The following extract is from ASPI’s latest special report, Submarines: Your questions answered, which attempts to answer the many questions that Australians pose when it comes to the design, acquisition, cost, operational service and strategic implications of submarines.

After the publication of the 2016 defence white paper in February that year, I was approached by a senior politician who had been involved in the earlier stages of the white paper’s production wanting to ask a ‘couple of questions about Defence’. Started in early 2014, the white paper had the unique history of being developed under the direction of two prime ministers and three defence ministers.

We duly met at a Canberra institution, the Charcoal Restaurant.* Over blue steak and red wine, my friend’s puzzlement became clear: ‘Why didn’t we talk about nuclear propulsion for submarines during the white paper process?’

Why indeed! I would venture that there hasn’t been a detailed discussion of nuclear propulsion around the Australian cabinet table since the nuclear crisis in ANZUS in 1984, in which New Zealand cast away the alliance over the vastly improbable risk that a US warship might sneak a nuclear weapon into Auckland Harbour. I was closely involved in the defence white papers produced in 2000 and 2016 and had a ringside seat at the 2009 white paper. To my knowledge, nuclear propulsion wasn’t part of any formal cabinet consideration. The 2009 white paper quickly dismissed any interest—‘The Government has ruled out nuclear propulsion for these submarines’—at the same time as it stressed the importance of range and ‘prolonged covert patrols over the full distance of our strategic approaches and in operational areas’.

At a major maritime conference in 2019, the chief of navy, Vice Admiral Mike Noonan, tentatively ventured the thought that a slow build of 12 boats might allow nuclear propulsion to be considered at a later stage (‘A change in the propulsion system for the Attack-class submarines; it’s something that will no doubt be discussed over the next 30 years, bearing in mind that by the time we deliver No. 12 it will be 2055’), but the government quickly said that this wasn’t under consideration. In fact, there doesn’t appear to be a strong constituency for nuclear propulsion inside the navy, which is still culturally an organisation built around surface ships. The wider defence organisation has the Attack-class project to deliver, which is complex enough without adding a major new challenge to master nuclear propulsion.

Parliament is filled with many MPs on both sides of politics who will privately advocate for nuclear propulsion but publicly shy away from discussing the capability. The fear is that it isn’t possible to build a bipartisan consensus for nuclear propulsion in ways that prevent one side of politics rejecting the idea, leaving the other side with a potential political liability.

That was certainly the outcome of the 2019 House of Representatives Standing Committee on the Environment and Energy review of the future of nuclear technology in Australia. Government members of the committee recommended ‘adopting a strategic approach to the possibility of entering the nuclear energy industry’. This was countered with a Labor Party dissenting report claiming that ‘There is simply no case for wasting time and resources on a technology that is literally the slowest, most expensive, most dangerous, and least flexible form of new power generation.’

Nuclear propulsion for submarines wasn’t considered, but it’s clear at least in the short term that there’s no prospect for bipartisan cooperation on this issue.

Political ambivalence is fuelled by popular concerns. In Australia, there are strongly divided views for and against nuclear power in any form. The parliamentary committee review acknowledged that ‘the will of the people should be honoured by requiring broad community consent before any nuclear facility is built’.

Is anything likely to change this situation? Potentially, yes.

The strategic ground is changing quickly under our feet, and those developments might, in future, force a more urgent government consideration of the submarine capability Australia needs. The 2016 white paper pointed to the need to keep the submarine capability under examination, stating that a review would be needed ‘in the late 2020s to consider whether the configuration of the submarines remains suitable or whether consideration of other specifications should commence’.

A significant pressure point may emerge in the next couple of years, when the detailed design work for the Attack class will reveal the capability parameters of the boats’ propulsion system. How that plays out against the advertised need for a ‘regionally superior submarine’ could lead to some arresting discussions around the cabinet table.

* Established in 1962, the Charcoal Grill pre-dates the creation of the Royal Australian Navy’s Submarine Service. The Australian government ordered four Oberon-class submarines in 1963, and the first was commissioned in 1967. Before the arrival of the Oberons, the Royal Navy’s 4th Submarine Flotilla (later designated the 4th Submarine Squadron) was based in Sydney from 1949 until 1969. The last Royal Navy submarine to be based in Sydney, HMS Trump, was withdrawn in 1969, although HMS Odin was based in Sydney with the Australian submarines from December 1972 to September 1975.

Successful defence white papers have to find the right resting place between four sets of demands: politics; strategy and policy; military capability; and money.

That’s what makes them so interesting, and also so hard to do well.

How do those factors play out in terms of likely considerations for the Morrison government?

In saying that white papers are political, I make no negative judgement. All complex policy is political in the sense that an elected government is making choices which, it hopes, will get it re-elected as well as do the right thing for the country.

Policy is inherently political. As John Howard used to say, good policy is usually good politics.

