by Chris Mullin
The forecourt was screened by a high brick wall and beyond the drive led away through an avenue of young beech trees to a pair of lodge houses which marked the main entrance. Here the press were assembled. Photographers festooned with cameras and long lenses stood, hands in pockets, windcheaters zipped to the chin, stamping their feet in frustration. There were to be no photo calls, no press conferences. All they could do was attempt to snap the participants as their cars slowed down to check with the policemen on the gate. Television crews with the latest lightweight cameras kept on the alert. Interest was not confined to the British press. Correspondents filled in the time by recording face-to-camera pieces describing the conference with phrases like “vital to the future of the Western alliance” and “a turning point in Anglo-American relations”.
Security was tight. The policemen carefully scrutinised the passes attached to the windscreen of every car that went in. Away across the green parkland policemen with dogs could be seen patrolling the fields that divide the public footpath from the grounds of the Prime Minister’s country residence.
Inside the atmosphere was tense. The Chiefs of Staff made little secret of the fact that they regarded Perkins and his government as a greater threat than the entire Soviet army. The permanent secretaries sympathised discreetly. The ministers knew, or at least strongly suspected, that their civil servants were in cahoots with the Chiefs of Staff. Even the Wrens who served the tea remarked to each other on the atmosphere as they scuttled in and out of the Great Parlour.
The dozen places at the stout mahogany table were occupied by the ministers and the Chiefs of Staff. The permanent secretaries and the military advisers sat behind them in a wider circle around the table on chairs poached from the White Parlour. The Prime Minister sat with his back to the window. On a sideboard in the bay of the window rested a bowl of yellow chrysanthemums. God knows where you get chrysanthemums from at this time of year, thought Defence Secretary Evans, as he took from a red despatch box the paper he was about to present.
Perkins called the meeting to order without ceremony and invited Evans to speak first. Copies of his paper had been circulated in advance and he summarised it page by page, inviting questions as he went along. “So far as we have been able to establish,” began Evans, “the United States has over one hundred bases and other military facilities on the soil of the United Kingdom. These you will find listed in Appendix One.” There was a rustle of paper while everyone searched for Appendix One.
“What do you mean ‘so far as we have been able to establish’?” interrupted Jock Steeples.
“To be perfectly frank,” said Evans with a quick glance at the general on his left, “I have not had the co-operation I would have liked in the preparation of this paper.” He went on to explain that it had taken three requests before his private office had been able to come up with what now appeared to be a complete inventory of American weaponry and related installations. Even now there was some dispute about the exact rôle of the communications facilities, some of which appeared to be targeted against the host country rather than against any real or imagined external threat. He would deal with this in more detail. Meanwhile he would only say that there were some members of the British defence establishment who apparently believed that the Secretary of State could not be trusted with all matters relating to the defence of the realm. At this, there was much foot-shuffling and sideways glancing among the Chiefs of Staff and their advisers, but no one thought it wise to argue.
Evans resumed his summary. “US forces in Britain have the use of twenty-one airbases, nine transport terminals, seventeen weapon dumps, seven nuclear weapon stores, thirty-eight communications facilities and three radar and sonar surveillance sites.” He paused, “You will find details of each of these in Appendix Two.” There was more rustling of paper and a rattle of tea cups as Wrens with the trolleys arrived.
“The United States,” Evans went on, “has about seven thousand warheads and of these about two hundred are stored in Britain. Those for the Poseidon submarines are kept in underground chambers at Glen Douglas near Holy Loch. The other main storage depots are at Caerwent near Newport and Burtonwood near Warrington. There are also nuclear weapons stored on or near American air force bases at Upper Heyford, Mildenhall, Lakenheath, Bentwaters, Brize Norton, Wethersfield, Woodbridge, Greenham Common, Marham, Sculthorpe and Fairford.” Evans recited the names slowly, in the manner of a British Rail announcer. A uniformed Wren leaned across his right shoulder and placed a cup of strong tea on the edge of his blotter.
“In the event of war,” Evans was no longer reading from the brief in front of him, “especially equipped Boeing 757s would take off immediately from Mildenhall in Suffolk and would become the US European Command.”
“Exactly how much control do we have over this little lot?” asked Mrs Cook, the Home Secretary. She was seated almost opposite Evans. Her bright red jacket made her conspicuous among the dark lounge suits and military uniforms.
Evans plopped two lumps of sugar into his tea and stirred gently. “None whatever,” he said quickly.
“With respect, sir.” It was Air Chief Marshal Sir Richard Gibbon, RAF Chief of Staff. “With respect, we have an understanding.”
“Not worth the paper it’s written on,” said Evans without waiting for the air marshal to finish. He had had the same argument with his officials twice already this week. “I had my officials go back through the archives. No treaty was ever signed. All they could come up with was a note, dated October 1951, prepared by the British ambassador in Washington and initialled by an American under-secretary of state which says that the use of the bases in an emergency is a matter of joint decision ‘in the light of the circumstances prevailing at the time.’ The full text is in Appendix Three.” They turned to Appendix Three.
