two Victors smoothed out. As a sense of the natural horizon returned, Tux was able to loosen his white-knuckle grasp on the flying. But with the intensity of flying through the storm behind them, his attention turned to the fuel within the formation. Acutely conscious that with a broken probe Biglands couldn’t take on any more fuel, he asked his own crew how much they could expect from the damaged tanker. And, in case there was any confusion, he contacted Biglands directly over the RT.
‘White Four, you must leave extra reserves to get back.’
The fuel plan was in tatters. Tux had been supposed to turn for home before the end of the refuelling bracket with 64,000lb of fuel on board, leaving Biglands to fly on with the Vulcan. But that was before the probe tip had sheered off; before they swapped places; before Tux had spent precious minutes trying to make contact, burning extra fuel with every stab at the throttles; and before all three jets had flown way beyond the southern limit of the refuelling bracket. Now over six hours out of Ascension, it was Biglands turning for home and he was going to need more than 64,000lb to get there. A rough calculation showed that around 70,000lb offered the slimmest of margins. But without any means of refuelling he had to arrive at the Wideawake overhead with more than a bare minimum. At this point there wasn’t even the possibility of informing Red Rag Control. Jerry Price was in the dark about what was unfolding thousands of miles from Ascension.
The amber lights around the tanker’s HDU flashed to tell Tux he’d had all the fuel that could be spared. He throttled back, breaking contact. Then he watched as the floodlights underneath the tanker flicked off before she peeled away to the north to begin cruise-climbing to an economical altitude for the long drag home.
The attack formation was down to just two jets: one Victor and the Vulcan. And between them they were carrying around 20,000lb less fuel than they were supposed to have: nearly two hours’ flying time; about 600 nautical miles. Woefully short, thought Tuxford, of what’s needed. It was of academic concern, though, if his Victor’s drogue had been damaged in the storm. Until working out how they could continue, they had to discover whether or not they could continue at all. They decided to attempt a token fuel transfer to the Vulcan to prove the system worked.
Pre-tanking checks, ordered Tuxford to initiate the refuelling sequence.
While Ernie Wallis trailed the hose, Martin Withers dropped into position behind the Victor. Behind the Vulcan Captain, AEO Hugh Prior pulled a heavy torch out of a compartment in his flight bag and passed it up the ladder to Dick Russell in the co-pilot’s seat. As Withers tried to formate on the drogue, Russell shone the torch through the flight-deck window. Reflections from the glass confused the view ahead, but he was able to pick up the basket in the beam of the powerful torch.
‘I can’t really see anything,’ Russell confessed, ‘but I can’t see the probe tip in there.’ There was no obvious problem, but there was only one way to be certain. Dick Russell stowed the torch and Withers closed in on the basket. In the cold, clear air the contact presented no difficulties. Withers clunked home the probe for proving contact and fuel began to flow freely. It was still on. 5,000lb later they were satisfied that the refuelling equipment, at least, wouldn’t provide cause to abort the mission. For the time being, they could continue south.
As far as the crew of the Vulcan were concerned, the fuel drama was now over. The mood aboard the Victor was rather different. The fuel plan was a bust, but having proved that the refuelling system was still working they now had a crucial decision to make. If they turned back now, if Withers jettisoned his bombs, they had the fuel to get both jets back to Ascension. If they pressed on, the future was uncertain. They would be placing themselves in a situation where they could no longer depend solely on their own efforts to survive. But having got this far – and hung off the end of a refuelling hose in appalling, draining conditions to do so – Tux felt a strong compulsion to carry on, but he couldn’t simply follow his own gut instinct to support the Vulcan. His crew had to feel the same way. He put it to them.
‘Right, we either turn back now, or pretty sharpish at least, or we press on in the knowledge that we’ve got to come up with an alternative plan. We may need to abandon or ditch. Say what’s on your mind. I need you all to speak up.’
One by one, and quickly, the answers came back through the intercom.