Editor’s Note: This is the longest article gCaptain has ever published, totaling 13,000 words. It’s a bit rough in places, with shifts in tone, reflecting the reality of a week spent inside the Pentagon. Consider it a field report rather than a polished feature article: it’s imperfect, human, and captures the moment. Alternatively, you might find it better not to read at all. Much like today’s geopolitical landscape, it’s chaotic, emotional, and raw—possibly outdated mere minutes after it goes live. But it is honest.
by Captain John Konrad This year has seen numerous stories coming from the Pentagon that have criticized the Trump administration, with Secretary of War Pete Hegseth being a focal point. Some reports were accurate, while others flirted with sensationalism, sparking national debates much like bright arcs of tracer fire—captivating, yet often misleading. These narratives have ignited yet another political storm.
The Department of War announced new procedures: journalists must notify them before dealing with classified material, and they need to stop acting like paparazzi outside the doors of senior officials. While these changes appeared procedural, they heightened existing tensions. Many conservative news outlets protested loudly, walking out in defiance. Into this void, the Department began inviting a select group of journalists to apply for press credentials.
To my surprise—and the surprise of many—gCaptain was at the top of the list. We were not chosen for political reasons, but because we occupy a unique space at the intersection of maritime commerce and national power. So, on a chilly Monday morning, I collected my new press pass. By week’s end, I was navigating the Pentagon's maze, closely engaged with senior officials as they worked to reshape decades of policy while the world watched closely.
However, the more I explored those fluorescent-lit halls, the more I realized that the main stories being reported were not the real issues at play. Beneath the media frenzy and political theatrics lay a more significant, quieter truth that directly impacted America’s ability to project sea power and regulate global trade.
I set out to uncover specifics: issues with shipbuilding, logistical disputes, and challenges to freedom of navigation. Yet within the Pentagon, there was an air of institutional disconnection. Every policy announcement on the outside ignited immediate reactions—outrage or praise. Meanwhile, the internal proceedings moved at a steadier, more deliberate pace—a bureaucratic dance often misinterpreted by those “watching from the stands.” While I tried to take notes, my social media account was under assault from pundits and traditional media alike, making it challenging to focus on the maritime issues that truly mattered.
In nearly twenty years of managing gCaptain, I’ve never faced an environment like this. The chaos peaked when Saturday Night Live aired a sketch portraying a drunken, animated version of Secretary Hegseth confronting supposedly “nerdy” Pentagon reporters. The absurdity of it all was surreal but quickly consumed by the news cycle—parody and policy seemed to merge.
Navigating through this noise felt like an uphill battle. So, I reverted to a lesson I learned long before receiving a press pass.
When I boarded a new ship as captain or chief mate, I never started with criticism—despite clear mistakes all around. First, I observed how the system functioned and figured out who held actual power, beyond just the stripes on their shoulders. This insight allowed me to implement meaningful changes.
I can’t claim the authority to change the Pentagon, but I lead one of the most-read maritime news sites globally. In an industry veering towards disorder, perception is critical. Interpretation matters. The perspective we adopt regarding sea power is more important now than it has been in decades.
The maritime sector is destabilizing at an unprecedented pace. During the recent U.N. vote on a Carbon Tax at the IMO, the U.S. notably shifted away from its traditional stance and stepped decisively into maritime economic warfare. The once unchallenged dominance of the U.S. Navy over global waterways now feels precariously conditional.
For the first time in my lifetime, the United States is again significant at sea—not as an unquestioned leader but as a renewed presence in a tumultuous arena. This chaos extends from the Black Sea to the Red Sea to the South China Sea, faster than even the mightiest naval force can respond.
Readers of The Box are aware that Malcolm McLean’s modest steel container has lifted more individuals from poverty than any invention since the Haber–Bosch process enhanced agricultural productivity globally. Additionally, those who follow gCaptain or Peter Zeihan recognize that the rules-based maritime order has been deteriorating since at least COVID and has been visibly eroding since the invasion of Ukraine. Navigation is no longer assured. Waters once deemed safe now harbor risks. And the global economy, which thrived for decades, is splintering into stark contrasts of wealth and poverty.
This turmoil forms the backdrop of the entire story: chaos at sea, upheaval in markets, and uncertainty in every corner of global trade.
On that note, just as I was leaving Washington, the U.S. announced a new National Security Strategy.
At the Reagan Defense Forum, Hegseth proclaimed, “The United States military will no longer be distracted by interventionism, regime change, undefined wars, climate change, or ineffective nation-building. We will prioritize our nation’s concrete interests.”
A bold statement, but what does it genuinely entail?
