AUKUS and war powers: aligning decision-making for effective defence

AUKUS has a fundamental, unaddressed challenge: the differences in how each member nation exercises its war powers.

The AUKUS security partnership—comprising Australia, the United Kingdom and the United States—has the potential to be a transformative force in the Indo-Pacific. As strategic competition intensifies in the region, the alliance is expected to enhance defence capabilities and deepen cooperation. Yet the building blocks are not aligned.

The members need to establish guidelines on the circumstances in which they’d act together militarily, and there should be a standing organisation for coordination.

While AUKUS is not a military alliance designed for joint combat operations—unlike ANZUS or the Five Power Defence Arrangements—its ability to enhance regional security depends on seamless coordination. Its objectives, particularly in deterrence and sharing advanced capability sharing, could be compromised if its members struggle to respond coherently in a crisis. A key vulnerability is the differing processes each country follows when authorising military action, potentially leading to hesitation, misalignment or even strategic paralysis.

A recent report from King’s College London, AUKUS and War Powers: The impact of constitutional constraints on military action, examines this issue in depth. The report highlights how divergent legal and constitutional frameworks across the three nations could hinder joint military action.

Each AUKUS member has a distinct approach to military decision-making, shaped by its constitutional framework and political traditions.

In Australia, the prime minister and cabinet have the authority to deploy the Australian Defence Force without parliamentary approval. While Parliament is often informed or consulted, there is no legal requirement for debate or endorsement. This system allows for rapid decision-making but limits broader democratic oversight.

In Britain, the prime minister, exercising royal prerogative, can commit forces to military operations without formal parliamentary approval. However, political norms increasingly require parliamentary debate before significant deployments, as demonstrated in 2013 when the House of Commons voted against military intervention in Syria.

Finally, in the United States, the president has broad authority to initiate military operations, but congress retains the constitutional power to declare war. While the War Powers Resolution of 1973 requires the president to notify Congress within 48 hours of deploying forces and to withdraw them within 60 days without congressional authorisation, this process has been frequently contested.

These differences create potential friction in security cooperation. The lack of a shared decision-making process could make AUKUS slow to react in a crisis, with each nation’s domestic political dynamics affecting the speed and scope of any response.

The challenge of war powers divergence is not theoretical; it has played out in recent history. The 2013 Syrian crisis illustrated how different decision-making systems can lead to disjointed outcomes. The US, under president Barack Obama, was prepared to conduct airstrikes following Syria’s use of chemical weapons, but the British parliament rejected military action. This created hesitation and weakened the credibility of the response. The delay in unified action had broader strategic consequences, emboldening adversaries and complicating Western deterrence efforts.

In an Indo-Pacific crisis, similar delays could be even more damaging. If China were to take coercive action against Taiwan or increase its activities in contested waters, AUKUS nations might struggle to coordinate an effective response. The inability to act in unison would weaken deterrence, sending mixed signals to both allies and adversaries.

For AUKUS to function effectively, its members must address decision-making challenges. While no solution will fully harmonise their constitutional constraints, practical measures can enhance coordination.

Firstly, AUKUS members could establish guidelines outlining conditions under which military cooperation would be expected. These could include specific thresholds for security threats that would trigger joint planning and response measures, even if formal approval processes differ.

Secondly, a standing coordination mechanism, such as a security council or emergency response group, could streamline communication and facilitate rapid alignment on military matters. While this body would not override national sovereignty, it could provide a framework for crisis response.

Finally, instituting a requirement for senior leaders to consult before major military deployments could ensure greater cohesion, even if parliamentary or congressional approvals are needed at different stages. This would help synchronise political messaging and strategic intent.

AUKUS is designed to deepen defence cooperation and technology sharing between Australia, Britain and the US. However, its strategic credibility depends on how well its members can navigate their war powers differences. Without clearer mechanisms for decision-making, the partnership could face operational constraints that undermine its deterrence value.

The Indo-Pacific is increasingly volatile, with rising military competition, grey-zone operations and geopolitical uncertainties. AUKUS must be more than a symbol of strategic alignment—it must be a functional and responsive initiative. Addressing the war powers gap is not just a procedural challenge—it is a strategic imperative for ensuring AUKUS can contribute to regional security.

Australia’s new security threat: cocaine trafficking by Brazilian crime groups

Australia faces an emerging national security threat from Brazilian crime groups. Once only a domestic concern in Brazil, organised crime there has evolved into a powerful narco-insurgency with transnational reach, making the country the world’s second-largest player in the cocaine trade, after Colombia.

Until now, growth in Brazilian organised crime posed no threat to Australia. However, as detailed in ASPI’s newly released report, The Pacific Cocaine Corridor: A Brazilian cartel’s pipeline to Australia, Brazil’s growing role in global cocaine supply and its expansion into new markets (including new Pacific routes), the rising sophistication of its criminal networks, and growing demand in Australia’s lucrative cocaine market are increasing the presence of Brazilian crime groups on our shores.

Brazil’s two major drug syndicates are the Primeiro Comando da Capital (PCC) and the Comando Vermelho. The PCC has become a particularly serious transnational criminal threat, exploiting weaknesses in political, legal and economic systems.

Brazil’s long coastline, abundant port facilities, unguarded inland waterways and well-developed air networks provide many channels for global cocaine distribution. Its vast 8000km border with Andean cocaine-producing countries and its 1365km of crossings with Paraguay further facilitate drug trafficking. The Triple Frontier between Brazil, Paraguay and Argentina—much like Asia’s Golden Triangle of Thailand, Myanmar and Laos—serves as a key illicit logistics hub.

