Brotherhood

It is the Year of our Lord 1963. We are sitting, my colleague and I,
in a large steel shed at the end of the runway. I look up and idly
count the trusses in the roof. By tilting my head as far back as the
equipment that I am wearing will permit, I can count twenty-four. The
steel doors in front of us are opened wide. The doors are electrically
operated and can open in less than ten seconds. Looking down to my
left, I see two men leaning indolently against the wall of the shed.
They both wear denim overalls and clumsy red earmuffs. Although I am
unable to hear it, I know that a ground power unit is running outside
the shed. This ground power unit is providing alternating electrical
current at four hundred volts and two hundred cycles per second.
Plugged into the aircraft, into which John Waterstone and I are tightly
strapped, the output of the unit is running all the aircraft systems.
The two engines are, for the moment silent. I can hear the sounds of
the invertors and gyros. I can also hear the terse messages being
transmitted over the cable link from Wing Operations.

Some two miles distant from our lonely outpost, people are crouched
over a plotting table. Information from many sources is collated and
plotted on this table. These people are able to talk to us by means of
the cable link and they will give us the order to launch if they feel
that such an order is warranted. In a nation that is effectively at
peace, I am sitting in one of two Gloster Javelin fighter aircraft that
are fully armed with live missiles. If we launch, it will be because a
threat has been perceived to which an armed response is deemed
necessary. The duty of waiting is known as QRA, meaning Quick Reaction
Alert. It is plain that every crew carrying out this duty hopes
fervently that a scramble order will not be given. Of the two aircraft
on standby, one is ready for departure within twenty seconds of the
order. The crew of the other aircraft relaxes in the lounge area
adjacent to the hangars. If the first airplane is scrambled, they will
instantly climb into their machine and assume twenty second
readiness.

For the moment, there is nothing to do but wait. John, who sits behind
me, is reading a novel by the light of his torch. The inside of the
hangar is bathed in a red glow in order that our night vision will not
be compromised. The radio crackles into life. I expect a report stating
'situation normal'. Instead, the voice tells me that one of our Early
Warning systems has detected an unidentified aircraft over the North
Sea. I know that if this intruder enters our airspace we will be sent
to investigate. Almost subconsciously, I tighten my straps one at a
time. In the canopy, I can see the reflection of John stuffing his book
into the document stowage. The messages from Operations tell me that
the intruder has not responded to interrogation and is currently on a
heading that will take him right to the shores of our green and
pleasant land. I flash the landing lights as a signal to the ground
crew to be ready and receive a thumbs up signal in response.
The radio crackles again.
"Two four from Wing Ops, Scramble scramble scramble. Your vector to
target is heading zero two five."
I hit the battery master switch and signal to the ground crew. Press
both starter buttons simultaneously and as soon as the engines have
properly lit up, push both throttles forward and release the
brakes.
"Ops, two-four is rolling" Not bad, that. Just twenty-three seconds
from the scramble to moving. We turn on to the runway. Both engines to
full power against the brakes.
"Two-four, ops, cleared for take-off. Contact Fighter Director on stud
four when airborne."
Brakes off and we leap forward. The runway lights stream past us as the
speed increases. I scan the instruments. All temperatures and pressures
in the green. The rumble of the wheels ceases as we start to fly.
Landing gear retracts into the wings and the doors close with a thud. I
turn slightly left onto the heading and we climb hard.

The voice of the Fighter Director bids us good morning. Our target is
an unidentified aircraft that they have been tracking for some time as
it came down from the Arctic Circle, staying just outside Norwegian
airspace. They assume that the target is one of the huge four-engined
Russian bombers. Radar shows it to be some twenty miles from the
Scottish coast and our time to intercept is just fourteen minutes. John
remarks that this situation is not unusual. The Soviets keep sending
the Bears towards the British coast just to measure our reaction time,
he complains. I respond somewhat acidly that if he was any good at his
job, he would have found the target on his intercept radar by this
time.

The Fighter Director gives us steers towards our target and John
eventually confirms that he has contact. We take up a position about
three miles behind the intruder and make a positive identification.
Sure enough, it is the huge Tupolev 95 that NATO code-named 'Bear'
Although he is in international airspace, our task is to intercept and
escort him to make certain that our Sovereign territory is not
violated. Initially we must persuade the Soviet to change his heading.
I position our aircraft on the left side of the Bear. In the moonlight,
the huge aircraft seems to hang in space. The flight deck lights are on
and I have a clear view of the Russian pilot. He has what appears to be
a paper cup in his hand. He raises it as if toasting us. I allow the
distance between us to close and we can now see that the flight deck is
crowded with Russian aviators, all waving happily at us.

I gesture with my hand to "follow me" and break off to the left.
Obediently, the big Russian enters a lumbering turn. He straightens out
much too soon. They are still aimed at Scotland. We take up our station
again just off his left wing. The Russian pilot grins at us. "Follow
me" I signal again. The Bear obliges with another half hearted turn. We
are running short of time, John reminds me. Unless we get this big
mother pointed in the right direction very soon, they are going to have
to scramble the second QRA aircraft because we are going to be out of
fuel. I signal again to the Soviet aircraft but this time, the crew all
appear to be pointing at their wristwatches. They are laughing. It
occurs to me that they know our mission capabilities almost as well as
we do. At last, just as we are becoming obliged to return to base, the
Bear obligingly swings onto a southerly heading. The captain salutes
us. I return the salute. Honour has been satisfied.

The brotherhood existing between airmen transcends all bounds of
nationality. At that turbulent period in our history, a state of war
with the Soviet Union was never out of the question. I am pleased to
relate however that the crew of a Soviet Air Force Tupolev and the crew
of a Royal Air Force Javelin found a sort of friendship in the night
sky overthe cold North Sea, just off the Scottish coast.