The New York Times provided one interpretation: America appears to be renouncing its role as the global guardian of freedom, reinventing itself as a pragmatist—less concerned with scrutinizing authoritarian regimes and more focused on controlling migration and securing payments.
I find that perspective somewhat unfair, though it is less harsh than most of the narratives circulating in media outlets.
What I observed in the Pentagon last week—and during my trips to D.C. since the election—offers a narrative that conflicts with both Hegseth’s impassioned address and the media’s exaggerated portrayals. It diverges from the concerns expressed by European naval experts, who interpret the same signals solely as ominous.
This is a tale that doesn't align neatly with any existing narratives.
It exists in the space between—quiet, consequential, and advancing behind the beige walls of the Pentagon, where America still strives to steer the seas.
All these stakes influenced the discussions that followed—inside briefings, conference rooms, and the private offices where policies solidify into action.
At the Marine Money conference in New York last month, there was a palpable sense of tension thicker than financial discussions—American politics. From eager interns hunting for free food to billionaires holding court, the dialogues circled the same anxious storm: the U.S. is complicating business for everyone.
Every speaker, regardless of how niche their topic, was pressed with questions about American policies, its power, and its relevance. Many Europeans present insistent that the U.S. has no significant role in maritime trade beyond consuming imports. Yet one statement pierced through the noise.
“Yes, I would move to the United States,” billionaire shipowner George Economou stated when asked where he’d establish himself in 2025. “It’s the only place on earth where 340 million people control twenty-six percent of the world’s GDP.”
A backhanded compliment—but a brutally candid one. America doesn't just influence the global maritime structure; it anchors it. We generate immense wealth and wield an influence that smaller nations cannot counteract. And while anti-American sentiment grows in Europe and Canada—strongly felt among maritime circles—it doesn’t change the fundamental truth: the future of the global economy relies on how the U.S. opts to use its wealth and power.
European commentators may criticize Trump for his lack of cooperation, and Der Spiegel may depict America as the villain, but this sentiment clashes sharply with how Americans—especially those currently in power—actually perceive the world.
As we prepare to delve deeper into the corridors of the Pentagon, it's crucial to pause here. Because America matters not just to the world, but primarily to Europe. The United States is a major buyer of European goods, yes, but it also established many of the legal, financial, and commercial frameworks that Europe relies on today. Embedded within those systems—subtly but significantly—are mechanisms of control that have accumulated dust but persist.
Trade denominated in dollars, international banking standards, maritime insurance frameworks, military basing agreements, and voting powers in global institutions—these are not random occurrences. These are remnant features of an order designed by America. Even at the International Maritime Organization, the two largest registries—Liberia and the Marshall Islands—aren’t sovereign states but U.S. corporations closely linked to the Pentagon.
Thus, when European diplomats complained about America’s use of “harsh tactics” to thwart the IMO’s UN Carbon Tax proposal, they missed the broader perspective: the U.S. didn’t need to negotiate. It could’ve simply used the levers put in place after World War II. Diplomats might be outraged, but they seem to forget that the representatives of the two biggest flags of convenience are, in fact, U.S. corporations. Those levers exist because the system was constructed that way, not because Washington is eager to pull them.
America may appear heavy-handed at the helm, but the opposite is true. For decades, we’ve been reluctant stewards—holding back, postponing, even running aground to avoid embarrassing smaller nations. That era is concluding.
The best way to comprehend this transition is through ships.
The United States is a supertanker in narrow waters. No law of raw tonnage compels smaller vessels to yield, but physics has a say. A Very Large Crude Carrier (VLCC) can’t zigzag around each sailboat without running aground. Past administrations might have reversed engines or even remained docked to prevent collisions. Trump’s America will still adhere to rules, still give warnings, still assist distressed mariners. But we will no longer maneuver the wheel just because a smaller vessel claims right-of-way.
That marks the shift. This is the new policy: the United States will not change course merely because one small nation crosses our path.
This does not mean we wish for collisions. It doesn’t mean we won’t adjust when circumstances allow. However, it now implies that the responsibility to avoid overlap shifts to the smaller vessel. If the supertanker is unable to change direction, don’t navigate directly across its bow—regardless of how justified you feel. If every small boat cooperatively obstructs the waterway, Trump may either pause, proceed ahead, or even divert entirely, leading to a national energy shortage. All options are on the table, but none result in a positive outcome for those shaking their fists.
From my viewpoint, the most concerning aspect is how determined many Europeans appear to sail directly into America’s wake, brandishing their fists and shouting “should” as they proceed. It resembles less diplomacy and more a path to self-destruction.
Years ago, I spent time with Marshall Rosenberg, the founder of Nonviolent Communication. He believed the most dangerous word in the English language—the catalyst for playground fights and global wars alike—is “should.” Not simply the “should” expressed, but the one spoken and disregarded.