Historically, cocaine sent to Australia embarked from Europe, China, South Africa, the United States or Canada, though the drugs originated in South America. Now, the PCC maintains a cocaine distribution network with connections in Oceania, using routes along the Pacific coast of South America. This means that cocaine can be routed to Australia more directly. This may reflect greater prioritisation of the Australian market, and the potential for increased exports to Australia.

Brazil’s new trade route with Vanuatu, primarily for importing chicken meat, presents an increasing drug trafficking risk, as such commodities need refrigerated containers, which are harder to inspect thoroughly. The trade originates mainly from Parana, a state bordering Paraguay and a key entry point for cocaine trafficked into Brazil from Bolivia and Peru.

Vanuatu’s proximity to Australia makes it a potential transit point for illicit drug shipments. New or less scrutinised trade routes, such as the one involving Vanuatu, may have weaker customs controls, increasing the risk of undetected drug trafficking. From there, smaller vessels or yachts can transport cocaine via another Pacific island or directly to Australia, taking advantage of the region’s vast and difficult-to-monitor maritime space.

Australians pay some of the highest prices in the world for cocaine: one kilogram is valued at around $3000 in Colombia, can sell for $10,000 in Brazil and for between $160,000 and $200,000 in Australia. While transporting cocaine to Australia adds cost, the enormous profit margin is understandably driving expanded PCC operations.

Concealing drugs on the submerged parts of ships has become more common. Skilled divers place and receive packages at ports, often at night and without the crew’s knowledge.

In 2020, the Australian Federal Police intercepted a PCC shipment to Sydney comprising half a tonne of cocaine concealed in banana pulp bags.  In 2022, a Brazilian diver was found floating and unresponsive in the Port of Newcastle near packages containing 54kg of cocaine with an estimated street value of around $20 million. This case demonstrated the PCC’s ability to move people across continents and provide logistical support to buyers in Australia.

Like most organised crime groups, the PCC thrives on exploiting gaps in law-enforcement coordination, in financial oversight and in border security. Given its extensive transnational operations, a unified and coordinated effort against it is essential.

To counter the targeting of the Australian market, our report recommends that Australian and regional authorities adopt a comprehensive, strategic approach and work closely with Brazilian and international partners. Strengthening police cooperation and enhancing financial surveillance will help detect and disrupt PCC activities. Timely sharing of criminal intelligence, including travel patterns and aliases, can prevent further PCC infiltration of Australia, while stricter scrutiny of visa applications, detection of forged documents, and the establishment of watchlists will limit movement of PCC operatives. Additionally, collaboration on offender management—such as prison security, post-release monitoring, and reintegration programs—will prevent the PCC from expanding its networks within correctional systems.

By addressing key enablers of the group’s resilience and closing gaps in international information exchange, this approach not only mitigates the immediate threat but also strengthens long-term defences against transnational organised crime.

Delivering AUKUS with Australia’s premier state

The AUKUS nuclear-powered submarine partnership has now survived the bumpy inauguration of Donald Trump as US president. It has earned the endorsement of newly confirmed Secretary of State Marco Rubio and Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth. It has also seemingly retained strong bipartisan congressional support. Now, the focus for Australia’s biggest and most ambitious defence capability project must turn back to delivery.

Delivering this project will require extensive industrial participation by Australia’s most populous state, New South Wales. For that to happen, the state government in Sydney needs to take measures to strongly promote it.

In Australia, the AUKUS submarine enterprise has been led by South Australia and Western Australia. The homeporting of Australia’s submarines in Western Australia and the construction of the new nuclear-powered AUKUS boats in South Australia give these states a highly visible role. The east coast states have been playing a back-seat role.

Yet, Prime Minster Anthony Albanese has billed AUKUS as a ‘nation-building’, rather than a two-state, effort. It will be a national endeavour on a scale rarely seen.

A new report by the United States Studies Centre and the McKell Institute finds that, without the economy, labour force and industrial heft of NSW, the AUKUS enterprise will stutter or fail. And without a more proactive stance, the jobs and investment associated with AUKUS could amount to a missed opportunity for NSW, Victoria and Queensland.

To date, public discussion of AUKUS has mainly contested the rationale behind the program. But we equally need a practical discussion of how AUKUS can be materially achieved and how the skills and jobs dividends can be unlocked.

One of the biggest lessons from US submarine construction has been the need to mobilise a national workforce to right-size the industrial base. As of 2023, US submarine prime contractor Electric Boat outsourced more than 1 million hours of work per year outside of its primary construction hall in Connecticut to different US states, the location of its local construction yards. Huntington Ingalls Industries, the other US submarine builder, was outsourcing 900,000 hours a year. The US Navy is looking to move to relying upon 5,000,000 total hours of outsourced work per year—or half of the hours needed to build one submarine.

The message is clear: relying solely on locally sourced labour, industrial capacity and supply chains for submarine construction is a recipe for failure.

In Australia, AUKUS’s success must depend on embracing the advanced manufacturing, industrial and workforce heartland of the east coast state with the largest economy.

The answer for scalable advanced manufacturing and workforce development in the AUKUS project should lie in New South Wales. The McKell Institute and the United States Studies Centre report revealed two key limitations on the opportunity at present.

First, it is clear that the NSW government has yet to pay enough attention to the AUKUS program and to prepare the state for the myriad of economic opportunities that the program promises.

This risks not only missed opportunities for NSW workers but also for the state government’s own policy ambitions.