“I can only say,” snorted the air marshal, “that in the ten years I’ve been dealing with them, I’ve always found that our American allies work very closely with us.” He leaned back in his chair as though that was the final word on the subject, but it was not.
“Fact of the matter is,” said Evans quietly, “that over the years the US air force has installed its own communications network, and it can now operate quite independently of the MoD. Isn’t that so Air Marshal?”
The air marshal did not reply. There was a brief silence during which Evans glanced triumphantly around the table as though expecting a round of applause.
“What I’d like to know,” said Harry Perkins who had until now sat silently with his chin in his hands, “is against whom are we defending ourselves?”
“I’m sorry, Prime Minister, I don’t quite follow.” Air Marshal Gibbon had assumed, without any particular reason, that the question was directed at him.
“For the last forty years,” said Perkins, “all our defence plans have been based on the assumption that the only threat to our security comes from the Soviet Union.” He paused. Through the bay windows behind him two policemen could be seen pacing the north lawn, one of them held an alsatian on a lead. “Supposing,” continued Perkins, “just supposing, that the real threat to our security were to come not from the Soviet Union, but from the other side of the Atlantic?
“We’d not be very well prepared, would we?”
Lunch was a buffet in the Long Gallery. Perkins spent most of the lunch hour describing the treasures on display there to anyone who cared to listen. There was Nelson’s gold pocket watch, Napoleon’s despatch case and a ring reputed to have belonged to Queen Elizabeth the First. Jock Steeples and Mrs Cook stood watching from a distance as Perkins stooped over a glass case trying to decipher a letter from Oliver Cromwell for the benefit of the navy Chief of Staff. “This place brings out the lord of the manor in Harry,” said Steeples with a grin.
The Prime Minister’s final remarks at the morning session were the main topic of conversation among the military men and the permanent secretaries. Nothing in their training had prepared them for the possibility that Britain might nee
d protecting against the United States. One permanent secretary, having first glanced over his shoulder to make sure he was out of earshot of the politicians, said that so far as he was concerned the Atlantic alliance was all that stood between freedom and tyranny in Britain. And in a discreet corner, a colonel from the MoD Planning Department was heard to say that the way things were going he would not be surprised if Britain soon became a fully paid-up member of the Warsaw Pact.
The afternoon began with a slideshow downstairs in the Hawtrey Room at which a succession of military men sought to impress upon ministers the overwhelming superiority of Soviet conventional forces in relation to those of the West. As Jock Steeples murmured to Mrs Cook, it was a bit late in the day for this sort of argument. The government said clearly that it intended to get the Americans out and only the practicalities remained to be settled. That was why they were here: to work out the practicalities, not to go through the same old arguments all over again.
Steeples was still whispering when the first slide came up on the screen. It purported to show the balance of NATO and Warsaw Pact forces in central Europe. Mrs Cook had waited until the room was in darkness to put on her glasses. She peered through the haze of smoke from Jim Evans’ pipe. “Where’s France?” she asked.
“Madam,” said the colonel who was giving the commentary, “France is not a member of the NATO Command.” He spoke in the slightly patronising tone that experts sometimes use when dealing with the hopelessly ignorant.
Mrs Cook repaid in kind. “I am aware of that, thank you, Colonel.” Her voice betrayed the tone of irritation that ministers sometimes use with experts who treat them like fools. “But if the Russians invaded Western Europe, I imagine we could count on the French to lend a hand, couldn’t we?”
The colonel said he hoped so.
“In that case,” said Mrs Cook flashing him one of her steeliest smiles, just visible in the light from the projector, “perhaps you could show us some figures that include the French?”
A major was despatched to find details of the French armed forces. Meanwhile the colonel pressed a button and a picture of a Soviet T-72 tank appeared on the screen. “One moment, Colonel,” said a voice from the gloom, “would you mind taking us back again?” He pressed the reverse switch and the tank was replaced by the chart depicting the East/West balance. “Aren’t the American figures a bit on the low side?” It was Ted Curran, Minister for Overseas Development. He was not in the Cabinet, but had asked to be included in the Chequers weekend since defence was his particular hobbyhorse.
The colonel shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His right hand clutched a stick, about the length of a billiard cue, which he used for pointing to the screen. “They include all American troops based in central Europe,” he said stiffly.
“But not those based in the United States and earmarked for Europe in the event of emergencies?” asked Curran from the back of the room.
“No, sir.”
“And the Russians?” Because he was looking into the light of the projector and the smokescreen thrown up by Jim Evans’ pipe, the colonel was denied a view of Ted Curran’s face.
“We count all Soviet troops west of the Urals.”
“Not a very fair comparison, is it, Colonel?”
“That’s how we’ve always done it in my time, sir.” In the front row the Chiefs of Staff were on edge. Air Marshal Gibbon was plucking at the expanding metal strap on his watch. General Payne was brushing his lapel with exaggerated gestures of his right hand. The First Sea Lord affected to be dozing, but was in fact wide awake.