Today, the word is omnipresent:
Trump should stop being a dictator.
Trump should treat allies with more respect.
Trump should refrain from pettiness.
Trump should act this way.
Trump shouldn’t act that way.
America should steer left, should decelerate, should sacrifice, should concede.
The anger isn’t ignited when America declines; it arises when those barking “should” realize their demands no longer steer the ship.
Trump believes a president should prioritize America’s interests. This isn’t selfishness; it's an effort to avoid running aground due to other nations’ “shoulds.” Yes, the resulting anger and vitriol can be corrosive, but this will dissipate the instant the world transitions from “what you should do” to “what can we do together.”
So, how do we break the vicious cycle? Young Rosenberg encountered a challenge when breaking up a fight but ended up getting punched in the nose by a kid.
“You SHOULDN’T have done that,” he exclaimed while dragging the kid to the principal. Anger consumed him for days as he mulled over what he should and shouldn't have done. All these shoulds built a false narrative in his mind.
Later, with his injury not completely healed, another kid struck him in the nose and broke it again. The pain was significantly worse, yet he felt no anger or emotion.
Why? Because he was familiar with the child. He understood that the kid was younger, had been bullied, was from a struggling family, was always kind to younger children, and was working hard to temper his anger.
What I want to convey is that Trump desires success for every nation, advocates for global peace, and aims for America to reclaim its past greatness.
This is the truth I sought at the Pentagon: to uncover the right narrative. Not the stereotypes. Not the fears of Europe. Not the fanciful notions of American pundits. The genuine picture—subtle, complex, and significant—from which we could genuinely foster peace and prosperity.
Ultimately, we have two options for maintaining global stability:
Cease shouting “should.”
Or share the genuine story of those steering the ship.
I opted for the latter.
I can’t say you should remain calm, but I can provide a deeper insight into the individuals crafting and implementing policy. You can then decide whether they resemble the first or second boy who threw a punch.
Pete Hegseth arrives with a complicated history. He has openly discussed past issues with alcohol and personal relationships. He carries the unmistakable weight of someone molded by combat—disciplined, impatient, and intolerant of inaction. All these aspects are valid simultaneously, and none negate the others.
For outsiders, figures like him can be challenging to interpret. American culture often dramatizes combat veterans into caricatures: either broken or brutal. The reality is often less cinematic and more difficult to grasp. Prolonged exposure to violence doesn’t provide moral clarity; it fosters urgency. Judgment narrows. Patience dwindles. The world transforms into a place where hesitation appears risky and kindness feels irresponsible. I recognized that pressure immediately—not as virtue, nor vice, but as something familiar.
Upon meeting Hegseth, the SNL caricature vanished. What emerged was his presence. He is genuinely charismatic—not in the polished way of a politician, but in a magnetic manner that pulls others into the moment. Conversations became more focused. People leaned in. The atmosphere intensified without feeling rushed. He grasped the questions, even the tougher ones.
I spent under two hours with him. That’s hardly enough time to fully know a person, but it allowed me to observe how those around him responded.
Several officials commented on a trait they admired, which some also perceived as a weakness—meetings moved quickly, decisions were decisive, expectations were high and patience sometimes ran thin. For some, this clarity felt liberating; for others, it was like being held to standards they hadn’t agreed to.
His bright, charismatic energy can shower you with warmth one moment and become a blinding spotlight the next.
This tendency isn't exclusive to Hegseth.
It reminds me of my father, who is buried less than a thousand feet from where I met the Secretary of War. Like Hegseth, my father earned multiple Bronze Stars. Like Hegseth, he had witnessed the capacity for humans to inflict harm upon one another—and the consequences when no one intervened in time.
My father was tough. At times, unforgiving. Often harsh. His love was genuine, but it wasn’t gentle, nor was it unconditional in the way people envision love should be. It carried expectations and consequences. He believed in building strength before it was needed—because once adversity strikes, preparation is too late.
Men exposed to real darkness do not emerge unchanged. Combat imparts the lesson that the world offers no warnings and does not forgive hesitation. For some veterans, that lesson evolves into a constant readiness. Everything becomes training. Every vulnerability appears as a potential weakness. Every comfort is viewed as a liability.
The force driving that toughness stems from a protective love. It strives for resilience. They are demanding because they often fear that softness could prove fatal. They expect a lot from their children—not out of indifference, but out of concern—that those kids may eventually face the same dangers without the same protective armor they had to forge through hardship.
This kind of love doesn’t redeem the damage it may inflict.
Intent does not negate impact. The same pressure that builds resilience can fracture trust. While some children strengthen under such pressure, others merely learn to endure. Often, both outcomes coexist within the same individual. The men who apply that pressure rarely realize the lessons they've instilled until years pass and the impacts surface.
