functions of the UK government . . .’ Grainger clears his throat for an irksome detail. ‘. . . which would have to be a massive, end-of-the-world sort of attack.
‘Only the PM, and verifiable authorisation from the PM, can launch a Trident missile. Except, of course, in an end-of-the-world scenario. If this happened, the submarine commander could elect to put himself under the command of another force, the Americans, for instance, or he could attack on his own initiative. Either way the commander and his senior weapons officer would select a pre-designated target and, on his sole authority, the missile could be independently fired . . .’
‘I’ve got all of that, thank you.’ Davane sways against the back of the chair. Slightly irritated. ‘What I need to understand is the significance of these three pages.’
Craddock, the First Sea Lord, taps an impatient finger on the lustrous mahogany surface. ‘These three pages explain the fail-safe system that would allow us, or anyone with the knowledge, to neutralise an independently fired Trident . . .’
‘So anybody with this knowledge could . . . could bring the Trident down?’
Craddock again. ‘Not exactly bring it down.’ His finger beating faster and faster. ‘The fail-safe is designed for a scenario where we’ve been bombed to hell. Therefore all of our high-price technical communication stuff is finished. Anything with a chip in it. Burnt. Exploded. Irradiated. Whatever. The same would apply to navigation, which is normally by Global Positioning System, or variants thereof. All gone.’ And, to underline the point, he swishes his hands vigorously. ‘In that scenario, on board a Trident is a software system that maps out the stars. The sun, the Pole Star, Spica, for instance. Just like sailors, using the stars to navigate.’
‘I get all of this . . . I do . . .’
‘These three pages tell you how to activate the fail-safe. Howto override the submarine commander’s instructions. How to talk to Trident after it’s been launched. It’s very low-tech because we’re assuming that a massive nuclear attack will not leave us much to communicate with. So, it’s a simple radio signal basically. But the consequence is just as final . . .’
These people could really beat about the bush. ‘And what is that consequence?’
‘The fail-safe tells the missile to select the brightest of the stars it can see – and the dear old Trident will just keep progress towards it . . . no atmospheric re-entry. No target acquisition.’
‘You mean, keep on going . . . ?’
‘Keep on going until it runs out of fuel. Somewhere up there. In outer space. The point is it won’t come down. Not here, anyway. Which is what the fail-safe is all about.’
Davane nods carefully. Drums her fingers on the back of the chair. ‘The Royal Navy have only got four subs in the Vanguard class, a dozen missiles on each boat, and only one of those is on patrol at any given time. So why not just reprogramme the software? Tweak the system a bit?’
The gloom is so thick and heavy she can almost feel it weighing on her shoulders. Heads and shoulders sink. Eyes look down. The disgraced MacIntyre, so abject his forehead is almost touching the table.
It’s Grainger who speaks up. ‘We don’t actually own the Trident missiles. We have a lease agreement on a certain number of Tridents belonging to the US Navy. Fifty-eight all told, out of a US cache of more than five hundred. But the rocket, the propellant, fuses, the motor sets, guidance system, the overall technology solution, it’s all owned by Uncle Sam.’ Grainger makes very sarcastic inverted commas with his fingers. ‘“Our missiles” are actually their missiles, stored for us at a submarine base in Georgia. We can’t tweak the software . . . without . . .’ ‘. . . without telling the Americans,’ Davane finishes the sentence. ‘And if we tell the Americans, they might just, what ? Kick us out of the
‘Only the PM, and verifiable authorisation from the PM, can launch a Trident missile. Except, of course, in an end-of-the-world scenario. If this happened, the submarine commander could elect to put himself under the command of another force, the Americans, for instance, or he could attack on his own initiative. Either way the commander and his senior weapons officer would select a pre-designated target and, on his sole authority, the missile could be independently fired . . .’
‘I’ve got all of that, thank you.’ Davane sways against the back of the chair. Slightly irritated. ‘What I need to understand is the significance of these three pages.’
Craddock, the First Sea Lord, taps an impatient finger on the lustrous mahogany surface. ‘These three pages explain the fail-safe system that would allow us, or anyone with the knowledge, to neutralise an independently fired Trident . . .’
‘So anybody with this knowledge could . . . could bring the Trident down?’
Craddock again. ‘Not exactly bring it down.’ His finger beating faster and faster. ‘The fail-safe is designed for a scenario where we’ve been bombed to hell. Therefore all of our high-price technical communication stuff is finished. Anything with a chip in it. Burnt. Exploded. Irradiated. Whatever. The same would apply to navigation, which is normally by Global Positioning System, or variants thereof. All gone.’ And, to underline the point, he swishes his hands vigorously. ‘In that scenario, on board a Trident is a software system that maps out the stars. The sun, the Pole Star, Spica, for instance. Just like sailors, using the stars to navigate.’
‘I get all of this . . . I do . . .’
‘These three pages tell you how to activate the fail-safe. Howto override the submarine commander’s instructions. How to talk to Trident after it’s been launched. It’s very low-tech because we’re assuming that a massive nuclear attack will not leave us much to communicate with. So, it’s a simple radio signal basically. But the consequence is just as final . . .’
These people could really beat about the bush. ‘And what is that consequence?’
‘The fail-safe tells the missile to select the brightest of the stars it can see – and the dear old Trident will just keep progress towards it . . . no atmospheric re-entry. No target acquisition.’
‘You mean, keep on going . . . ?’
‘Keep on going until it runs out of fuel. Somewhere up there. In outer space. The point is it won’t come down. Not here, anyway. Which is what the fail-safe is all about.’
Davane nods carefully. Drums her fingers on the back of the chair. ‘The Royal Navy have only got four subs in the Vanguard class, a dozen missiles on each boat, and only one of those is on patrol at any given time. So why not just reprogramme the software? Tweak the system a bit?’
The gloom is so thick and heavy she can almost feel it weighing on her shoulders. Heads and shoulders sink. Eyes look down. The disgraced MacIntyre, so abject his forehead is almost touching the table.
It’s Grainger who speaks up. ‘We don’t actually own the Trident missiles. We have a lease agreement on a certain number of Tridents belonging to the US Navy. Fifty-eight all told, out of a US cache of more than five hundred. But the rocket, the propellant, fuses, the motor sets, guidance system, the overall technology solution, it’s all owned by Uncle Sam.’ Grainger makes very sarcastic inverted commas with his fingers. ‘“Our missiles” are actually their missiles, stored for us at a submarine base in Georgia. We can’t tweak the software . . . without . . .’ ‘. . . without telling the Americans,’ Davane finishes the sentence. ‘And if we tell the Americans, they might just, what ? Kick us out of the