Running AMOC

Chapter 5. Atomic

Your hair looks beautiful, tonight (Blondie, “Atomic”)

Stockholm, March 2035

I was born in Kalimantan, in Indonesia. My father was Indo, my mother Iban. For as long as I could remember, my parents had been set on moving to the Netherlands as soon as they could afford it, and they named me Sigrid, a name that was then common over there, so that I would fit in. I liked to think the choice was prophetic, and that I was destined to end up in Sweden because of my name. I know it wasn’t like that though: my mum told me much later that she’d named me after her favourite Dutch actress. We finally moved to the Netherlands when I was eleven; when I was seventeen we moved to Sweden and my father Swedified his name from Bloem to Blohm.

It was a move born from desperation: the Netherlands had turned out to be a very different place than my parents had imagined. My father was a proud man, and constantly having to swallow that pride to avoid trouble proved too much for him. Partly it was simply bad timing: we arrived in Holland when the Moluccan train hijacking of 1977 was still fresh in the collective memory. But I think that even without that, the everyday and institutional racism would have gotten to him eventually. My mother was treated even worse, simply because she was an Iban woman, but because of her upbringing she never let it show. I got my share at school, although it was many years before I started to recognise it for what it was. In any case, when my father very carefully floated the idea that we might move away from the Netherlands, we were both delighted.

I went to study Applied Mathematics at Stockholm University. That’s where I met Stefan. In my final year I went to Scotland with Erasmus. I did my undergraduate thesis at the Institute for Advanced Oceanographic and Atmospheric Science of Glasgow University, on simulation methods for ocean currents, and I stayed on for a PhD. Stefan did the gallant thing and moved with me. I should have known then that you can’t build a life on gallantry, but I was young and in love.

I soon noticed that he wasn’t quite happy in Scotland, even though he put on a brave face. For a few years we muddled through. Then I got pregnant, and for a brief while we were happy, but a few months after Rob was born I got postnatal depression, and that was the last straw. Stefan couldn’t take it and went back to Sweden. I can’t blame him, and it was probably better because in retrospect he had clearly been depressed as well, but at the time it was a nightmare. If my mother hadn’t come over for a while to help, I don’t know how I would have managed. But we both got through it in the end, and we still exchange Christmas cards. And I did get my PhD, even though it took me a year longer.

I loved Scotland so I wanted to stay there. I got a postdoc position, and then a lectureship, at the same Institute where it all started. I found a fabulous flat in Helensburgh and settled into the routine of academic life. I wanted Rob to have a good connection with Sweden so we went to stay with my parents during the holidays as often as possible. After high school he went to study software engineering at KTH in Stockholm. He met a lovely Italian-Swedish lassie called Laura and they moved in together, and I knew then that Sweden would be his home. But he still liked Scotland so they used to visit often, until they moved to Australia. That is a long way away, and we all want to limit our long-haul flights; but I went to see them on a visit to Indonesia.

I love to go back to Indonesia. I love the climate, the light, the food and the people. But I don’t feel I really belong there. When I go back to Holland, I don’t belong there either. Even during my frequent visits to my parents and son in Sweden, I felt I didn’t really belong there any more. But I don’t belong in Scotland either, and certainly not after Brexit. A European person of colour, it doesn’t get much worse. Not that I regret my choices. I am still very glad to have spent most of my life in Scotland. But I can now empathise more with the “somewhere people”. This feeling of not belonging is the price I pay for being an “anywhere person”, and on some days it feels like a high price.

Helensburgh, August 2023

Time slipped by almost unnoticed and before I knew it I was in my fifties, and a proper career academic, if not one of the high flyers. That had never been my ambition anyway (but then a high-flyer say that I used my lack of ambition as an excuse for my failure). I worked with engineers and computing scientists, focusing on better, faster and more precise simulations; I had a decent record and was happy in my job. But shortly after my promotion to Reader, I noticed the first telltale signs of the menopause. It hit me hard: I got the signature hot flushes and much more besides. For a while I was really struggling to simply get through the days. Initially, I didn’t realise what was happening to me. When I finally caught on, I joined the local support group. And with much trial and error my GP and I found an HRT combination that worked, and things gradually got better. By the time the Ditlevsen paper came out, I felt well enough to tackle the project.