I recognize this pattern—not as virtue. Not as sin. But as consequence.
That same force manifests in Hegseth. It isn’t sentimental. It’s not soft. It’s not particularly interested in being understood. It reveals itself as urgency, expectations, and an intolerance for failure—especially for those he believes are important. However, it also presents as trust and a willingness to stand alongside you when errors arise.
After my meeting, I walked around the Pentagon and made my way up the hill to Arlington. Upon reaching my father’s grave, grief struck first. Love followed close behind—not the comforting kind but the demanding kind—the form of love that requires readiness, even when that readiness entails discomfort.
I am not heralding Hegseth as a saint, savior, or redeemed hero. I’m not claiming special access to his inner world. He possesses ego, ambition, and a thirst for power, like anyone on this level.
What I can assert is more focused and defensible.
His mind is agile. His concentration is disciplined. His expectations are elevated. Whether this combination yields clarity or collateral damage hinges on the contextual factors—and the willingness of those around him to slow him down when the moment demands.
One detail took me by surprise.
When I mention the merchant marine—often overlooked in discussions of American power—most senior officials seem to tune out. Generals, admirals, policy staff—interest dwindles after the second sentence. Hegseth did not exhibit this behavior. He tuned in immediately, posed insightful questions, and comprehended the essentials with an alacrity that set him apart from others in the room.
Does this mean he will prioritize the merchant marine?
Not necessarily—but it indicates he does grasp its significance.
In an environment where misunderstanding has become common, that distinction matters—what’s evident is that he genuinely cares.
Figures like Hegseth can be complex, especially for those observing from outside the U.S. It may sound exaggerated, but his faith seems genuine. The core teaching of Jesus isn’t merely kindness, warmth, or empathy; it’s love.
Love of family, love of country, love of fellow humans, love of God. It’s love that redeems the sinner. Some utilize this love as a lifeline in turbulent seas, gripping tightly though they may not fully comprehend it to avoid sinking into darkness. Others embrace it fully. My father did, and I believe Pete did as well, though my brief encounter doesn’t provide sufficient insight.
This may seem grandiose—bright charisma, love, faith. Yet one undeniable factor remains: the soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen share that love back. They trust him—not unanimously, but certainly most do.
As military strategist John Boyd articulated, “People, then ideas, then technology.” He’s not perfect, but the servicemen appreciate his leadership. “I work for them,” he often states.
Now, if you’re still with me, let’s dive into the complexities surrounding Hegseth, where the "old Pentagon" and the "new Pentagon" are slowly colliding.
Understanding the old Pentagon required fluency in hieroglyphics and string theory. It was a complex labyrinth—layers upon layers, each with its unique rituals, rivalries, and reporting hierarchies. A place where competing interests didn’t merely flourish—they solidified. Decisions were diluted, simplified, and handled through a multitude of channels, diffusing any momentum.
Large organizations usually function in three manners: top-down, flat, or mission command.
Top-Down: This has been the U.S. military’s default operation for centuries—rigid, hierarchical, and tightly controlled. While it excels in safeguarding state secrets and securing mission integrity, it moves like an immovable medieval cathedral built on a solid foundation. Impressive, yes. But slow to adapt.
Flat: Hegseth is not eliminating rank—military structures remain in place—but he is clearly steering the organization toward a more horizontal model. In Silicon Valley, it is often stated anyone can approach the CEO directly. While the Pentagon will never fully mirror that model, an E-5 in Oklahoma can now DM an Assistant Secretary or send a meaningful email. Senior leaders are becoming more approachable, and grievances, suggestions, and warnings are being acknowledged.
This was unthinkable in the past.
Mission Command: Then we have mission command—the system the Army claims to embrace but the Marine Corps has genuinely mastered. It encourages trust down through layers to the maximum extent. Leaders set intent; followers execute with initiative. Errors are acceptable within broad limits. Training and trust are the fuel for this system.
This is where I believe Hegseth is directing the ship.
In speeches, he frequently reiterates:
“We have your back.”
“I work for the services; they don’t work for me.”
These are no mere slogans—they form the foundation of mission command and servant leadership.
The Hard Part
The Army has struggled to fully embrace mission command for a straightforward reason: transitions are messy. Moving from a strict hierarchy to a framework of distributed trust often entails a tumultuous period before the structure stabilizes.
If Hegseth can manage this—at least partially—the Pentagon might evolve into a colossal but adaptive diesel engine. Instead of a linear command pipeline, it could become a living entity of interlocking systems, capable of self-regulation, rapid acceleration, and swift changes in direction. Powerful, resilient, and attuned to change.
That’s the potential.
