Fiction of course. But for how long?

The warheads are heavy. Heavier than lead weights. It’s a weight that creeps into the bones, settles there, lodges itself there. It’s the weight of the promise, of the constant readiness. Of the thing you don’t talk about in polite circles, the thing that still, after all these years, hangs in the air. Something hanging, as if from a tree, just out of reach, with no one quite sure how it got there. Most people have long forgotten the impoverished and austere bomb-site from which the 'bomb' grew to be the deterrent we still need after all these years.

And for our deterrent, by 1957, when we knew we couldn’t afford it, we did a deal. Sure, we kept some tactical muscle, but gave it up in the 1990’s, giving back our WE.177 bombs. But we pretended to an independent strategic solution on our few Vanguard submarines.

We had always known that there was a leash around these weapons. You could almost see it, a thin line, barely visible against the bright blue backdrop of global peace. We’re on a short leash, though it looked like a sturdy rope, this partnership, this special relationship between us and them, and we kept it polished, trimmed, and ready. But the line was pulled taut, and no one wanted to notice. Not until now, Now when all of Europe is threatened by a dictator in the East and a madman in the west.

When they withdrew, our transatlantic chums, it wasn’t after long considered, mature and sensible deliberation, just a shift in the atmosphere, like when the wind changes direction and a storm is coming. They didn’t even need to speak. The message came through loud and clear, transmitted with a characteristic glint in the eye, peering geriatrically from an orange face and a shrug of the shoulders. But we knew. We always knew really. Like the way you know someone is about to walk out the door but you can’t quite bring yourself to ask where they’re going.

Now, the special relationship feels like the joke it probably always was. The leash is gone, and the UK, as it has always done, is scrambling to catch its breath. It has forgotten how to walk on its own. That’s the thing about being reliant for so long, the muscles atrophy. You forget you can stand up. And when you remember, you find yourself short of everything needed, including the legs.

It’s not the missile systems that are the issue. At least not initially. The missiles themselves are stored away safely, tucked in their silos under the water, waiting for a command from the Prime Minister that we all hope will never come. It’s the trust that’s gone. The trust that our entirely US owned missiles, targeted by their all US owned guidance systems will actually work for us if we want to use them without the USA saying so.. But, just like we always knew deep down, the cold war never left. It simply shifts shape. A war of quiet disintegration.

When the withdrawal was announced, no one could quite believe it. In the months before, we’d watched with wary eyes as the US began to withdraw from its commitments in Europe, slowly at first, like a half-hearted lover backing away, saying they just needed Europe to ‘step up’, to allow some space, just a little time. Some time for us all to stare reality in the face. The world’s grown up just got senile dementia.

Then, the realisation came that it wasn’t time they were allowing. It was a departure, permanent and clean.

“Nothing to worry about,” they said. “It’s all fine, Britain. You’ve got this. You’re an island. Islands do well on their own. You’re a wonderful country. Great golf courses. Nobody knows more about Britain than I do.”

The fact that they had slowly withdrawn real military presence in Europe didn’t seem to faze them. There were alternative facts being thrown around about new technologies, about space defence, about cyber warfare. The defensive strength of the Western world was in good hands. Just not theirs. Just stop relying on the US.

Well, that’s ok. We all understand.

We do. Everyone knows how frustrating it is to feel ‘lumbered’. Put-upon. Relied upon. Nobody likes that. The eternal parent. No thanks. Totally understandable. On the other hand, who’s got all the money? Who has, for the last eighty years, insisted it’s their national Interest for everybody else to have to buy their stuff? Their chlorinated chickens and corn syrup? Insisted on owning all the big-kid’s toys?

In the weeks that followed, the UK government, hard to tell the difference from normal, went into crisis mode. There were meetings, whispered discussions in back rooms, and a lot of hand-wringing. Leaked WhatsApp chats. For days, we were told we were going to be fine. We were told it would be just like before, that nothing had changed. It’s operationally independent they insisted. But the leash had snapped, left on the beach of right wing madness. And now, we were running around like a dog that had just realised it had no collar, no master, no fence. And no teeth. The world suddenly looked a lot less like a UK playground than it had just a day ago.