The local Menopause Cafe was a godsend. Just meeting other women in the same situation, eating cake and discussing experiences made such a difference. It was there that I met Eilidh. I am usually a bit apprehensive when meeting new people. There is no way to hide that I am a foreigner, and I dread the “where are you from” question, no matter how oblique or well intended. But Eilidh wasn’t like that at all. She had wavy auburn hair (“From the bottle”, she remarked as soon as she saw me look at it), green-grey eyes and an open countenance, and I thought she looked like a model for a Visit Scotland ad — if they would use post-menopausal women as models. She immediately put me at ease in the most natural way, without seeming to do anything at all. The other women were very nice as well, but she was the reason I actually looked forward to my next visit to the Cafe. We got on really well and soon we saw a lot of one another. Her husband was away for his job for long stretches of time, and her kids had all flown the nest as well, so she had plenty of time, which she filled with all kinds of volunteering activities, and I joined in when I could.

Helensburgh, April 2026

One lovely spring day, with the cherry trees in bloom all over Helensburgh, Eilidh and I got talking about my AMOC project, and I explained about the new results by Li-Zhen and Mirza, and the problem we had with the data: the lack of precise measurements of the deep currents of the AMOC meant we could not accurately pin down the precise moment it would collapse. I’m not sure how I happened to discuss this because it was very technical and boring to any outsider and of course Eilidh couldn’t do anything about it. But it was heavy on my mind so it was a relief to be able to explain it to a patient listener.

Eilidh left in a pensive mood, and the next time we met she said, “Sigrid, there is someone I’d like you to meet. He might be able to help with your problem — it’s my husband, John”.
I was really surprised. “Your husband? Is he an academic too? How do you think he could help me?”
“Well,” Eilidh hesitated a bit, then made up her mind. “I’ve never told you what John does for his job, and you’ve been so good not to ask. But we’ve discussed this, and we both think this is really important. So here it is: he’s a nuclear submarine commander.” She looked at me with an apprehensive expression that was very rare for her.
I understood: by now Eilidh knew me well enough to know that I was a pacifist. I was strongly opposed to the doctrine of nuclear deterrence. So she was worried about my reaction. On the other hand, I was now also old enough to realise that there were well-meaning people who genuinely believe it makes the world a safer place. And now I was about to meet one of them. So I smiled at her and said, “I’d love to meet him.” She invited me to dinner that weekend at their home.

John was a quiet, soft-spoken man, clean-shaven with short grey hair and keen eyes. I had done my stint as Head of the Institute, and as a veteran of too many executive committee meetings at all levels of the University, I immediately recognised him as a person with authority and a true leader.
“When Eilidh told me about your project, and about this danger of the AMOC collapse, it got me thinking. It is the role of a government to keep its population safe, and the military is there to give it the means to do so. But we can’t protect people against the dangers of climate change, at least not directly. It may surprise you but you will find very few climate change deniers in the upper echelons. In particular in my job, we’ve been aware for a while now that in a few decades the nuclear submarine bases will no longer be safe. We also know climate change will cause global instability, which means more war. We have to take it seriously.” He paused for a while, taking a sip from his tea. “Anyway, I think our submarines would be ideal to collect detailed data on the Atlantic currents. They can go really deep and have high-sensitivity sensors for salinity, temperature and density. We could sample the AMOC during a routine patrol in the Atlantic. It would take about a year.”