However, this is the Pentagon, where every misstep becomes magnified, where Congress waits to react, where the media is primed for scandal, and where errors are far from abstract—they can have critical implications.
Presently, the upper echelons—the four-star generals, top civilians, and core members of Hegseth’s inner circle—operate within a flatter, more agile framework. Information circulates. Decisions are made. The organization functions smoothly.
But just one or two ranks down, the military continues under a top-down structure.
The critical question—one that will determine whether this shift stumbles or succeeds—is how Hegseth will integrate deeper levels into his orbit of trust-focused leadership.
The Boyd Option
There’s an alternative model: John Boyd’s “creation and destruction.” It involves dismantling old structures and reconstructing from foundational elements. It demands destruction before reconstruction.
However, I didn’t observe much of that during my time there.
Despite the sensational headlines—“mass firings,” “purges,” “Pentagon turmoil”—the actual number of generals, admirals, and departments eliminated is relatively minimal. Surprisingly so.
The upside? Operational capacity remains intact. The Department of War continues to be just as effective and mission-ready as the former DoD.
The downside? We aren't witnessing a generational overhaul or a catastrophic collapse. The Pentagon isn’t fracturing; it’s not undergoing a total rebuild.
It’s gradually tilting toward a new gravitational center.
A new orbit.
One that could stabilize the organization—or send it spiraling until it finds equilibrium.
The current inquiry is who, precisely, is steering these dynamic orbits? Apart from Hegseth, the most influential figure in the Pentagon is Elbridge Colby. With his golden hair and composed yet meticulous demeanor, inheriting a legacies of leadership—his grandfather once headed the CIA with a firm grip—Bridge, as he’s known among friends, now shapes Pentagon policy.
If Hegseth is the battle-tested warrior—scarred, straightforward, born from the chaos of combat—then Bridge is his polar opposite. Lacking battlefield accolades, he possesses a strategic mindset that deciphers geopolitical chaos as easily as some perceive musical notes. Where Hegseth thunders through life as a jock, Bridge has historically been more of a policy strategist: immersed in books, briefing papers, and raised with a deep-seated sense of duty toward his nation. Hegseth’s love rises from ashes; Bridge’s springs from his Catholic faith and the subtle expectations of a historic American family.
Here, I must disclose: Bridge is a friend. We’ve shared texts for years, a few phone calls, and I was among the few invited to attend his confirmation hearing—one of the few, due to JD Vance’s presence.
Three main factors attracted me to Bridge: First, his almost old-world devotion to the nation—a profound sense that America must thrive. Second, the insatiable reading habit we both possess. Third—and arguably the most unexpected—NAFO.
NAFO began as a joke: the North Atlantic Fella Organization, where Shiba Inu avatars trolled Russian disinformation during the early Ukraine conflict. Entertaining and light-hearted, it evolved drastically by year two—infused with dark money, fueled by moral absolutism, where the “Fellas” began mercilessly targeting anyone who didn’t declare unwavering allegiance to Ukraine. Bridge’s America First stance, emphasizing that China poses the greatest long-term threat to U.S. security rather than Europe, made him a target for intense hostility. Friends expressed concern for his safety; I did too.
Part of the issue lies in Bridge’s strongest quality: his constant quest for weaknesses in his strategy, and his willingness—perhaps overly so—to listen to critics. He consumes vast amounts of information, hearing perspectives, even from detractors. His East Asia “strategy of denial” faced scrutiny from Middle East-focused factions—including the Israel lobby—intensifying the backlash. Media criticism was loud; congressional pressure was subtle yet significant. His nomination hung in the balance, but he stood firm, buoyed by Trump’s inner circle—Vance, Don Jr., Charlie Kirk—and ultimately prevailed.
Though Bridge isn't tall, he carries himself with considerable presence. His bright eyes, warm smile, and calm demeanor remain steady, even amidst swirling turmoil. He embodies the essence of mission command and its derivative—Boyd’s OODA loops, accepting non-linear thinking and embracing complexity. The NAFO crowd failed to recognize that Bridge was never “anti-Ukraine.” His strategic denial could significantly bolster Ukraine’s long-term security. He employs a spiraled approach, perceiving tasks in multifaceted ways, which linear thinkers often struggle to comprehend.
What stands out is how Bridge practices mission command, maintaining sharp focus on his foremost strategic concern: China. This segues into Southern Command.
Southcom—overseeing Central and South America—is experiencing significant transformations. Assets are being deployed there rapidly, including the nation’s latest and most formidable aircraft carrier strike group. Bridge genuinely cares about this region. He desires success for every part of the world. However, Southcom lacks the depth and complexity that East Asia possesses in his strategic outlook.
