The targeting of nuclear weapons in Great Britain is subject to an extremely rigorous process which involves the input of several agencies, including national intelligence. Not surprisingly, accuracy and quality control are absolutely paramount and an independent organisation scrutinises both the effectiveness of the completed plans, together with the capability and availability of the patrolling SSBN. For his part, Conley managed a small cell of nuclear targeting experts who worked within the concrete complex deep beneath the Ministry’s main building. Very professional and committed, this unsung and unknown group of naval officers worked very hard in doing their part to deliver the targeting plans which ensured that the national deterrent remained totally credible.
Conley’s first tour of the underground bunker revealed a Cabinet room with an identical table to that in Downing Street. Moreover, the prime minister had his own compact bedroom upon the walls of which were watercolours of scenes of the British countryside. He wondered who had thought of this level of detail.
As part of his wider induction, his responsibilities took him to the Atomic Weapons Establishments (AWE) at Aldermaston and Burghfield, where the nuclear warheads are manufactured and assembled. These two sites, whilst modern, did not initially meet his vision of immaculate, high-tech facilities populated by persons of grave and serious mien. Instead, he encountered a relatively small-scale establishment, retaining an enduring recollection of:
a very large man on the warhead assembly line who bore a very strong resemblance to ‘Jaws’ of James Bond fame and of a middle-aged woman who opened the storage vaults to show me a number of the RAF’s nuclear bombs. She had a visage and demeanour which would not have been out of place in Macbeth’s witches. I was later advised that people who work in the very tense environment of handling explosives all day long are no ordinary types.
Conley’s main contact at AWE was a scientist who, in support of the targeting process, had been contracted to investigate the effectiveness of nuclear blast upon different land topographies. One of the scientist’s key experiments involved purchase of a large number of Christmas trees which, planted in the ground at Shoeburyness firing range near Southend in Essex, were subjected to the effect of 20 tons of TNT, and then assessed for the scaled-up damage of a nuclear blast upon a wooded area. In sum, AWE was not the high-powered, technologically advanced organisation the captain had envisaged, though it appeared that it worked well, with safety absolutely paramount.
In 1994, as a savings measure, the decision had been taken to phase out the Royal Air Force’s free-fall tactical nuclear bomb, the WE177, with a version of the Trident missile which would be configured with a much lighter warhead payload. Known as Sub-Strategic Trident, this would allow politicians the flexibility to use nuclear weapons in a limited strike, of particular importance in circumstances of escalation to a nuclear exchange without recourse to a massive attack. This flexibility reinforced the credibility of nuclear deterrence, although it could be argued that it might be more likely to induce the decision to ‘go nuclear’. Conley observed that some of the higher strategists of the RAF attempted to reverse their loss of capability and the exit of their Service from the ‘nuclear club’ of which they had been a member for over forty years. These officers pointed out the very strong deterrent advantage of highly overtly deploying nuclear-armed Tornado bombers to forward air bases as part of a NATO strike force, as opposed to a SSBN deployed unseen and unheard in the depths of the oceans.
In a cash-constrained ministry, where the cost of nuclear weapons had to be reduced, the no-cost Sub-Strategic Trident argument won the day. However, it bemused Conley that one entrepreneurial wing commander had attempted to secrete some WE177 bomb casings in an airbase store, just in case this capability needed to be restored in a hurry.
Owing to the ending of NATO nuclear weapons war-gaming exercises, where communications networks and command and control procedures were tried out, once a year the Nuclear Policy Directorate organised a tabletop nuclear war game in the command and control room of the MoD bunker, where politicians, senior civil servants and the heads of the three Services were presented with conflict scenarios which were geared towards them debating and considering the use of nuclear weapons. Conley had already come to the conclusion that most senior military officers within the ministry demonstrated a distinct disinterest in nuclear deterrence, seeing nuclear weapons as essentially a political capability of limited military utility. In view of this, his departmental heads considered the three-hour annual war game to be very important, as key participants included the most senior decision-makers, including the chief of the defence staff and the single Service heads. During the course of the war game these officers would be compelled to consider the many complex political and military factors which would govern their recommendation to the prime minister as to whether to deliver a nuclear strike. It was the norm for the Secretary of State for Defence to chair such exercises.
For a number of the reasons the first of these war games that Conley attended did not go well. Ever the Scottish lawyer, Secretary of State Malcolm Rifkind was most unenthusiastic at being presented with information during the course of the exercise with little time to grasp its detail. Clearly angry, he challenged the efficacy of the structure of the exercise, after which the whole process went downhill.
The following year the directorate head, licking his wounds, instructed Conley to organise and direct the war game. Having learnt lessons, he ensured that there would be no surprises of the type which, at short notice, challenged the intellect or knowledge of the participants. To this end, Conley’s written and verbal briefing packages were very comprehensive. The BBC were in the process of making a documentary about the United Kingdom’s defence organisation, including one episode devoted to Trident. It was, therefore, agreed that the production team would film the opening few minutes of the war game, set at an unclassified level and taking advantage of this unique ensemble. The military staff working in the main building do not normally wear uniform, but as this did not align with the public’s perception of ‘top brass’, the Service participants were invited to be dressed in military attire. Beneficially in the dim lighting of the command room, the uniforms engendered a much more realistic ambience as the exercise got underway.
Michael Portillo had succeeded Rifkind as Secretary of State for Defence and on the morning of the exercise Conley met him at his office and escorted him down to the bunker. As they descended, exchanging general conversation, Portillo remarked how daunting it was going to be for him to both face the television cameras and chair a war game with the heads of the Services, addressing a difficult subject which a few weeks previous he had known little if anything about. Conley concluded that in an increasingly complex world there were very high expectations upon those politicians holding ministerial post. On his arrival in the command room and taking his place at the head of the gathering, the minister spotted a large brass key on a plinth in the middle of the conference table. Before the cameras rolled he enquired whether this was the nuclear release key. He was assured that it had been presented by the contractor who had built the bunker as a memento and had no military significance whatsoever. However, this little cameo did illustrate to those gathered the everyday challenges of being a high-level politician in the public eye.