I was couldn’t believe my ears. It really did sound too good to be true. But if it worked it would provide us with an unprecedented source of very accurate observations. It would be sensational.
Then again, it seemed incredible that someone in his position would be prepared to risk his entire career for my project. I objected, “But isn’t that very risky? Would that not be against your orders?”
He gave me a look that said, I see there is more behind your question, and replied calmly, “There is definitely some risk, but I have already carefully put out some feelers and I think that I can make it work. It does not compromise national security. And I have a lot of leeway as a commander. The top brass would be very annoyed if I didn’t inform them upfront, but I have some contacts there too. So I think I’ll get off with a warning. If I understand correctly what you are planning, this research will cause quite a storm, and it would look really bad for the MoD if they sanctioned me for doing the right thing.”
“How accurate are those sensors?” I asked. This was a crucial point. He smiled “We use lidar Brillouin spectroscopy. I’m told it’s pretty accurate.”
I nodded and almost smiled at his understatement. I had worked with this technology myself, it was state-of-the-art. But I was still puzzled. “But why?”
John looked at Eilidh, then at me. “Sigrid, I joined the Navy because I believed it helped to keep Britain safe. But if what you and your colleagues say is correct, and I believe it is, then this AMOC collapse is the greatest threat Britain has ever faced, and right now we are not at all prepared to handle it. So I actually see it as my duty to help you, even if my superiors are less likely to see it that way.”
I had an inkling there was more to it than that. When I had explained to Eilidh how climate change would make AMOC collapse, and what that would mean for Scotland, I had been surprised that she accepted this right away and also relieved at not having to argue climate catastrophe with my best friend. Although most people outside of my research community would superficially agree climate change was a bad thing, they were not prepared to accept that Britain would get Siberian winters. Then Eilidh told me that some years ago, their son Ruairidh had become an environmental activist. That had led to a lot of strain in the family but she and her husband had worked through their denial and disagreements and eventually come around to his side, stopping short of becoming activists themselves.
I nodded thoughtfully. “I understand. Well, John, I image there is information you need from me. What is it and how can I best get it to you?”
He considered for a while. “We need the most accurate maps of the AMOC current, and a precise idea of how many samples you’d need to get the necessary accuracy for your models.
We use the NATO AML format, and within that the water column data is in netCDF format, which I think is what you use too, isn’t it?”
I nodded again.
“It would be ideal if you could provide a netCDF file with coordinates for all the possible sampling points, and a text file explaining how many you’d need, which ones are absolutely crucial, how much deviation you could allow and so on. Just give it to Eilidh on an encrypted memory stick.”

I got Eilidh the data a few days later, and that same day I had a call with Li-Zhen, Mirza and Eza to discuss John’s proposal. As they all shared my concern about the lack of accuracy, they were entirely in favour.
Mirza counselled caution: “We need a backup plan in case the data does not materialise. So we need to get the most recent satellite and aircraft observations, complemented with shallow-water sampling at key points in the current.”
Eza argued that the provenance of the data should only be made public in the final paper. “It’s essential from a publicity perspective. The media will go wild when they learn where the data comes from. If it leaks out too early, it will completely destroy the impact of the paper.” Little did we realise how momentous this decision would prove to be. We were truly babes in the woods.
Li-Zhen was sceptical. “It will be very hard to keep the provenance secret. Our consortium is too large.”
I argued for being open. “I agree, Li-Zhen, but the nature of the data is such that our clever postdocs and PhD students will quickly realise that they could not have come from an ordinary survey ship. There are hardly any survey vessels that can measure at depths of 300 m of more. If we told them a subterfuge or refused to disclose the origin of the data, some of them would naturally become suspicious and they would feel we didn’t trust them.”
Mirza supported me. “It’s not only a matter of operational secrecy, it’s a matter of team coherence. If we lie to them now and have to admit to it later, our teams’ trust in us will be forever destroyed. There’s hardly anything worse you can do than tell somebody you couldn’t trust them.”
Li-Zhen nodded, “You’re right. I don’t want to deceive my team either, they mean a lot to me.”
I added two more points. “First, the actual provenance of the data is hardly believable, it’s totally unprecedented. That will work to our advantage. Second, I am quite certain that my younger self would not be happy to be working on a project with data from the military, however lofty the cause. I’m sure some of our researchers will feel equally strongly about this. If we tell them now, that gives us and them plenty of time to find another project.”
Eza concluded, “Well, that means we’ll just have to trust our teams. We’ll just have to tell them. But I propose we have a plausible cover story that anyone in the team can use in case somebody asks who doesn’t really need to know. Sigrid, do you think you can come up with an alternate provenance?” Two years into the project was a little late for coming up with an origin story, but luck was on my side: from the start of the project, my team had provided most of the observational data sets to the other teams, so it would not seem odd that we would provide the final data as well. I saw two options for a blind. Some years ago, we had put in a research proposal for a survey of the Atlantic currents by the RRS Discovery, but it had not been funded. I could just pretend that it had been funded, and that the results had finally come in. Or I could invent some anonymous super-wealthy benefactor who had funded such a project under a very strict Non-Disclosure Agreement. The former was more believable, but would not stand up to any serious scrutiny. The latter seemed rather outré, but in proper truth-stranger-than-fiction fashion, there was a precedent: in 2018, Norwegian billionaire Kjell Inge Røkke had funded just such a research ship. So we decided on that option, also because it would be near-impossible to verify.