The crisis in Ukraine commands global focus and promising political rewards for those who can deliver resolutions—perhaps why the Secretary of the Army is heavily engaged there instead of resolving the Army’s serious personnel issues back home. The Middle East is intricate, perilous, and crucial to the White House’s objectives. South America, while dynamically changing, offers substantial potential for future gains. Yet, Bridge’s strategic core resides elsewhere.
That doesn’t imply he’s absent. Far from it. Under his mission command structure, he empowers competent deputies. Given Southcom's current gravity, attracting numerous national assets—ships, aircraft, intelligence capabilities, and even that carrier strike group—the deputy overseeing the region wields immense influence right now. In some respects, more power than Bridge himself.
Bridge embraces this dynamic because he’s constructing something broader—something enduring—requiring a mindset capable of navigating chaos without succumbing to it.
Policy matters significantly under this administration, and understanding why necessitates knowledge of past strike protocols. Historically, numerous routes led to launching a missile from aircraft or submarines. Some routes were surprisingly simple. In theory, the president could simply order a strike. While isolation rarely happened, rumors persisted that Dick Cheney could persuade George W. Bush to authorize military action with only a few whispers behind closed doors. In this framework, the president contacts the Secretary of Defense (SECDEF), hands over the target list to a regional four-star general, who determines the delivery method, be it carrier jets, bombers, or cruise missiles.
The CIA maintains its own channel. I’ve never fully understood how many doors need to open for them, but it’s a tightly confined space… POTUS, VP, SECDEF, the National Security Advisor, the director of national intelligence, a regional commander. It’s the most discreet corridor in Washington.
Then, there’s the reverse pathway: a regional commander identifies a potential threat—an emerging militia, a terror cell, or a foreign power probing limits—and communicates it upwards. The SECDEF schedules a meeting with the president. The president gathers the national security team. Concerns arise. Counter-arguments follow. Eventually, actions are taken.
But the most prevalent—and the most perilous pathway—starts small and escalates into a chaotic circus. A think tank publishes a report highlighting new threats. Diplomats express instability concerns. A headline emerges, alarming the public. Someone at the National Security Council encapsulates the “problem” into a two-page memo. Intelligence agencies compile more data. More parties get involved… State, CIA, DoD, senators demanding updates, NATO generals dialing in leaders. The Situation Room fills up. The president provides approval, prompting the press secretary to prepare talking points, speechwriters to draft statements, and friendly journalists to receive early hints to construct the narrative justifying why a strike was “necessary,” “urgent,” or “inevitable.”
This mechanism consumes substantial time and effort, but worse still, once the gears start turning, stopping them becomes nearly impossible. Administrations often attempt to bypass this—Rumsfeld famously erupted at Condi Rice for authorizing strikes without his consent—but the bureaucratic momentum is powerful.
Here’s the lesser-known fact: the Joint Chiefs of Staff possess surprisingly little formal authority in this process. They ensure that forces are positioned and operationally feasible, move carriers or guided-missile submarines, and oversee mission execution. They advise the president if certain actions are unachievable. However, in recent years, the JCS has significantly expanded—more personnel, heightened power, and greater influence. While the regional commander theoretically outranks the Chiefs in operational terms, securing necessary resources can often require yielding to their demands. Good luck with that.
What starts as a tactical issue often metastasizes into a circus in D.C. A NATO general endeavors to sway a prime minister. A senator realizes that an offensive might yield more carriers for his state and thus bolster his campaign contributions. Departments clamoring for input. Ambassadors weighing in. Analysts perform acrobatics to justify their priorities.
I might be slightly exaggerating—only slightly—because most individuals in D.C. genuinely wish to act in the nation’s best interest. Yet they’re competitive, ambitious, and always plugged into systems rewarding involvement while punishing absence. Thus, once the circus commences, everyone rushes into the ring.
And this brings us to the real peril.
Because Colby—one of the few individuals in the Pentagon authorized to determine whether a strike aligns with national strategy—maintains the quietest voice in the loudest room. Policy is a subtle instrument, a flute overshadowed by brass. When the circus commences, the policy chief becomes mere background noise. Ultimately, the nation authorizes actions that contradict the president’s own objectives.
This is how Obama failed to fulfill his promise to withdraw from Afghanistan. This is how simple troop withdrawals morph into prolonged conflicts. This reveals the “swamp,” “deep state,” or whatever term you prefer—not as a deliberate conspiracy but as a runaway machine.
It also accounts for the neglect of strategy over the years, why branches like the Navy often avoid producing straightforward strategic documents, and why the U.S. hasn’t published a comprehensive maritime strategy—including the Navy, Marines, Coast Guard, Merchant Marine, maritime trade, shipbuilders, and heavy industry—since Nixon’s presidency. This explains our merchant fleet’s decline and why no U.S. naval vessel has been constructed on time or within budget this century.