In the corridors of Westminster, it was clear that no one knew what to do next. Nothing new there, obviously. The defence minister, who had been briefed on the full implications was visibly sweating in front of the cameras, an awkward shuffle in his stance as if he had just discovered the floor was marshmallow. The head of MI5 was similarly uncomfortable, pressing his hands into the table as if willing the table to grow legs and whisk him away. The Prime Minister was being calm. He had internal party power struggles to worry about.

Conversations ranged from murmers to the shouted. “How could this happen?” “We’ve been loyal friends. For decades.” “Effing Seppo’s. They’re the same in every punch-up. Turn up late or not at all. What’s new?”

It was the loyalty that was our problem. Naive foolishness? The art of the deal. Parsimony? We had always relied on the US, always trusted them to take care of the hard, expensive parts. Well it suited them, control freaks. And it suited us. Still paying for WW Two. Broke. And now that trust had been erased like chalk off a blackboard. A fragile connection, the bond of shared history, the death of the Anglo-American special relationship, had dissolved into something nobody could easily explain.

The military, too, scrambled. Suddenly, it wasn’t clear how we would ensure the security of our people, our assets, our deterrent. The Trident missiles, housed in their sleek submarines, were still functional, but their purpose had always been based on an agreement that could no longer be trusted.

The nuclear warheads, designed to be deployed through US systems, will need reprogramming, recalibration, a new method of delivery, but who could do it? The UK supposedly has the capability, or at least it seems to have it. The technology might be there, but how long could it be maintained without the regular exchange of ideas, equipment, and support from our nuclear partner?

“So we’re going to have to build our own missiles?” someone had asked in a quiet meeting, half a joke but also half a terrifying prospect.

“That’s what we’re asking, isn’t it?” the defence minister had replied, his voice hoarse.

It was a bitter irony, that those who had for so long been complacent, comforted by the constant presence of a larger, more powerful ally, were now realising that they had been relying on a fallacy. The nuclear capability that the UK prided itself on, that had kept the wolves at bay for so long, was when it came down to it, nothing more than a mirage. The UK was now a small island, barely able to reach the rest of the world with its trembling hands, let alone give a proper smack round the ears.

Oh goodness. The cost. The political cost would be heavy. When it became clear that no one would come to our aid, no one would step in to replace what was lost, the cries grew louder. Asleep at the wheel. That was how they described it. Three quarters of a century built upon what was always a strategy of hope over reality. There were calls for a sovereign missile system that would finally, once and for all, sever the chain that bound the UK to the US. Most people were coming to think we’d be safer that way. Not that anywhere was safe any more.

But what no one could answer was this: how would we afford it? The cost of a fully autonomous, sovereign nuclear deterrent would be astronomical. The economic toll, combined with the political ramifications of alienating the US and NATO, was simply too high to bear. And what would we be left with? A nuclear arsenal designed not to protect the UK, but to remind the world that we were still relevant, still powerful, still capable of wielding influence.

The United Kingdom. Arguably, the birthplace of the Industrial Revolution, prolific builders of the world’s stage and all upon it for centuries, now utterly and embarrassingly incapable of building a few miles of scruffy railway line. And now to build a sovereign nuclear deterrent?

In the final weeks of the crisis, the truth settled quietly in the air, like dust in a room that had been closed for too long. The UK, for all its history, for all its claims of global importance, was simply a small, unremarkable island in a world that was shifting faster than it could keep up. So, if you want an opinion, it’s probably over. The old idea of power, of imperialism, of dominance, of playing in the big leagues, it’s gone. The UK had tried to hold onto something that it could never have held without spending the money back in the 1950’s and 60’s. We spent it instead on other priorities. That’s what priorities are for, of course. But that’s the thing about choices. They have consequences.

The space between two British Queens has been filled with choices. But still, zooming out, from Elizabeth to Elizabeth there’s an empire built and gone. A Nation once capable, then a cap-in-hand, spineless client-state of a religious-fundamentalist, right-wing, gun-totting bullying madhouse.

Next, cap in hand to who?

Putin or the French? Choices. Choices. But I know what I would do.