How to get lost...
Sorry, this is a long one!
Many years ago when I was young and stupid I was lucky enough to be flying the Phantom FG1 (or F4K if you prefer), which was the version designed to be operated by the RN as well as the RAF. It had a few things that the FGR2 did not (like a slotted stabilator) but it was also missing a few bits and pieces that the FGR2 had. These were minor things like an HF radio, any form of inertial navigation, and an internal battery. The nav kit consisted mainly of a TACAN and an Air Position Indicator; the API required a starting position, a wind vector and a healthy supply of cheese or other food for the mouse that apparently worked the inside of the black box. The battery could present an interesting problem - at least until we had a mod with an emergency version - as a double generator failure put out all the instrument and flood lighting until you could get the RAT on line (below 1.1M/515kts) by braille. Fortunately, the event I offer for your amusement happened in daylight.
We were sent off as a pair one very windy Sunday morning (OK weather but 25-30 kts surface wind) as part of a maritime exercise. We were told the fleet was operating off the Shetlands, there was a tanker for us, and that there was a strong westerly jetstream of about 180kts. We were in 3-tank fit, so had 22000 lbs fuel, enough for about 2.5 hours if we were careful, though of course we had a tanker so anything up to 7 hours was on the cards. Off we went, straight up to FL250 and out towards the Shetlands where we started talking to the controlling ship good and early to avoid the usual problem of being shot down by the Navy before we could take part in its defence. The duty director sent us off in another direction for our CAP, where two things happened quite quickly. First, we ran into thick and un-forecast cloud (the brief was for light cirrus) and secondly we lost visual with our wingman, so we sent him to a new position about 10 miles away so we could operate without bumping into each other. All seemed to be well, though the TACAN had resolutely refused to play since its (satis) pre-flight test; the mouse was obviously satisfied with its meal as the API information gave us a sensible lat/long which tallied with my trusty navigator's MDR plot.
We spent some time on CAP, 4 minute legs based on the API position and orientated down threat (south). I even remembered to allow some drift for the jetstream and briefed my nav accordingly. The tanker came up on freq and we sent our wingman off as he had less fuel than us, while we stayed on task to protect our nautical chums from the marauding Cold War hordes.
Some time after that, things went a little quiet and, though we could still hear our wingman, he did not seem to hear us. No matter, a break in the cloud meant we could anchor our CAP over the islands (obviously the Shetlands) that appeared below. And there we stayed, not talking to anyone (and no HF to help either) but quite happy about what we were supposed to be doing.
And then after a while I got that feeling. We had planned on starting our recovery to Leuchars with 7000 lbs, ample for the range we were at, fuel burn of 100 lbs/min, wind, diversion fuel etc. I don't know why, other than a strong sense that we needed extra fuel, but I decided to add 4000 lbs to the plan and told the nav we would start recovery next time we pointed towards home. Which is what we did. After about 5 mins on the home leg I asked the nav to give us a squirt of ground mapping (AN/AWG-11, multi-mode radar that had been in pulse doppler for almost the whole trip so we could see low-level targets). 100 nm range scale, nothing to be seen, 200 nm range, blank again. No Scotland anywhere in sight, even when we turned onto 270. So I asked a very simple question: "Where are we, G*****?" His answer was equally simple: "I haven't got a ******** clue!" He agreed with my next statement, which was simply "So we are lost, then."
Grabbing a passing straw to swing on, I suggested that maybe we had drifted with the jetstream as far as the Faroes, and it was those islands we were over. Anything being worth a shot, we turned onto a south easterly heading and this time the ground mapping showed some returns about 180 nm away. I enquired politely whether they were actually ground returns and was informed that they were indeed. That was excellent news. I then asked if the returns were Scotland-shaped. As I suspected when I asked the question, they weren't!
I remember just how strangely calm I felt when I pointed out that (a) we were lost, (b) there was no point trying to work out where we were because we were clearly nowhere near where we were supposed to be, (c) we were not talking to anyone on any of the published frequencies and (d) the only things we had going for us were some extra fuel, a radar and some ground returns. The plan was to fly towards the strange land-mass showing on the radar, let down over the sea if possible (using said radar to prove we were sea-side), find an airfield and land, or find a suitable road for landing if we couldn't find an airfield, or part company with the aircraft over the coast if none of the above worked. The 3 external tanks would be jettisoned when we hit 6000 lbs remaining, to give us some extra time.
So we wandered in a gentle descent towards the Land of Wherever, wearing a 7700 squawk and sending out PAN calls (should have been a MAYDAY really...) on 243.0 as we didn't have VHF either! Having asked the nav to read through the pre-meditated ejection and tank jettison drills, I watched as the fuel counter ticked through 7000 lbs and was just starting to wonder how much fun it would be to drop the tanks when our 7th PAN call was answered by Bremen Approach. Bremen?!! WTF etc... This was followed by another but very welcome voice telling us we were 60 miles on the centreline at Karup (Denmark) and asking if we would like to come and land. Oh, yes please. The 2000 ft wind was 270/40, we might just make it back to Leuchars or we might not, and there was a slight confidence issue with all the components of the nav system including the big pink bit in the back cockpit. Best land, coffee, refuel etc. Good plan. We turned our aircraft round at Karup, talked to the HQ (the overdue action had started but was turned off when our PAN was heard) and headed home VFR in as straight a line as we could manage.
On investigation it turned out that our API had been adjusted with a hammer and drift or similar and that a piece of swarf had clogged one of the wheels, which must have upset the mouse quite a lot. Range was OK to start with, but the East/West bit was total nonsense. It seems that the jetstream had actually drifted us onto the Norwegian coastline (the islands we had anchored over) and that the drift we applied to allow for it had tracked us down the North Sea outside the mapping range of the radar.
As for repercussions, we didn't even get to do the Axminster shuffle (there's just culture for you) but the nav did get to spend quite a long time talking to the nav leader about MDR plots, fixing cycles, derived winds and a lot of other stuff I didn't recognise. And I learned that when you get those feelings, it's best not to ignore them!
Last edited by Fortissimo; 17th Sep 2015 at 16:22.