Moreover, each time the circus appears in town, another dynamic emerges: budgets tend to flow towards those participating in the spectacle and away from those outside it. NAVSEA, the Navy’s shipbuilding bureaucracy which is present at the table, now employs a staggering 83,000 people. In contrast, MARAD, the agency responsible for commercial shipbuilding (which almost never does), boasts only a few hundred personnel in D.C., and most Americans couldn’t even tell you what the acronym stands for. NAVSEA is hindered by too many hands on deck; MARAD is stymied by having almost no one in charge.
Meanwhile, one nation has a strategy it follows with unwavering dedication. One nation avoids the circus entirely. One nation invests in capacity rather than commentary.
China.
And that is why they boast 400 times the United States’ shipbuilding capacity.
The figure in question is Joseph Humire, Deputy Assistant Secretary of Defense for Western Hemisphere Affairs, and U.S. Army Lt. Col. Kyle Brown, commander of the 2nd Battalion, 12th Infantry Regiment, 2nd Stryker Brigade Combat Team, 4th Infantry Division, assigned to Joint Task Force-Southern Border. In any prior administration, someone at his level—third or fourth rank down the hierarchy—would likely have been overlooked, muted, or never invited to the briefing room at all. Yet hierarchy in D.C. is not linear; it’s gravitational. Right now, Humire possesses enough density to alter the trajectory.
He reminds me of JD Vance, or rather the Vance from before Yale refined him into a political instrument. Both figures hail from outside the Beltway aristocracy, possess large statures, intense gazes, enlisted in the Marine Corps, and attended respectable but less prestigious universities. Both have profound emotional intelligence. However, while Vance navigated toward venture capital and politics, Humire burrowed into the intricate realm of hemispheric security—focusing on cartels, irregular warfare, proxy states, illicit networks, and vulnerabilities where American power has long been blind.
There exists a certain breed of Washington influence operating below the public radar, in areas where cameras don’t roam, where policy is molded long before it becomes apparent. Humire emanates from that sphere. I’m told he built the Center for a Secure Free Society from the ground up into a crucial resource for anyone trying to perceive Latin America as a contested battleground rather than just a travel corridor. He charted the intersection of transnational crime, hostile state entities, hybrid warfare, and migratory flows well before those topics gained traction.
Then came 2025, and Humire crossed the thin line from theory to real authority. He attained the role of Assistant Secretary of War—responsible for the Western Hemisphere. A position that would have been forgettable during calmer times now bears enormous weight, and Humire is anything but inconsequential.
His worldview is deceptively straightforward. In his gentle voice and meticulous speech, he asserts: America’s southern border is a pressure point adversaries comprehend better than we do. The cartels are not merely criminal entities but critical components of a broader geopolitical framework. Migration flows, money laundering, Venezuelan intelligence, Chinese port acquisitions, Iranian disruption efforts, and maritime choke points are not disparate issues but interlinked challenges presenting themselves in various forms. In Humire’s analysis, this constitutes an asymmetric war conducted through multiple means, impacting Norfolk, San Diego, and every shipyard grappling with construction or refurbishment challenges.
His theories might seem dramatic if the moment were not so pressing. My perception of him wasn’t cultivated in a crowded press conference or a choreographed Pentagon event. In fact, gaining access to Humire necessitated deft positioning—an escort through the Pentagon after hours, as the building emptied for an evening of cookies and hot chocolate alongside the Christmas tree lighting. The halls were dark, a kind of darkness that thrummed with energy, softly illuminated by the faint red glow of holiday lights reflecting off the polished floors. The ambiance carried a cathedral’s reverence, locked after hours.
We wound through the labyrinthine structure—badges scanned, doors clicked open and shut—until we arrived at his office: sprawling enough to signify importance, cluttered enough to suggest someone who’s dedicated to work—not merely seeking visibility. Papers scattered everywhere. Folders stacked like defenses. A screen radiant with possible classified documents or benign information.
And he was still focused, not posing, not rehearsing remarks, and not angling for quotes. He seemed almost annoyed that anyone outside the policy sphere would want an interview. His mission was clear: to make an impact. No, he sought to tackle substantial, significant problems that few others comprehend. An electricity filled the room—a quiet buzz from a man who understood he was in precisely the right role, which brought a smile to his face.
I've met many individuals in D.C., and most have a craving for the spotlight. Humire appeared most at ease in the one place where no one was observing—a Pentagon office after hours, Christmas lights blinking faintly down the corridor, the fate of the hemisphere precariously balanced on stacks of documents on his desk.