The Labor state government of Premier Chris Minns made reviving domestic manufacturing a centrepiece of its 2023 election pitch. It wants to see more buses and trains and trams made in the state—a worthy goal, but a pricy one, and one that would be difficult to achieve at the scale required for a manufacturing revival.

Instead, the sector’s answer may be in the scale and timeframe of AUKUS.

Most importantly, NSW is uniquely placed to play a major role in AUKUS.

NSW is a powerhouse because of its scale, especially in manufacturing, training and education. It is home to 33 percent of the national labour force, compared with 6 percent and 11 percent for South Australia and Western Australia respectively. NSW has four times as many people employed in manufacturing as South Australia and three times as many as Western Australia. This is critical, because the AUKUS submarine enterprise will require an estimated 2000 suppliers, a huge swathe of national industrial capability.

But the AUKUS opportunity for NSW might be derailed by a second problem: NSW’s existing manufacturing sector is beginning to turn away from defence. Though the state is home to 40 percent of the nation’s defence and aerospace industry and more than 80 defence facilities, industry, unions, suppliers and universities all report a lack of engagement, focus and incentives from the state government in this area.

Rapid action is required from the NSW and federal governments to ensure all states, including NSW, are plugged in to the AUKUS opportunity.

First, the NSW government should mirror Western Australia, South Australia and Queensland by standing up a dedicated body, which could be called Defence NSW, to coordinate both policy and outreach related to AUKUS. Nestling this function within the state agency Investment NSW contrasts with the organisational focus in other key AUKUS and defence-industry states. It limits the capacity for promoting and facilitating AUKUS, as Investment NSW must also attend to so many other activities.

Second, the state government should establish portfolio responsibilities for Defence Industry inside NSW cabinet, with a mandate to engage with the federal government, advocate for NSW, coordinate with other state ministries and ensure that the state’s policy settings, incentives and industrial settings are appropriate to facilitate NSW workers and industry’s contribution to the project.

Together, Defence NSW and the NSW defence industry minister could deliver reform, provide for stakeholder advocacy at federal and international levels, establish NSW as the manufacturing heartland and as a key recruitment, skills and training hub for the AUKUS enterprise. To provide strategic direction to these functions, as a matter of urgency, a comprehensive industry plan for NSW in AUKUS must be prepared.

These measures would put NSW workers and companies on the front foot in taking advantage of the opportunities available to the state with AUKUS. Such an approach in Australia’s other east coast states would render AUKUS a truly national industrial project and see it poised to deliver Australia’s national security objectives.

From the bookshelf: ‘Passcode to the third floor’

To call Thae Yong-Ho’s career trajectory remarkable is an understatement. Following a stellar career as a North Korean diplomat, culminating in his appointment as deputy ambassador in London, at age 54 Thae and his family defected to South Korea. However, once in Seoul he quickly tired of his sinecure at a think tank, entered politics and within four years of defecting was elected to South Korea’s national assembly. And in his free time, he wrote a book.

Thae is one of the highest-ranking officials ever to defect from North Korea and his book, Passcode to the third floor: An insider’s account of life among North Korea’s political elite, is the most detailed insider account so far written about the country’s political system. Thae not only describes the dramatic personal events leading up to his defection; he also provides a tell-all account of how North Korea’s government works, including its top leadership, foreign ministry and security apparatus.

Thae entered government service in 1988 and his book spans nearly three decades of foreign and security policy, from the country’s nuclearisation to the power transition from Kim Jong-Il to Kim Jong-Un. Like most North Korean diplomats, he studied at Beijing’s Foreign Languages University and the Pyongyang University of Foreign Studies. Classes in negotiation skills were particularly rigorous and taught trainees how to prepare physically and mentally, as well as a range of tactics from occupying the high ground to breaking negotiations.

Thae sees Kim Jong-Il’s gradual rise to power in the 1970s as the turning point that made North Korea’s authoritarianism absolute. Kim shifted decision making from the cabinet to the Workers’ Party of Korea and, ultimately, to himself. He introduced a highly centralised system of administrative control, with written proposals sent up to his secretariat on the third floor of the party’s central office, and orders handed down. Even trivial matters were decided at the top, while ministries were kept isolated from each other. Kim Jong-Un has kept the system unchanged.

North Korea’s top bureaucrats lead a well-rewarded but precarious existence, at constant risk of being called to the third floor. Praise is rare, while minor slip-ups may require a self-criticism session. Major errors can lead to banishment from Pyongyang or a spell in one of North Korea’s notorious prisons. Thae describes one harrowing instance when Kim Jong-Un was displeased with an official and ordered his immediate execution.

He also recounts how intimidation and the siloed structure of North Korea’s bureaucracy affect the management of its diplomatic relations.

In 2014, North Korea’s national defence commission learned that Britain’s Channel 4 was producing a fictional TV series about a British scientist being detained and forced to help North Korea to develop nuclear weapons. Without consulting the foreign ministry, the defence commission wrote directly to the British foreign office demanding that Channel 4 halt production and threatening an ‘unimaginable act of retribution’. The British government was shocked, and the embassy in London was left to convince its counterparts that North Korea had no plans for a terrorist strike.

When a nearby London hairdressing salon put up a picture of Kim Jong-un with a caption referring to his ‘bad hair day’, the diplomats’ careers were on the line. Thae and a colleague quickly visited the salon and demanded that the owner take the picture down. ‘When we speak nicely, it’s best to listen’, they threatened. The British tabloids had a field day with the incident.

