programme.’
Craddock looks around the table, before nodding gravely. ‘The principle of deterrence is that your enemy never knows the disposition of the forces he is facing. The what, when, where and how.
‘Some of it he can work out, or guess, or war-game. But it’s the value of your last card, that continuous at-sea deterrence, that submarine making quiet on the floor of the Atlantic, which makes this whole thing a guessing game. That’s why it was termed mutually assured destruction. If you do it to me, then I’ll give it back to you, with interest. That’s how deterrence has kept the world safe for almost seventy years, and why this government is wagering a billion and a half pounds a year that it will keep us safe for another seventy . . .’
Had Davane really been in a black mood, it would have been at this point that she would have observed that the principle of deterrence had done exactly nothing during the Troubles . . . there were plenty of citizens in Northern Ireland who hadn’t felt the least bit protected by Trident.
‘. . . but if the enemy knows your last card – even more than that, knows how to neutralise it . . . Then. Really. It’s game over. We’re just so many little pigs hiding out in our straw house.’
A long, dismal silence fills the elegant conference suite.
Davane is suddenly aware of ghosts. For the men at this table had not just failed themselves. They’d failed all the military leaders who’d preceded them, who’d championed nuclear deterrence in this very room during much more hostile times and who, when finishing their terms, must have felt they were passing the baton on. Entrusting it to the next generation, with stern words. This is the iron rock on which Britain depends. The very Last Line of Defence. Not just the weapon itself, but the relationship with the United States, through which is defined Britain’s role at the top table. That special relationship. Agreed to by no less a president than John F. Kennedy in 1963, for the Polaris programme, and restated by Ronald Reagan in 1982 for Trident II.
The room wore its history well, as if to underline that thiswas the conference suite. Proud traditions shouted from each panel of darkened oak. The Pepys Suite. Named after the diarist, who served Charles II and James II as their Admiralty Clerk. And in one corner of the room, a very serious display cabinet. Locked inside, the Letters Patent: the vellum manuscript with the Queen’s Great Seal of the Realm attached, from which derive all the powers and responsibilities of the armed forces. The right to wage war, to be answerable to Parliament and so on. Hand-enscribed parchment like a living page of history.
The ghosts in the room are not happy.
Craddock nervously rattles his teacup. And Davane straightens her back, works her shoulders from side to side. Feels a big smile coming over her face. Gentle chuckle under her breath. It’s quite simple really.
‘I’m sorry to say, gentlemen . . .’ She sniffs rather regally. ‘On this one, I think you’re screwed. Good and proper.’
Which is when the shouting starts up again, with cries of Outrage! Damnable woman! Nothing she hasn’t heard before.
The next turn of events is something of a surprise. Less than half an hour later, emerging from the ladies’ on the fifth floor, Davane is accosted by Dougal MacIntyre. Panicked, he takes her by the wrist and leads her along the polished floor of the long corridor to a vacant office. Closes the door behind him, leans back against it. Gasping slightly.
When he turns to her the man’s eyes are wired with anxiety. ‘They won’t tell you the truth.’
‘Who won’t?’
‘Them . . . inside there,’ and MacIntyre nudges his shoulder towards the Pepys Suite.
‘And you will?’
‘Look. I know this doesn’t look good for me.’ And he turns away, then swings around decisively. ‘This Ward 13 . . . it isn’t the first time.’
‘Why should I believe you?’
‘How
Craddock looks around the table, before nodding gravely. ‘The principle of deterrence is that your enemy never knows the disposition of the forces he is facing. The what, when, where and how.
‘Some of it he can work out, or guess, or war-game. But it’s the value of your last card, that continuous at-sea deterrence, that submarine making quiet on the floor of the Atlantic, which makes this whole thing a guessing game. That’s why it was termed mutually assured destruction. If you do it to me, then I’ll give it back to you, with interest. That’s how deterrence has kept the world safe for almost seventy years, and why this government is wagering a billion and a half pounds a year that it will keep us safe for another seventy . . .’
Had Davane really been in a black mood, it would have been at this point that she would have observed that the principle of deterrence had done exactly nothing during the Troubles . . . there were plenty of citizens in Northern Ireland who hadn’t felt the least bit protected by Trident.
‘. . . but if the enemy knows your last card – even more than that, knows how to neutralise it . . . Then. Really. It’s game over. We’re just so many little pigs hiding out in our straw house.’
A long, dismal silence fills the elegant conference suite.
Davane is suddenly aware of ghosts. For the men at this table had not just failed themselves. They’d failed all the military leaders who’d preceded them, who’d championed nuclear deterrence in this very room during much more hostile times and who, when finishing their terms, must have felt they were passing the baton on. Entrusting it to the next generation, with stern words. This is the iron rock on which Britain depends. The very Last Line of Defence. Not just the weapon itself, but the relationship with the United States, through which is defined Britain’s role at the top table. That special relationship. Agreed to by no less a president than John F. Kennedy in 1963, for the Polaris programme, and restated by Ronald Reagan in 1982 for Trident II.
The room wore its history well, as if to underline that thiswas the conference suite. Proud traditions shouted from each panel of darkened oak. The Pepys Suite. Named after the diarist, who served Charles II and James II as their Admiralty Clerk. And in one corner of the room, a very serious display cabinet. Locked inside, the Letters Patent: the vellum manuscript with the Queen’s Great Seal of the Realm attached, from which derive all the powers and responsibilities of the armed forces. The right to wage war, to be answerable to Parliament and so on. Hand-enscribed parchment like a living page of history.
The ghosts in the room are not happy.
Craddock nervously rattles his teacup. And Davane straightens her back, works her shoulders from side to side. Feels a big smile coming over her face. Gentle chuckle under her breath. It’s quite simple really.
‘I’m sorry to say, gentlemen . . .’ She sniffs rather regally. ‘On this one, I think you’re screwed. Good and proper.’
Which is when the shouting starts up again, with cries of Outrage! Damnable woman! Nothing she hasn’t heard before.
The next turn of events is something of a surprise. Less than half an hour later, emerging from the ladies’ on the fifth floor, Davane is accosted by Dougal MacIntyre. Panicked, he takes her by the wrist and leads her along the polished floor of the long corridor to a vacant office. Closes the door behind him, leans back against it. Gasping slightly.
When he turns to her the man’s eyes are wired with anxiety. ‘They won’t tell you the truth.’
‘Who won’t?’
‘Them . . . inside there,’ and MacIntyre nudges his shoulder towards the Pepys Suite.
‘And you will?’
‘Look. I know this doesn’t look good for me.’ And he turns away, then swings around decisively. ‘This Ward 13 . . . it isn’t the first time.’
‘Why should I believe you?’
‘How
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