Upon concluding our meeting, my escort and I exited into the deserted halls. My thoughts were racing. This man—the one the public has yet to know, the one the media scarcely covers—developed the policy that, once accepted by Trump, resulted in a nuclear-powered carrier strike group navigating through the Caribbean. He is architecting the hemisphere’s new landscape.
And then, because no Pentagon story concludes neatly, I wandered out the incorrect exit. A siren blared—an awful, metallic scream ricocheting throughout the hallway. My escort dashed forward, slammed the door shut, and whispered, “Thank goodness it wasn’t the other exit—the one that triggers a security response.”
We paused momentarily, breathing in the cold, recycled air, the sound waning, the reality settling in.
Joseph Humire could be the quietest man in the Pentagon.
Yet often, quiet leaders effectuate the most considerable changes.
The Pentagon literally functions as a giant Faraday cage. Signals fail to penetrate its structure. The building thrums with classified data but inhibits your phone. Wi-Fi existed in the briefing room, but my device got logged out each time I picked it up—just temporarily enough to post on social media, but not long enough to witness the backlash.
So, when I exited Humire’s office and finally stepped outside the Pentagon, the real world hit me like a rogue wave. My phone exploded with notifications—a full-blown meltdown. Glenn Greenwald was targeting me. Gavin Newsom retweeted sarcastic comments. Progressive influencers joined the fray—all because of a single tweet I managed to send between briefings: “Hegseth answered my questions. It’s off the record, so no details, but I’m quite pleased with his leadership!”
Inside the building, the statement felt harmless. To the outside world, it detonated.
As a journalist, I frequently express frustration over off-the-record discussions. Naturally, I seek the quotes. I crave the lines that generate headlines and can spark viral conversations. I want soundbites from Hegseth, frameworks from Colby, and ominous warnings from Humire. But the inconvenient truth is that these individuals have published more than I could ever extract during a single interview. Their agendas—if you're hunting for hidden motives—stand prominently displayed on bookshelves, in think tank papers, and accumulate in years of testimonies and theories.
So I questioned: what’s the actual goal of interviewing them? Why navigate the background checks, fingerprints, ID checks, scanners, escorts, and bureaucratic gauntlet just for a Pentagon press pass?
The purpose is clear: published works merely represent the visible tip of the iceberg. To genuinely understand what Hegseth, Colby, and Humire are accomplishing, you need to delve beneath the surface. It's crucial to inquire not about specific military actions or classified intelligence—subjects they’d likely swat away—but about how their frameworks map into the real, evolving, and fragile world. And you need to question the motivations, the underpinnings of their policies.
With this cohort, I uncovered none of the typical Washington deception, none of the concealed ambitions masquerading as strategy. In almost two decades of covering national security, I’ve encountered the most transparent group I’ve observed. At least off the record, if not always in public. It’s a rarity for them—authenticity, with its imperfections and humanity—serves as its own form of power.
Back in the briefing room, the atmosphere had electrified—journalists, cameras, microphones, and assistant secretaries colliding in a well-rehearsed chaos, reminiscent of a newsroom mosh pit. From the crowd emerged Colonel Ricky Buria, exhibiting the natural efficiency of someone trained to navigate spaces where everyone believes they’re in control. He approached me directly, locked eyes, and offered a firm, dry handshake. Marines don’t do anything half-heartedly—not handshakes, words, or conflicts—and his steady gaze carried that unmistakable quality of the Marine Corps. It wasn’t intimate or aggressive but had the effect of a thousand-watt Morse lamp, signaling I SEE YOU, leaving me slightly off balance.
He thanked me for supporting the Marines—my father, a combat medic during Vietnam, once vowed to physically stop me from enlisting, yet I’ve always held a fondness for the Corps. Before I could respond, Buria apologized, stating there wasn’t enough time for our scheduled interview. He then turned and strode towards Matt Gaetz, disappearing into the crowd with an intentional, upright urgency, as if already strategizing several moves ahead.
Observe his demeanor and you’ll see a gravity that isn’t theatrical. It’s not a rigid façade intended to project toughness, but something subtler—heightened situational awareness that Marines refine as instinct. Civilians might call it “keeping your head on a swivel,” but that phrase belies its true significance. In Buria’s case, it’s more the small adjustments of a shoulder, a slightly inclined head, standing perfectly straight while his peripheral vision absorbs the room. He processes the environment at a different tempo—more swiftly, deeply.
Let me pause to say: My admiration for the Marines is profound. I’ve collaborated with Navy supply officers and Army logistic experts—some of the finest globally—but Marines hold a distinctive character. Every Marine is a rifleman, including the logistical players. While other branches of military authority may have been indifferent during the long decline of the American Merchant Marine, the Marines were attentive. They cared. They provided assistance wherever possible. They simply showed up.