North Korea watchers fall in two broad groups: pessimists who see little prospect for change and optimists who, despite the recent hardening of North Korea’s policies, see scope for an eventual opening and even some form of denuclearisation. Thae falls firmly in the former category.

Thae’s pessimism derives from what he sees as Kim Jong-Un’s deep-seated insecurities. Kim’s mother was never formally recognised as Kim Jong-Il’s wife, and there are no photographs of him with his grandfather Kim Il-Sung. As a result, Kim is insecure about his all-important bloodline and feels he has to use strong-arm tactics to bolster his position, not least by continuing to develop North Korea’s nuclear arsenal. Thae doesn’t think this will change.

Given the abundance of personalities in Thae’s account and the similarity of many Korean names, the book would have benefitted from a list of key players, a family tree of the Kim dynasty and an index. But compared with the treasure trove of information that Thae offers, these are minor shortcomings.

Passcode to the third floor is a fascinating read for both specialists and generalists.

Indonesia needs to improve its seabed warfare capability

Despite being the largest archipelagic nation in the world, Indonesia has weak seabed warfare capability. Improving it should be a priority for Jakarta.

As an archipelago of more than 17,000 islands, the country is uniquely reliant on seabed infrastructure and is therefore unusually vulnerable to disruption of its pipelines or cables. It has little ability to prevent or recover from damage to its seabed assets and lacks the hardware, skills and planning needed to cope with threats.

Moreover, many international undersea cables, some connecting continents, also pass through Indonesia’s waters, so the country’s capacity in seabed warfare has regional and global importance.

No disruptions to underwater infrastructure in and around Indonesia attributed to foul play have been reported so far. However, it is clear that risks are rising with the escalation of maritime disputes in the South China Sea and the rivalry between the United States and China. To imagine the risks, we need only consider the recent cutting of the Nord Stream pipelines and telecommunications cables under the Baltic Sea, evidently by Russia and perhaps with help from China.

In Indonesia, an underwater pipeline carries natural gas from Java to Singapore, while all of the populated islands rely on communications cables to connect them with each other and the world. Moreover, Indonesia operates an underwater power transmission line between Sumatera and the Bangka islands and plans to build an electricity grid that would connect all of the major islands.

The first  and most urgent step for Indonesia in improving its seabed assets and preparing for any potential attacks is to acquire or upgrade vessels with more advanced underwater capabilities. Currently, Indonesia’s hardware supply is limited, comprising three submarines, whose sonars might be helpful, two mine countermeasures vessels acquired in the 1990s and a few oceanographic research vessels with such equipment as precision sonar array for seabed mapping and submarine drones.

Jakarta has put some priority in enhancing its subsurface capabilities in recent years. It has signed a contract to buy two Improved Scorpene-class submarines from France; is building two hydrographic survey vessels with advanced subsurface capabilities in collaboration with Germany; acquired a submarine rescue ship designed for deep-sea diving and salvage operations; and taken delivery of two patrol vessels of the Paolo Thaon Di Revel class, designed to be equipped with underwater capabilities, such as sonar. Additionally, it has recently commissioned two newly-built mine countermeasures vessels from Germany.

This collection of ships is still small compared with scale of underwater infrastructure for such a country. The needs of an archipelago justify spending more, especially when potential losses from disruption are considered.

Indonesia must also develop skills in protecting and repairing seabed infrastructure. Its sailors do train in hunting and destroying sea mines, including capabilities that have some value in relation to underwater civilian assets. But there is no record of Indonesia’s navy or any Indonesian maritime security agency conducting specific exercises in, for example, finding and fixing broken seabed cables.

The government should start specific training and expand the scope mine-countermeasures training accordingly. It could, for example, enlarge the regular Indonesia–Singapore bilateral mine-countermeasure (MCM) and clearance diving exercises. It should also take advantage of defence cooperation with countries such as Australia, Japan, France and the US to hold joint exercises on seabed warfare.

Lastly, Indonesia should create a seabed security strategy that will guide long-term improvements to its seabed warfare capabilities. For this, the government will need to perceive the importance of seabed infrastructure and identify the threats to it. It must also assess current capabilities so it can determine what kind of hardware, training and operational procedures are necessary to safeguard the seabed assets. Finally, the strategy should outline the measures needed to achieve these goals.

In developing such a strategy, Indonesia would need to learn from other countries. This can be done through personnel exchanges, visits and other forms of defence cooperation. Exercises can help in this regard, too.

Ultimately, it is essential for Indonesia to develop a comprehensive seabed security strategy that focuses on threat assessment, capability enhancement and operational procedures. By learning global best practices and fostering defence partnerships, Indonesia can better protect its vital seabed assets and contribute to both regional and international security.

Does globalisation have a future?

As wildfires raged through Los Angeles in January, the infamous American conspiracy theorist Alex Jones posted on X (formerly Twitter) that they were ‘part of a larger globalist plot to wage economic warfare & deindustrialize the [United] States’.

While Jones’s suggestion of causality was absurd, he was right that the fires had something to do with globalisation. Last year was Earth’s hottest since recordkeeping began—and likely the hottest in at least 125,000 years—eclipsing the record set in 2023. For the first time, global average temperatures exceeded the Paris climate agreement’s target of 1.5 degrees C above preindustrial levels. For this, scientists overwhelmingly blame human-caused climate change.

Globalisation refers simply to interdependence at intercontinental distances. Trade among European countries reflects regional interdependence, whereas European trade with the US or China reflects globalisation. By threatening China with tariffs, US President Donald Trump is trying to reduce the economic aspect of our global interdependence, which he blames for the loss of domestic industries and jobs.