It’s noteworthy that neither of our major parties went into the election campaign promising to do a new defence white paper.

Labor proposed a force structure review, which seemed harmless enough. Maybe it was intended to be a bit of throat-clearing for 12 months or so before a white paper was started.

Politically, Labor just didn’t want to bring defence and security into the election campaign. It’s not the battleground of their choosing and I imagine they didn’t want to spend a day or more in the campaign arguing the case for a new white paper.

As for the Coalition—well, they had produced the 2016 defence white paper.

And this raises an interesting point. It’s easy for a new government to ditch a white paper written by its political opponents, but it’s another thing altogether for an incumbent government to replace one policy which it produced with another.

The 2016 white paper’s sponsor, Marise Payne, is now the foreign minister, and quite a number of senior political heavies are deeply invested in that document, which is often presented as the centrepiece of the government’s security policy.

So I don’t expect an announcement this year that a new white paper will be started.

That’s a good thing. It gives the new defence minister and the government time to consider what needs to be done.

So much for the politics. Going back to the other dimensions of white papers—strategy and policy, military capability, and money—it’s increasingly clear that the case for a new white paper is looking very strong.

It’s clear that major areas of our strategic outlook have changed quite dramatically since the 2016 white paper was released. It’s not that the judgements in it were wrong, but much of what was thought to be likely in, say, 2030 has effectively already happened.

We are confronted with the reality of a harder, riskier, more immediate strategic competition and a force development plan which makes sense but is about 15 years out of sync with the ugly reality.

So the case for change in our strategic policies is strong and, in areas like the Pacific step-up, it’s clear that the government and the defence organisation are adjusting to the new realities.

The question about what to do with military capabilities in a policy sense is the area that’s least clear to me. I certainly accept that a lot of the emerging technologies that we hear a lot about are years from being fielded. We all sense the great potential of AI, machine learning and autonomous systems, but quite what that means for today’s investment choices is unclear.

And that’s where I think a new white paper, sooner or later, will be useful.

It can act as a forcing function to jolt the system into new ways of looking at old problems.

What bureaucracies and governments do best is to defend old policies—especially the ones they’ve produced.

What white papers do is to create permission to think laterally and differently from past policy work. Opportunities to do that in a thoroughgoing way don’t come around all that often in public policy.

And a new white paper could also help the government and officials think laterally about the means and methods we use for making policy. For example, does the pace of change mean that we need to have annual white papers rather than every five or six years? Clearly an annual white paper would have to be developed differently compared to the current approach, which is a bit like forcing a heard of grumpy rhinos backwards through a mincer, in slow motion—not pretty.

And finally we come to money. White papers force a conversation about money, which the central agencies and many parts of government are otherwise hellbent on trying to avoid.

We will never get out of the ‘about 2% of GDP’ mantra unless a new white paper gives permission to unlock a different discussion on defence spending.

I have said this before, but we would be delusional to think that we can modernise the ADF and make it fit for purpose for a much more risky strategic outlook within the current 2% ceiling.

In fact, we know what 2% of GDP buys us. It’s what we have now, plus a little more, prettied up to go to the ball in 2040.

Two per cent won’t buy much AI, machine learning, hypersonics, quantum computing, big data, synthetic biology, autonomy and all the rest. And it won’t buy much of a Pacific step-up—or an Indian Ocean step-up or a Southeast Asian step-up, which we also badly need.

Nor will 2% buy much of a force with enhanced readiness and a broader national mobilisation capability.

And no matter what one says about a hundred years of mateship, 2% of GDP doesn’t buy much coffee on the E-ring of the Pentagon, where America’s expectations of its allies are, rightly, growing.

It’s only a new defence white paper which would allow that discussion about future funding to be held. And fundamentally, that is a discussion where our strategic outlook should force us to think about what a defence budget of 2.5 or 3% of GDP could deliver for our security.

So, I absolutely think that a new white paper will be timely and needed within the life of the current government.

A paper commissioned in early 2020 could, with the right design, be completed in mid-2021. It would have to be done differently to the 2016 white paper, which was the heavy armoured division of the policy world.

The good news is that Defence is substantially ready to go, because of standing policy, capability development and costing methodologies that were put in place last time around.

My hope is that the decision to commission a new white paper is a step the government will be prepared to take in coming months.

This is an edited version of remarks delivered by ASPI’s executive director at ASPI’s ‘War in 2025’ international conference on 14 June 2019.

The core belief system of Australia’s approach to international affairs for 75 years is the cause that can barely speak its own name.

Whisper it softly: ‘liberal internationalism’, an aspiration big enough to encompass democracy and rule of law, open markets and free trade, individual liberty and human rights.

The Turnbull government’s imminent foreign policy white paper will have liberal internationalist molecules throughout its DNA. Yet the arguments the white paper has with itself about the state of the world will reflect the troubles afflicting liberal internationalism.