I arranged a chat with Esther and put my cards on the table. She wasn’t very comfortable with the arrangement, as it meant that we would still be lying to the public about the nature of the data. But she saw that it was on the one hand a necessity, and that on the other hand no harm would be resulting from it: the science would still be the same. So she agreed to back me up.

We organised a few meetings for all researchers in all teams, almost fifty people. I explained to them that the data for the next phase of the project would be provided by the military, who would collect it using submarines in an unprecedented operation.

I also told them that it was important to keep the provenance of the data confidential to maximise the impact of the publication, and that therefore we proposed they tell our provenance cover story to anyone who didn’t really need to know where the data came from.

For about half a year after that, I heard nothing from John. From Eilidh I learned that he was busy laying his plans, in particular securing support from within Navy Command, and even a high-ranking Sub Navy Board member.

Then one day in early autumn, Eilidh invited me again for a little dinner at their home. I felt like a sleeper spy finally called to action, an odd feeling in this sleepy place. Walking from my flat on the waterfront to their house higher up the hill, there was a distinct autumn smell in the air. The sun had already set behind the hills on Cowall and it was getting chilly. Here and there on the old walls, some of the pink flowers of rock soapworth were still clinging on, recalling the distant memory of their early-summer glory.

It was very pleasant, the food was delicious and John was skilful at keeping the conversation both engaging and safe. When we had moved to the cosy salon and were sipping our beverages of choice, he finally broached the topic.
He smiled broadly, “All is going well, Sigrid. Very well indeed. We’ll leave on patrol in a few days and I have managed to get informal support of key people in my team and of some of the top-level decision makers. Whatever comes of this, I am pretty confident I won’t be censured. On the contrary, chances are the Navy will make much of this action. And best of all, the Americans have agreed to do something similar. It’s really funny when you think of it: submarines are so secret, you can use that secrecy as a cloak for operations like this.”

“I know,” I interjected, “Above Top Secret!”

John looked at me quizzically.

I laughed. “I read about it in a novel once. So secret that even with the highest clearance, you’re still not in on it.”

He nodded, with an amused smile. “Something like that. I don’t know how it got arranged, but apparently some other commander at the other side of the pond is willing to do this same thing, and obviously nobody is to know over there either. In any case, I think that is a very clever tactical move: it will give the whole operation a strong air of legitimacy once it comes out and it would be very hard for either side to paint it as a conspiracy. And you will get even better data as a results. A win for all involved.”

Helensburgh, October 2026

And so it happened that, on a beautiful late afternoon in October, with the soft sun turning the autumn leaves on the hills pale russet, fallow and golden, I stood with Eilidh on the narrow pebble beach at the lighthouse on Rhu Point, waving at the crew on the deck of a nuclear submarine being guided through the narrows. If anyone had told me a year ago that I, a veteran of many Faslane blockades, would someday wave and smile at the military personnel in charge of a missile submarine, I’d have thought them mad. It would have been unthinkable. And yet, here I was, and I was at peace with myself. The machine was an abomination, but if it could help us win over the public on AMOC, it would for once have contributed to something worthwhile. I knew that John and Eilidh looked at it totally differently, and it made me turn to her with a goofy smile. I could see Eilidh was happy as well, despite having to miss her husband for yet another year. “Why are you smiling like that, Sigrid?” she asked, with a hint of mischief in her smile.

I replied “We’re the most unlikely of friends, aren’t we?”

She knew exactly what I meant. “We are indeed. And I’m glad for it.”

Next: Chapter 6. Surprise, sometimes, will come around