Economists debate how much of that loss was caused by global trade. Some studies have found that millions of jobs were lost to foreign competition, but that is not the only cause. Many economists argue that the more important factor was automation. Such change can boost overall productivity, but it also causes economic pain, and populist leaders find it easier to blame foreigners than machines.

They also blame immigrants, who may be good for the economy in the long term, but are easy to portray as the cause of disruptive change in the near term. The migration of humans out of Africa is arguably the first example of globalisation, and the US and many other countries are the result of the same basic phenomenon. But as these countries were being built, earlier immigrants often complained about the economic burden and cultural incompatibility of newcomers. That pattern continues today.

When immigration (or media coverage of it) increases quickly, political reactions are to be expected. In nearly all democracies in recent years, immigration has become the go-to issue for populists seeking to challenge incumbent governments. It was a key factor in Trump’s election in 2016, and again in 2024. Social media and artificial intelligence may be more important sources of disruption and anxiety, but they are less tangible (and thus less attractive) targets.

This is why some people blame the populist backlash in nearly all democracies on the increased spread and speed of globalisation, and why populists themselves blame trade and immigrants for most of their countries’ problems. Trade and migration did indeed accelerate after the end of the Cold War, as political change and improved communications technology led to greater economic openness and lowered the cost of cross-border flows of capital, goods and people. Now, with populists’ influence growing, tariffs and border controls may curtail these flows.

But can economic globalisation be reversed? It has happened before. The nineteenth century was marked by a rapid increase in both trade and migration, but it came to a screeching halt with the outbreak of World War I. Trade as a share of total world product did not recover to its 1914 levels until nearly 1970.

Now that some US politicians are advocating a full decoupling from China, could it happen again? While security concerns may reduce bilateral trade, the sheer cost of abandoning a relationship worth more than a half-trillion dollars per year makes decoupling unlikely. But unlikely is not the same as impossible. A war over Taiwan, for example, could bring US-China trade to a screeching halt.

In any case, trying to understand the future of globalisation requires us to look beyond economics. There are many other types of global interdependence—military, ecological, social, health and so forth. While war is always devastating for those directly involved, it is worth remembering that the COVID-19 pandemic killed more Americans than have died in all of the US’s wars.

Similarly, scientists predict that climate change will have enormous costs as global ice caps melt and coastal cities are submerged later in the century. Even in the near term, climate change is increasing the frequency and intensity of hurricanes and wildfires. The perverse irony is that we may be in the process of limiting a type of globalisation that has benefits, while failing to cope with types that have only costs. Among the second Trump administration’s first moves was to withdraw the US from the Paris agreement and the World Health Organization.

So, what is globalisation’s future? Long-distance interdependencies will remain a fact of life as long as humans are mobile and equipped with communication and transportation technologies. After all, economic globalisation spans centuries, with roots extending back to ancient trade routes such as the Silk Road (which China has adopted as the slogan for its globe-spanning Belt and Road infrastructure-investment program today).

In the fifteenth century, innovations in ocean-going transportation brought the Age of Exploration, which was followed by the era of European colonisation that shaped today’s national boundaries. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, steamships and telegraphs accelerated the process as industrialisation transformed agrarian economies. Now the information revolution is transforming our service-oriented economies.

The widespread use of the internet began at the start of this century, and now billions of people around the world carry a computer in their pockets that would have filled a large building half a century ago. As AI progresses, the scope, speed and volume of global communication will grow exponentially.

World wars have reversed economic globalisation, protectionist policies can slow it down, and international institutions have not kept pace with many of the changes now underway. But so long as we have the technologies, globalisation will continue. It just may not be the beneficial kind.

As antisemitism strains Australian social cohesion, the government must step forward

Australia’s national resilience and social cohesion are under strain, with the most visible cracks seen in the alarming rise of antisemitism. Governments, most particularly the federal government, whose responsibility it is to lead national debates, desperately need to engage more forthrightly with the Australian public.

The discovery in Dural of a caravan containing explosives and, reportedly, an antisemitic message and the addresses of a synagogue and other Jewish buildings, is the latest shock that will heighten anxiety in Australia’s Jewish community and further inflame public tension.

We can give police some benefit of the doubt that they had operational reasons for secrecy about the caravan, but these decisions must be balanced against the need to confront the underlying problems of extremism and hatred, and to reassure Australians that we have national leaders who are facing up to them. If our politicians had been leading the conversations that we need, there would be greater goodwill for understanding operational decisions, rather than the fraying patience that we are seeing.

Instead of confronting extremism, radicalisation and the growing influence of ideological violence, policymakers have retreated into reticence, offering platitudes that fail to give the public confidence or deter those who seek to cause harm. This absence of leadership is a communications failure and a strategic miscalculation that threatens social cohesion and national security.

The federal government’s reluctance to educate and inform the public about terrorism and extremism is fuelling uncertainty and fear. Security agencies such as the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation and the Australian Federal Police play a vital role in countering threats, but their mandate is to act once the danger has escalated to the level of criminality and national security risk.

The broader responsibility—explaining the ideological drivers of extremism, reinforcing shared values, and setting clear boundaries of acceptable conduct—belongs to the government. Yet, time and again, the government has abdicated this duty, preferring to let ASIO’s annual threat assessment stand as the only authoritative voice on extremism in Australia. That is not enough. National security is not just about neutralising threats but about preventing them from taking root in the first place.