They moved on to tanks and it was the same again. Mrs Cook wanted to know if the figures included obsolete Russian tanks. Ted Curran wondered aloud whether precision guided missiles had not rendered the tank almost useless and, in any case, why had no mention been made of anti-tank weapons? Then they turned to aircraft. Did the figures include planes based in America, but earmarked for Europe? If not, why not? How many of the Soviet planes were interceptors? Why was no distinction made between interceptors and attack aircraft?
And so it went on. The beads of sweat that formed on the colonel’s forehead showed clearly in the beam of the projector. By about the third slide the tone of crisp, military self-assurance that he had carried with him since Sandhurst had disappeared. General Payne, in the front row, fixed him with a glassy stare and did not let go for a full minute. The permanent secretaries were silently appalled. Surely the MoD could put up a better show than this? They must have known they were in for a rough ride. “Trouble with the chaps at MoD,” whispered Sir Peter Kennedy to his opposite number at the Home Office as they filed out when the show was over, “is that, until now, they’ve always had ministers who accept whatever nonsense is put in front of them.” He blinked rapidly as they came into daylight. “They don’t seem to realise those days are over.”
*
Perkins was the first to surface on Sunday morning. Or at least he thought he was until he crossed the landing overlooking the Great Hall and saw Mrs Cook ensconced in one of the deep armchairs with the papers. “Morning Joan.” She looked up sharply as Perkins appeared at the balustrade.
“Ah, there you are, Harry. I want a word with you.”
“Fire away.” Perkins was leaning on the banisters which turned the first floor landing into a sort of gallery overlooking the hallway.
Mrs Cook, who was standing by now, shook her head. She placed the papers on the chair in which she had been sitting and indicated silently that he should come down. She was waiting at the foot of the stairs and without speaking, save a mumbled “Good morning” to the policeman on duty in the porch, they went outside. In the forecourt they turned left and through a gate in the brick wall that surrounded the south terrace. There had been a frost in the night and their feet made light imprints on the stone terrace. Mrs Cook did not speak until they were out of earshot of the house and going down the steps into the rose garden.
“Harry,” she said, “there’s something you ought to know.”
“There’s a lot of things I ought to know,” smiled Perkins.
“I had the Prison Room last night,” continued Mrs Cook. The Prison Room, an attic bedroom so called because it had once acted as a place of detention for a lady of the court who had fallen foul of Queen Elizabeth the First, stood apart from the other bedrooms at Chequers and could only be reached by a spiral staircase from either the Hawtrey Room on the ground floor or the Great Parlour immediately above. “After dinner I did some work on my despatch box and set off for bed around midnight. I was just about to cross the parlour on my way to the spiral staircase, when I heard voices.”
Mrs Cook described how she had hovered in the doorway and managed to identify the voices as belonging to Lawrence Wainwright, the Chancellor, and Air Marshal Gibbon. The parlour was lit only by a single lampshade on the mantelpiece and peeping round the door she could see that the two men were seated, port glasses in hand, close by the entrance to the staircase. Not wanting to disturb them she retraced her steps down the main staircase and into the Hawtrey Room. From there she had entered the spiral stairway up which she crept until she drew level with the first floor. “The door leading from the staircase into the parlour was ajar and I had not switched on the light on the staircase for fear of alerting Wainwright and Gibbon. I couldn’t hear everything, but Wainwright was saying he had planned to resign but Craddock had advised him not to.”
“Craddock?” said Perkins. “Would that be the D15 Craddock?”
“Who else?”
They had completed a circuit of the rose garden and were now back by the steps leading to the terrace. Mrs Cook indicated that her story was not yet finished and so they commenced a second circuit. “Wainwright said that Craddock had advised him to stay on at least until the Americans had been consulted.”
“The sly bastard,” said Perkins almost under his breath.
“Then Gibbon piped up and said that he’d be in Washington next week and would take the opp
ortunity to sound out the Americans then.”
“Sound them out about what?”
“They didn’t say, but I imagine it’s got something to do with the bases. Gibbon did say something about seeing the Secretary of State and maybe even the President.”
As they returned to the house they ran into Wainwright on his way out. He greeted Perkins with a hearty “Morning Prime Minister”, but Perkins could not help noticing that Wainwright avoided looking him straight in the eye.
When they assembled in the Great Parlour for the morning session there was one new face among them. A small man in his early sixties with thick black eyebrows and a shock of white hair. He was seated on the right of Perkins who introduced him as Sir Montague Kowalsky, chief scientific adviser to the Ministry of Defence. “Sir Monty’s going to tell us how we get rid of the bomb,” said Perkins.
The small man gave a nervous smile. “Gentlemen,” he said and then, with a nod of the head in the direction of Mrs Cook, “and Madam.” He fumbled with the documents in front of him. “You should all have a copy of my paper. I shall make a short summary.”
He spoke with a central European accent. “A nuclear warhead is a very delicate instrument. To remain functional it requires constant maintenance and the regular replacement of sensitive components. Withdraw the facilities for main tenance and refurbishment and you lose the capacity to retain nuclear weapons.” Sir Monty’s forearms rested on the table. “Warheads rely for detonation upon such elements as plutonium, tritium and in the old days, polonium.”