Why the Establishment Fears Elbridge Colby

Though he has the pedigree, Elbridge Colby is not a man for the cocktail circuit. As the principal author of the 2018 National Defense Strategy and the widely read book The Strategy of Denial, he could easily have settled into elite foreign policy circles. But he does not flatter diplomats, nor does he shield allies from hard truths, which in Washington inevitably provokes friction. In a recent Politico “exposé,” a chorus of disgruntled former officials bemoans the under secretary of defense for policy’s alleged impoliteness and strategic indelicacy. His crime? Speaking too bluntly. Acting too decisively.

But behind the theatrics of bureaucratic grievance is the truth that Colby is precisely the kind of strategist our moment demands. His critics may fixate on style, but the real discomfort he inspires stems from substance. Many of the former officials I’ve encountered aren’t scandalized because Colby is failing—they’re unsettled because he is, unlike many before him, trying to execute the platform Americans voted for.

Colby is being pilloried by the Washington establishment for being effective. He has advanced the logic of strategic prioritization with a seriousness that rankles them and unsettles allies long accustomed to American indulgence. The problem, it turns out, is that he is right, and unapologetic about it.

Take for instance one of the more breathless anecdotes in the Politico piece: “He basically asked them, ‘Is it too late to call it back?’… The British team on the other side of the table ‘were just shocked.’” The apparent scandal? That Colby questioned the strategic value of a British aircraft carrier deployment to Asia and asked whether it could be reversed. Though the specifics here are not detailed, to treat this moment as some kind of diplomatic transgression is unserious.

The United Kingdom enjoys one of the closest defense partnerships with the United States—sharing intelligence, operating interoperable systems, and collaborating on weapons development at a level virtually no other country does. In a relationship this close, it is entirely appropriate—even expected—for U.S. officials to raise pointed questions when allied actions may complicate broader strategic priorities. 

If a decision by a trusted partner doesn’t align with our deterrence posture in the Indo-Pacific, why wouldn’t we say so? What exactly is the fear here—that Britain will walk away after decades of its special relationship with the U.S. because they didn’t like Colby’s tone? That’s not diplomacy; that’s performance anxiety. The reality is that if a direct question serves American strategic interests, it should be asked.

Similarly, take the case of Japan. What exactly is so offensive about Colby urging Tokyo to spend more on its own defense? Ask any defense analyst pacing the halls of Georgetown University or holding court at the Council on Foreign Relations and they’ll tell you the same thing: Japan is in an increasingly precarious position. It faces mounting pressure from a rising China and a volatile North Korea, and it relies heavily on the U.S. security umbrella.

As Politico reports, Colby initially wanted Japan to spend 3% of its GDP on defense, later raising it to 5%, which prompted some Japanese frustration. But that kind of pressure is not radical; it’s standard practice. U.S. military branches do this all the time domestically, asking for more funding than they expect to receive, knowing full well that the final figure may land somewhere lower. This is routine bargaining behavior in strategic planning, not a diplomatic affront.

For decades, the U.S. has shouldered much of the world’s defense burden. If Japan—an advanced economy facing what everyone calls a credible regional threat—can’t stomach ambitious defense requests without melodrama, that’s a reflection of their unmet issues, not of Colby’s error. The real issue, once again, is not that he’s out of line—it’s that he’s making the line matter. He’s moving with urgency and purpose, pushing allies to meet the moment rather than flattering them. If that ruffles feathers, so be it. American national security strategy should be built on outcomes, not on avoiding hurt feelings.

As with these examples (and a growing list of others), the criticism of Colby rests less on substance than on a set of grievances better suited to faculty politics than to great-power competition. That he issues bold demands to allies, or does so without the usual diplomatic varnish, is treated as if it were scandalous. To such complaints, one is tempted to respond with a shrug: So what? What are the actual consequences? If there was a serious case to be made that his directness was pushing allies to defect or act against U.S. interests, that would be worth debating. But that’s not what’s happening. Instead, the published concerns are mostly aesthetic: he said it too bluntly, he moved too fast, he didn’t perform the ritual deference expected in certain rooms.

But this is not an era for ritual. It is not a time for theatrical diplomacy or curated consensus. It is a time of collisions—of hard choices, limited resources, and rising threats. As Colby has long argued, the gravitational center of global conflict is shifting decisively toward the Indo-Pacific. That shift demands not just polite acknowledgment but strategic reorientation—and fast. In that context, decisiveness is not a liability; it’s a necessity. The discomfort Colby provokes is not evidence of failure. It’s evidence he is treating American strategy with the seriousness it deserves.

Moreover, the “hard-charging” approach that Colby’s critics deride is rooted in a principled theory of limited but decisive American engagement: husband resources, avoid endless wars of choice, and prepare seriously for the fights that actually matter. This is not some sort of vacuous isolationism; it is strategic lucidity. It echoes Eisenhower’s warning—and Washington’s before him—that true security depends as much on restraint as it does on strength. It reflects a worldview grounded in the recognition that American power, like a drawstring, holds best when pulled with focus—not frayed across too many fronts in pursuit of every global impulse.

To grasp the resentment Colby inspires, one must recognize how profoundly he challenges the established grammar of post-Cold War U.S. policy. In that era of unipolarity, Washington expanded commitments promiscuously and underwrote the security of half the globe without serious expectation of reciprocity. What Colby has done—first in prose, now in practice—is to forcefully reintroduce the concept of tradeoffs.

It is such a concept that truly alarms the still-powerful American neoconservative class, which is unreconciled to the idea that restraint can be an instrument of power, not its abdication. To them, Colby’s America First instincts are suspect, even subversive. But the suspicion is revealing: what they resent is not Colby’s supposedly obscene tactics, but his repudiation of their doctrine, the same doctrine that led the United States into Iraq and kept it in Afghanistan for two decades.

The defense of American power in this century will not be shaped by the aesthetics of diplomacy or the rituals of consensus. It will be shaped by clarity of purpose and steel in execution. Both of which Colby appears to be embodying. The discomfort he’s provoking is long overdue disruption. In a moment that demands prioritization over performance, discipline over drift, and urgency over etiquette, the fact that so many headlines are aimed at Colby’s head should not worry us. It should give us hope.

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