Prime Minister Anthony Albanese hardly lifted anyone’s morale when speaking defensively about the discovery of the caravan during two radio interviews on Thursday morning. On ABC radio, he failed to mention antisemitism at all. He refused to say when he’d learnt about it, describing that as ‘operational details’, and refused to say whether the national cabinet had discussed the investigation. Most of his commentary was about what the police had said and done. The closest he gave to an expression of the government’s view was by saying: ‘We remain concerned about this escalation.’

It wasn’t until a press conference later in the day that Albanese said, unprompted, that there was ‘zero tolerance in Australia for hatred and for antisemitism’ and that he wanted ‘any perpetrators to be hunted down and locked up’.

One of the core failures underpinning this crisis is a misinterpretation of tolerance. Australia prides itself on being an open and inclusive society, but inclusivity does not mean tolerating the intolerable. Support for terrorist leaders and groups is not free speech, nor is it a legitimate expression of diversity—it is a direct threat to social stability. When governments fail to call this out unequivocally, they enable a dangerous dynamic by which extremists feel emboldened, and the broader population grows resentful and anxious. An anxious public is not a resilient one.

While the rising cost of living is at the forefront of most Australians’ minds, physical and social security must remain the government’s highest priority. People need to feel safe, and that safety is reinforced not just by policing, but by clear, decisive leadership.

The government’s approach—avoiding public discussion for fear of inflaming tensions—belongs to a bygone era. Excessive reticence was a flawed strategy even before social media, but now, in an age in which digital communications dominate every aspect of our lives, it is a liability.

Government hesitancy leaves a vacuum that is filled by those who want society to break. Without direct and frequent public engagement, we give ground to those who distort facts, push dangerous ideologies and promote violence.

ASIO head Mike Burgess was left swinging in the breeze last September after he told the ABC that the organisation assessed entrants to Australia for any national security risk, which might not cover someone who had only expressed ‘rhetorical support’ for Hamas. Amid the political controversy that followed, the government should have swung in quickly and stressed that the wider visa check would, of course, include rhetorical support for Hamas but that this wasn’t ASIO’s job. That failed to happen, leading to days of public anger and confusion.

Equally dangerous is the government’s willingness to indulge in false equivalencies. Responding to attacks on Jewish Australians by condemning ‘all forms of hate’ or vaguely mentioning ‘antisemitism and Islamophobia’ is both politically weak and strategically harmful. Each act of violence or intimidation should be condemned for what it is—without hedging, without lumping disparate issues together, and without fear of offending those who sympathise with extremists.

This failure of clarity extends to the review of Australia’s terrorism laws, where there is discussion about removing the requirement for an ideological motive. Instead of diluting definitions, the government should lead the discussion on what ideology is, why it matters, and how it fuels extremism.

The government’s refusal to deal with reality is at the heart of this crisis. There is no neutral ground when it comes to national security. Attempting to placate all sides by responding too slowly and downplaying threats only emboldens those who seek to justify intimidation and violence.

Everyone accepts that history and geopolitics are complex—not least in the Middle East—but there is no justification for bringing foreign conflicts onto Australian streets. Like it or not, the federal government’s faltering responses have facilitated a false equivalence between Israel and Islamist terrorist groups, emboldening extremists who now see Australia as a battleground for their ideological struggles.

Australians can see the world is unstable and don’t appreciate being dismissed or misled. The government’s failure to engage honestly is backfiring. Public trust erodes when people feel their concerns are ignored, and social cohesion weakens without leadership. To maintain our national resilience, the government must step up, speak clearly and reassert the values that make Australia a safe and united society. Silence is not a strategy—it’s a surrender.

We can do better with OSINT. It needs structured training and careers

Before the end of World War II, intelligence was an informal craft with a barely structured career path. Talented individuals were recruited from the military or elite schools, honed skills on the job, and if they excelled, rose through the ranks. Over time, disciplines such as signals intelligence and geospatial intelligence evolved, adopting structured training, career pathways and institutional frameworks.

Open-source intelligence (OSINT) work, however, remains in its early days—unstructured and thus undervalued. It needs standardised training, career paths and perhaps even a government-led centre of excellence if it is to be properly valued.

Professionalising OSINT would improve practitioner skills, elevate its credibility and encourage agencies to take it more seriously. However, care must be taken not to lose the diversity and creativity that are among the great strengths of this form of intelligence.

Historically, intelligence careers were loosely defined, with entry points through the military or elite institutions. Even talented journalists and writers often flowed in and out of intelligence work.

Today, intelligence is a recognised profession with structured pathways. Universities offer undergraduate and postgraduate programs in security studies and intelligence analysis. Agencies such as the Australian Signals Directorate and the Australian Geospatial-Intelligence Organisation (AGO) provide rigorous training programs for graduates, ensuring consistency and quality.

Graduate analysts at AGO undergo foundational training covering topics such as topography, sensor systems, imagery analysis and critical thinking. This is followed by on-the-job mentorship, ensuring practical application of knowledge. Military pathways, such as the Royal Australian Air Force’s Air Intelligence Analyst program, mirror this structure, blending formal education with field experience.

This systematic approach ensures that intelligence practitioners meet high standards.

In contrast, OSINT lacks this structure. Many practitioners are self-taught, or they transition from other intelligence fields, adapting skills to OSINT’s unique demands. While commercial organisations—such as Janes, SANS Institute and OSINT Combine—offer valuable courses, these remain standalone efforts without an integrated career pathway.

Recent events have demonstrated OSINT’s value. During the Covid-19 pandemic, when classified systems were less physically accessible, analysts could use OSINT to help meet intelligence requirements working remotely.