Labels and understandings drive what matters, and this vital two-word label is suffering.

Internationalism stands in the dock with its mate globalisation, assailed by nationalism and mercantilism and all the opportunities—masquerading as troubles—of a world growing ever closer.

The liberal label is beset by hostile fire from the right and left wings and a less-than-convinced centre. US Republicans love liberty but disdain liberals as soft socialists and European cheese–eating surrender monkeys. To dodge such smears, US Democrats won’t own to being liberals.

Liberal internationalism stands condemned because of its supposed association with economic neoliberalism. Neolib nostrums that dominated the final quarter of the 20th century—deregulation, privatisation and market forces—are derided as failed bizonomics. Neoliberalism is rendered in Oz-speak as ‘economic rationalism’, and its great Australian champion, the Productivity Commission, has run up the white flag on all things neo with its Shifting the dial review, arguing that without equity and fairness there can’t be economic efficiency. Fancy that—markets mediated by politics.

Australia’s affection for liberal internationalism began at that moment of existential crisis in 1942 when we abandoned Pax Britannica and went looking for new ways. That arc is a theme in the latest (12th) volume of the Oz-in-the-world series from the Australian Institute of International Affairs; the book’s title, Navigating the new international disorder, can do double duty as the unofficial title of the foreign policy white paper. A fine chapter by Andrew Phillips offers three phases of the arc:

Liberal internationalism Mark I, 1942–72: Embracing the US (and its values) as the security patron, while Australia joined efforts to create a new global order at the United Nations. Australia argued for the right of states to deliver full employment—and to ensure social stability through White Australia. Phillips comments, ‘Australia’s moral universalism remained limited by its dedication to a domestic political order that presupposed racial homogeneity as a prerequisite for social harmony and national security.’

Liberal internationalism Mark II, 1972–2001: Human rights norms erased the last vestiges of colonialism, while the old economic order of ‘embedded liberalism’ gave way to neoliberal globalisation. The Australian response was two ‘master shifts’ to multiculturalism and our neolib version, economic rationalism.

Liberal internationalism in crisis, 2001–present: Rapid changes in the security and economic spheres feed into ‘a broader ideological crisis of liberal internationalism’. Phillips judges: ‘Neither jihadism nor authoritarian nationalism stand as credible competitors to liberal internationalism in offering an alternative foundation for global order. Nevertheless, the persistence and even intensification of these challenges equally confirms the return of ideological contestation as a central feature of world politics.’

The crisis of liberal internationalism translates into Canberra’s talk of uncertain and dangerous times; this says more about Oz uncertainty than about the state of the world. We’ve lived through vastly more dangerous times. The Canberra perception, though, isn’t just the tyranny of the present—it’s the frightening sight of Australia’s conceptual framework shaking and shedding bits.

The Canberra sense of hard days peering through a hazy daze was striking in last year’s defence white paper, fretting loudly about the need for international rules. The policy document used the word ‘rules’ 64 times—48 of those in the formulation ‘rules-based global order’.

The word that didn’t appear once in the defence white paper was ‘liberal’—quite an omission for a Liberal government. The defence hardheads understand that China is all for a rules-based order, but Beijing isn’t interested in an American-designed liberal order.

Other parts of Canberra do push back on the need to preserve and defend the liberal order. Hence, the proposition from Foreign Minister Julie Bishop that China can’t rule because it’s not a democracy: ‘The importance of liberal values and institutions should not be underestimated or ignored. While non-democracies such as China can thrive when participating in the present system, an essential pillar of our preferred order is democratic community.’

Ah, the ordeal of ordering orders. What we prefer and what we get …

Be amazed if the foreign policy white paper says much about the China–democracy equation. Still, it’ll want liberal rules—this is the diplomats’ take on our policy DNA, not the defenceniks.

The sense of uncertainty ran through Malcolm Turnbull’s Asia–Pacific speech before he headed to the Asia summits:

• The multilateral trading system faces greater challenges than at any time since its creation in the 1940s to ‘contain protectionism and enforce international rules … The siren songs of populists, advocating protectionism as simple quick solutions, have gained considerable support’.
• ‘Rising major power trade tensions—tensions between assertive state capitalism in China and populism in the United States’ could undermine the WTO’s rules-based system.
• The global rules are fraying, opening the way for large states to use arbitrary barriers and coercion.
• And quoting French President Emmanuel Macron: ‘Democracy needs to recover its ambition.’

The declarations have a tinge of desperation. For liberal internationalism, the haze thickens.

In his usual fashion, Peter Edwards’ recent report ‘Defence White Papers at 40’ offers an elegant, illuminating and historically grounded review. Edwards is right to cast his attention to this habit of government, noting that Australia managed to survive for 75 years without one, before producing seven in the next 40 years.

