Around Whitehall, the phrase “we don’t really have the ships” keeps appearing, almost apologetically. It’s spoken softly, as if you were confiding in a neighbor about a domestic embarrassment. More accurately than any official statement, it depicts Britain’s situation in the spring of 2026: drawn into an American war it never wanted to fight, with a Royal Navy that is, by all accounts, smaller than what is needed at the time.
Since the Revolutionary Guard of Iran declared control of the waterway in early March, the Strait of Hormuz has been effectively closed. The closure is significant outside of the Gulf because on a typical day, 20% of the world’s oil passes through that narrow passage. Mines laid by small boats off Bandar Abbas caused Manchester’s petrol prices to increase. That seems almost archaic; it serves as a reminder that, despite all the talk about cyberwarfare and AI-enabled targeting, a few hundred kilograms of explosive on a tether can still stop the world economy.
Keir Starmer’s framing of Britain’s role has been cautious—possibly unusually so. He has declined to dispatch the Royal Navy to impose Trump’s port blockade on Iran. With the partial exception—given under some pressure—of permitting US use of bases at Fairford and on the Chagos Islands for what was described as missile-site targeting, he has also declined to commit British aircraft to offensive strikes. It has been a political career study to watch the prime minister handle this. He doesn’t say much, makes fewer commitments, and gives the impression that everything he says has been considered in light of the general public’s disapproval of another Middle East conflict.
Instead, Britain has provided nearly covert technology. RFA Lyme Bay is being set up as a sort of floating launchpad for autonomous mine-hunting drones, including the Wilton, Sweep, SeaCat, and MMCM systems. The HMS Stirling Castle, a converted civilian vessel, is being prepared as a hub. According to reports, clearance divers from the Royal Navy are on standby. It’s a serious endeavor, but a specific kind of serious. No battleships are sailing in the direction of the Gulf. No Nelsonian moment is being planned.
The explanation is simple and a little uncomfortable to articulate. There are a total of seven mine-hunting vessels in the Royal Navy. Four are not available. The remaining three are required domestically, in part to safeguard the nuclear submarine route from Faslane and in part because Russian submarine activity in British waters hasn’t exactly decreased. The last permanent mine-hunter stationed in Bahrain, HMS Middleton, was reportedly transported home in January on a heavy lift ship since she was unable to continue sailing on her own. In hindsight, the timing seems unfavorable. The term “the Hormuz reckoning,” coined by Mark Urban in a post on Substack, has endured.
All of this raises a larger question that isn’t specifically related to minesweepers. It concerns Britain’s desire to join an American president who has alternated between threatening allies and demanding their allegiance in a war it did not choose.
One solution is suggested by the summit that Britain and France are co-hosting this week, which is attended by over forty countries: come together, coordinate, and create a long-term structure for the strait that is independent of any one navy. This might work. After witnessing the US Marines seize the Touska in the Gulf of Oman last week, it’s also possible that diplomacy is already lagging behind events. In any case, the Royal Navy, which used to patrol half of the world, is now primarily hoping that its drones will arrive before the mines.