During the Russian invasion of Ukraine, OSINT, such as commercial satellite imagery, provided troop movements and real-time intelligence that shaped global understanding of the conflict. And volunteer efforts, such as Stanford students uncovering atrocities using geolocation tools, showed OSINT’s ability to deliver actionable insights at speed.

Washington also publicly released a blend of declassified and OSINT reports on false-flag attacks the Kremlin would use to justify the invasion.

Despite these successes, OSINT is often dismissed as just Googling. It lacks the credibility of disciplines reliant on classified sources or costly sensors, leaving it seen as outside the secret club.  Critics such as Joseph Hatfield argue it overlaps with other fields and lacks a clear framework, making it seem like a junk drawer for miscellaneous information. While these criticisms have merit, they risk undervaluing OSINT’s operational strengths.

A centralised OSINT agency or centre of excellence could standardise tradecraft, developing specialised tools and creating a formal career pathway. However, this approach would require significant investment and coordination.

While some agencies are developing internal OSINT capabilities, the absence of standardisation means these programs provide no recognised qualifications. Without formal accreditation, these internal training programs function similarly to the commercial courses, rather than as part of a structured intelligence career pathway.

Training should cover core skills such as data scraping, navigating hidden information, overcoming targets’ denial and deception efforts, verifying open-source data and integrating OSINT into broader analytical processes.

Expanding in-house OSINT programs would allow practitioners to develop expertise while maintaining flexibility in their roles. This flexibility is particularly important because OSINT operates across various domains, including cyber threat intelligence, counterterrorism, corporate security and law enforcement. By providing structured training within agencies, OSINT analysts could specialise in areas relevant to their operational needs while ensuring a consistent standard of tradecraft.

Additionally, employing OSINT analysts in unclassified roles would allow agencies to make productive use of personnel while they undergo the often lengthy security vetting process. This would help address workforce shortages and ensure a steady pipeline of trained analysts ready to transition into higher-security roles when required.

One of OSINT’s greatest strengths is diversity. Practitioners from varied backgrounds bring unique perspectives, creativity and unconventional problem-solving to their work. Journalists, technologists and citizen-sleuths, such as those at Bellingcat, have proven OSINT’s value—for example by uncovering Russian war crimes or hidden missile silos in China. Standardisation must not stifle this diversity. Training should encourage innovation while ensuring consistency and quality.

OSINT delivers near-instantaneous situational awareness, unlike signals or geospatial intelligence, which sometimes involve lengthy tasking cycles. However, its speed comes with challenges, such as filtering disinformation and verifying data. By professionalising OSINT, agencies can better harness its potential while addressing these problems.

Ultimately, professionalisation would improve OSINT’s credibility and outputs while fostering a cultural shift to recognise it as an equal partner in the intelligence community. By retaining diversity and creativity alongside robust frameworks, OSINT can evolve into a respected, indispensable discipline.

Trump is right to worry about China’s Panama Canal influence

Donald Trump’s foreign policy priorities are coming into sharp focus: shoring up economic security, bolstering national security and sending a clear signal to America’s allies and partners. One of those partners is Panama, a small Central American nation that happens to control one of the world’s most vital maritime passages. Of the many Trump proclamations over the past week, this is one that Australia, as a maritime nation, should pay attention too.

Built by the United States from 1904 to 1914 to connect the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, the 82km Panama Canal now handles around 6 percent of global maritime trade and 40 percent of US container trade, underscoring its importance to both American interests and the global economy.

Heavily reliant on seaborne trade, Australia is particularly vulnerable to disruptions in global shipping routes. Even though only a small portion of its maritime trade travels through the Panama Canal, disruptions to the Panama Canal would have an impact on the price of goods in Australia, as the global supply chain would have to respond to the constriction of another key waterway.

The Reserve Bank in its August 2024 report on monetary policy noted that maritime trade freight costs had risen sharply in 2024. This was predominantly as a result of conflict in the Red Sea and a reduction in capacity of the Panama Canal due to drought.

The Reserve Bank said increased freight costs hadn’t yet translated into higher goods inflation in Australia but could if they were sustained—demonstrating the impact to disruption of maritime trade on Australia’s economy.

So, what exactly are Trump’s proclamations? He has threatened to seize back the Panama Canal, not ruling out use of force, and has claimed it’s under the control of Chinese soldiers and that Panama is gouging US ships with exorbitant transit fees.

While his claims are demonstrably false, his underlying concern is not misplaced. Maritime infrastructure is crucial to the economic and national security of countries such as Australia and the US. Australia learned this lesson too late in 2015 when it rashly leased the Port of Darwin to Landbridge, a Chinese-owned company, for 99 years. Much as Darwin is vital to Australia’s security, the Panama Canal remains critical to America’s.

The canal has been fully owned by the Republic of Panama since 1999, when the US transferred control under two treaties, one of which was a treaty of neutrality, requiring the canal to remain in neutral hands—and stating that if it did not, the US reserved the right to defend the canal with military force.

Despite the canal being under Panamanian control, companies from mainland China and Hong Kong have acquired key port facilities on both its Pacific and Atlantic entrances. On the Atlantic side, Landbridge has taken control of Margarita Island, Panama’s largest port. Meanwhile, Hong Kong-owned CK Hutchison Holdings—which wholly owns Hutchison Ports Australia, operator of terminals in Sydney and Brisbane—holds concessions to operate the ports of Balboa and Cristobal, the canal’s major Pacific and Atlantic gateways.