Given the growing dissatisfaction many have with recent documents, as well as the uncertainty of our times, his call to ‘draw breath’ on the practice is worth considering. As Edwards notes, his paper is far from alone in critiquing the quality of Australia’s contemporary strategic policy debate.

A common conclusion among the critics is the need for institutional change. Edwards argues for better use of parliamentary statements and use of the committees. James Brown has called for better involvement and education of our politicians on strategy; John Faulkner for better judicial oversight of intelligence; and many voices have supported parliament taking away from the executive power over the use of force.

That is, more positions of authority, more power to parliament, more independence for auditors and assessors. Where the culture of the debate is mentioned, it’s simply to refrain that we have too much pointless bickering and need steady and strong bipartisanship. But I’m not sure the case can be made that Defence White Papers suffer from partisanship (as Edwards alleges) or that bipartisanship produces stronger documents.

We’ve had three significant Defence White Papers. Two of them are singled out for praise by Edwards: the 1976 and 1987 documents. Both of these however were fundamentally the product of partisan debate. While the 1976 document reflects the influence of both the Coalition (1966–1972 and 1975–6) and Labor (1972–1975), their differences were bitterly argued over at the time. The document reflected a fragile—and temporary—moment of agreement as both parties were forced to shift their world view (most notably with the Coalition accepting the limits of the alliance; the ALP accepting its benefits).

The 1987 White Paper was also a partisan document. The Hawke government needed to keep faith with the mainstream and the US alliance while managing its left wing. (A story set out most recently in Kim Beazley’s chapter on sovereignty and the alliance). The Coalition strongly criticised the 1987 White Paper at the time, arguing it was a form of isolationism and a poor response to growing Soviet threats in the Pacific.

Those critiques would in time lead to the final standout and yet partisan document, the 2000 White Paper. The Coalition wanted to make a clear break with the Defence of Australia construct with big changes to how Australia chose its capabilities, what it used them for and how it explained these to the public. The document was then used by the Howard government to fully reclaim primacy in the politics of security and international affairs, which the Coalition had ceded to the ALP in the 1980s and early 1990s.

All three of those documents had core elements that reflected the differences of their authoring parties and those differences were strongly argued for following their release. These are wise documents, but they linger because their ideas were justified and defended at length in public. It’s hard to say Australia has suffered because of the political motives or ambitions contained within these documents.

By contrast the 2009, 2013 and 2016 DWPs all seem to have disappeared within months of their release. That’s a shame, as all contain different and potentially important ideas—2009 on China, 2013 on regional cooperation, 2016 on industry and capability. Yet in the spirit of ‘bipartisanship’, few if any of those ideas have been properly explored or explained to the general public. As such, scholars and public servants have been left with many questions, leading to confusion and at-times ad hoc policymaking.

It’s easy to be pessimistic about democracies today. Yet the story of the twentieth century is one of the democratic countries repeatedly having better strategies than their opponents. Those strategies were formulated because of partisan differences, democratic debate and public involvement, not in spite of them. Before we overhaul our system of government, we should try and allow it to operate as it was designed to: with the title ‘Leader of the Opposition’ meaning something, particularly when it comes to national security.

Ultimately, I think Edwards’ call for a pause in the production of Defence White Papers is wise. But that’s partly because our parties today don’t have enough to say on those issues. When they do—when we allow them to debate and divide on the question of defence—then we can return to producing such documents. Not until we allow our political parties to be political will we have another Defence White Paper worth storing on the shelf.

Julia Gillard writes that she inherited ‘unrealistic’ defence settings from Kevin Rudd and hints faintly that she bequeathed the same to the Abbott government. Just as Gillard needed a new defence policy because of Kevin Rudd, she needed a new Asia policy because of The Kevin. Gillard had to replace Rudd’s unaffordable and faltering Defence White Paper, while her Asia Century White Paper gave her a chunk of foreign policy without Rudd’s finger-prints all over it.

What was more important—the policy interests or the shadow of Kevin? Pointless question. Both sides of the equation were vital.

Remember Rule 1 of understanding Canberra: ‘It’s always personal‘. The personal shapes power and shifts policy; see Gillard’s grand swipe at Rudd and Bob Carr: ‘After the 2010 election, I never had a Foreign Minister I could rely on’.

Gillard’s book is useful on defence policy, if not as vivid in its verbal voltage as it is about Rudd’s ‘destabilisation’, ‘leaking’ and ‘treachery’. In such a spirit, turn to Julia’s demolition of the 2009 Defence White Paper. She makes familiar criticisms. But this is the Deputy Prime Minister who was present at the creation (of the mess). On the Rudd White Paper, Gillard writes: ‘The overblown nature of the prose had drawn an adverse reaction from the Chinese and the budget rule laid out in the White Paper for defence expenditure was unrealistic and almost immediately breached’. Read more