While CK Hutchison Holdings is Hong Kong-owned, the national security laws that were introduced in Hong Kong in 2020 could allow China to exercise influence over these ports.

China’s national security laws can require companies, including Hong Kong companies, to assist the Chinese government in in­telligence gathering and military operations.

This means that even though China does not directly control the Panama Canal, it still holds significant sway at both its Pacific and Atlantic entrances. Coupled with a major uptick in Chinese investment in Panama, underscored by Panama’s decision to join China’s Belt and Road Initiative in 2018, this port ownership provides China with a strategic foothold in the region, and specifically at ­either end of the canal.

Secretary of State Marco Rubio on Sunday demanded that Panama end the influence of the Chinese Communist Party over the canal area.

The canal area is part of a broader trend of Chinese investment in maritime trade routes, including in the Indian Ocean. Think of Bangladesh, Sri Lanka and Pakistan, to name a few. This foothold grants China significant influence over the Strait of Malacca, the Strait of Hormuz and other vital shipping lanes in the region. China has poured resources into Pacific ports, such as those in the Solomon Islands.

The point is that China is investing heavily in infrastructure that underpins global maritime trade. Under its national security laws, the companies driving these investments, some of which are state owned or have close ties to the Communist Party, could be compelled to use them for intelligence gathering or even military purposes. In the event of heightened strategic competition or conflict, these investments would allow for the targeted constriction of maritime trade to countries such as the US and Australia.

Despite Trump’s threats, it’s unlikely the US would opt to take the canal by force. But Australia should take notice. While Trump’s claims of Chinese soldiers controlling the Panama Canal are false, China’s increased control of port infrastructure globally, including at each end of the canal, should generate concern for a maritime trading nation such as Australia.

Distributed firepower: attack missile boats are alternatives to major warships

A single missile can cripple a billion-dollar warship. Australia must explore other forms of sea power to effectively meet its immediate strategic needs. A distributed naval force comprising fast attack missile boats and aerial drones offers a cost-effective and tactically superior alternative to reliance on large vulnerable ships.

Attack boats can be highly versatile, capable of being armed with anti-ship and surface-to-air missiles and using targeting data from other vessels, ground stations or aircraft. They can thereby engage targets at long distances, dealing with surface targets and providing air-defence coverage.

Historically, Australia’s naval procurement has prioritised destroyers, frigates and submarines—formidable but costly and operationally complex assets. These large vessels are increasingly vulnerable in modern conflicts, where advanced sensors, precision-guided weapons and unconventional tactics can quickly neutralise them. Ukraine’s sinking of the Russian cruiser Moskva in 2022 underscored the susceptibility of even the most advanced warships to anti-ship weapons.

History demonstrates the effectiveness of smaller, agile and numerous vessels. During World War II, PT boats excelled at hit-and-run tactics against larger Japanese vessels, leveraging speed and agility to outmatch superior firepower The Battle of Savo Island highlighted how coordinated small-ship operations could disrupt even well-defended fleets, showing proving the tactical value of dispersed mobile attack vessels.

Australia must adopt the concept of distributed lethality—spreading combat power across interconnected vessels and aircraft. A network of such platforms could overwhelm adversaries by presenting numerous threats across three dimensions. Their small size would also make them harder to detect and target, complicating an enemy’s engagement strategies.

Critics may question the survivability of small vessels in high-intensity conflicts, but advanced technologies help mitigate such concerns. Stealth features, electronic warfare systems, decoys and jamming equipment can disrupt enemy targeting. Combined with tactics emphasising speed, dispersion, hit-and-run strikes and over-the-horizon targeting, these vessels can minimise vulnerability while maximizing offensive potential.

While they lack the oceanic reach and integrated sensor suites of larger warships, attack boats do not require such systems, thanks to using targeting data from elsewhere. This enhances their strike effectiveness while minimising the risk of direct exposure. This agile warfare approach imposes significant challenges on adversaries attempting to mount a cohesive defence. Operating alongside uncrewed aircraft, they would also complement air and land forces in joint operations.

The financial argument is compelling. A fleet of 25 missile attack boats, each costing $100 million to $150 million, would cost between $2.5 billion and $3.75 billion—far less than the $9 billion required for three Hobart-class destroyers. Operational costs are also lower. A destroyer needs a crew of about 200, but an attack boat can operate with one of 15 to 30. The attack boat crewing requirement is so low that using dual crews could be considered, so each vessel can be at sea for longer while also giving crew members extended time ashore—potentially improving retention in the navy.

Corvettes are smaller and cheaper than destroyers, but attack boats outperform them in key metrics. For example, corvettes typically still require crews of 40 to 60 people. The smaller size and enhanced manoeuvrability of attack boats make them more effective in littoral and shallow waters, where corvettes may struggle. Modern attack boats can reach 45 knots (83km/h), far outpacing corvettes, which generally max out at 25 to 30 knots.

Operational range and endurance, often cited as a limitation of smaller vessels, can be addressed by adding bunkering and replenishment options. Forward operating bases along Australia’s northern approaches could support extended deployments, while underway replenishment vessels would further bolster operational reach across critical maritime zones and enable convoy operations.

Australia’s vast coastline and its proximity to key maritime choke points make a dispersed fleet of agile vessels even more valuable. They could hide among islands, taking risks in narrow waters where larger ships fear to tread.

The urgency of shifting Australia’s naval strategy to distributed lethality cannot be overstated. Smaller, agile vessels offer a pragmatic and forward-thinking alternative to large ships, addressing vulnerabilities while enhancing operational flexibility.