Erra and His Magnificent Sibitti (Seven)

A mysterious yet ominous idea—one that leaves the reader asking: Who was Erra?

Over centuries of Mesopotamian syncretism, Erra became closely associated—sometimes virtually interchangeable—with Nergal, the god of war, plague, death, and the underworld.

Through Nergal, the tradition extends even further back into older Mesopotamian religious structures tied to Enlil and the Sumerian world. The names shifted across centuries, but the results remained strikingly familiar.

Yet even Erra required instruments of destruction, which brings us to the Sibitti.

The Sibitti were a minor group of seven divine warlike daemonic beings associated with Erra. In many respects, they functioned as catalysts of destruction itself—personified weapons and agents of chaos bound to Erra’s violent sphere of influence.

Their role within the Epic of Erra is particularly unsettling. The Sibitti incite Erra to leave his peaceful slumber beside his consort and once more embark upon a destructive path against humanity. They are not passive servants awaiting command, but active participants in violence, almost partners in destruction itself.

This is what gives the Sibitti their distinctly daemonic character. Their existence is tied not merely to war, but to the activation of chaos, devastation, terror, and collapse.

“Wherever you go and spread terror, have no equal.”
He said to the second, “Burn like fire, scorch like flame.”
He commanded the third, “Look like a lion; let him who sees you be paralysed with fear.”
He said to the fourth, “Let a mountain collapse when you present your fierce arms.”
He said to the fifth, “Blast like the wind, scan the circumference of the earth.”
He said to the sixth, “Go out everywhere like the deluge and spare no one.”
The seventh he charged with viperous venom: “Slay whatever lives.”
Epic of Erra

The Sibitti are not simply agents of chaos. They are nihilism personified, bound to pressure the world toward destruction through Erra.

The unsettling aspect of the Sibitti is not merely what they destroy, but how they behave. Peace equals boredom. They pressure Erra toward movement, activation, and violence itself.

The duality of civilization is that it must wield destruction to survive while remaining forever vulnerable to destruction itself.

The deepest horror the Sibitti invoke is the suspicion that peace itself may be the illusion, and the restless warriors are the only honest voices in the room.

II. From Mythology to Structure

From Ancient Mesopotamia to the modern world, the mythological gods, demons, and divine weapons of yesterday are now expressed through institutions, technologies, bureaucracies, and systems of organized force. The names have changed. The pressures remain recognizable.

III. MACRO LEVEL — Civilization Organizes Around Latent Destruction

Modern civilization does not merely defend itself when threatened.

Civilization is built to always prepare for massive destruction (war), even and especially when the country is supposed to be at peace. It is not a quick fix for an emergency, but a permanent way of working.

From the second half of the twentieth century onward, the most advanced societies have maintained, refined, and normalized vast architectures of slumbering violence. These systems are not “break when needed” only during emergencies; they are embedded in society itself. They run in the background of daily life.

The clearest expression is nuclear deterrence. Thousands of warheads remain on hair-trigger alert or rapid-deployment status decades after the Cold War ended. The doctrine of Mutually Assured Destruction (MAD) is not a dormant relic; it is alive and well. Command-and-control systems are maintained at high readiness year after year. The logic is explicit: A stable civilization became a stable suicide postponed. Peace is the successful management of an apocalypse in real-time rather than the achievement of permanent safety. Sometimes the necessary evil is really tranquility in disguise.

Besides nuclear weapons, every major power sustains a large standing military in peacetime. These forces train and evolve continuously. Billions flow annually to ensure its readiness. Military exercises regularly simulate worst-case scenarios. To think that peace is a return to civility would be an error. Instead, it is a period of continuous costs in preparation for the next conflict, a central tenet of modern “Great Power Competition.”

This logic extends into the digital realm. Modern nations turn vital systems like power grids and transportation into weapons while trying to protect them. To do this, intelligence agencies hide cyber weapons inside enemy networks to prepare for future conflicts, weaponizing the infrastructure. Offensive cyber capabilities are developed and sometimes deployed even while nations proclaim the importance of a stable internet. This dual strategy hides the ongoing digital war between global powers under the guise of peace. These systems treat every citizen and foreign actor as a potential vector in a permanent, low-intensity conflict environment. In other words, everyone becomes an enemy of the state, including the state itself.

The U.S. economy, like most modern nations that exercise power, has been partially reoriented around this reality. The military-congressional-industrial complex consists of the military, corporations, and Congress, all of which depend upon defense contracts for innovation and revenue. Technological progress in dual-use fields is often driven by strategic competition rather than civilian demand. The result is a civilization built on the machinery of destruction for economic and intellectual prosperity.

States engage in political theater to project power through strategic signaling. This results in force posture adjustments within the military congressional industrial complex. Communicating that capability rewards vigilance and punishes perceived weakness without a shot being fired. Leaders must be a visible deterrent in order to appear strong and ready at all times. Together, these elements reveal a profound truth: civilizations throughout history have normalized the organization of latent destruction as a condition of existence. War is not an interruption of the system; it is the system’s ultimate reference point. The “peace” we experience is the managed equilibrium of war. As a nation, we are always armed, always watching, always investing in the next generation of lethality.

This is not a failure of modernity so much as its shadow architecture. In other words, it is the nature of the beast. This shadow architecture organizes the chaos to survive without a global ruler. Understanding this is essential before examining how newer technologies interact with it.

IV. OPERATIONAL LEVEL — Liminal Warfare

At this point, it is important to narrow the lens. The focus is that modern conflict often persists beneath the threshold of declared war.

What I mean is that it directly mirrors the fact that peace equals boredom, because the system increasingly refuses true dormancy.

The core idea is that populations become targets. Targets that can be stressed to produce fear and outrage. The weaponization of confusion causes emotional destabilization and, if effective, can maintain constant activation. Of course, this depends on the participants. The key is that conflict increasingly occurs within perception itself.

The one who controls the flow of information shapes the narrative. See, narratives are strategic terrain; they are, in fact, information ecosystems that can and are manipulated. This keeps the idea of truth continuously contested, allowing for the decentralization and acceleration of propaganda. The point is that control of interpretation becomes operationally valuable.

One way to spread various forms of information is through slogans,

images, and viral narratives, via memes. This memetic algorithmic amplification is an emotional contagion. From an operational perspective, the effects of information spread faster than traditional state messaging ever could. This brings us to cyber attacks.

This connects back to operational pressure. The idea is that the persistent probing of one’s target and the eventual penetration of said infrastructure, particularly during “peace,” will, over time, shape the invisible battlefield conditions for the future. Conflict, whether modern or past, often occurs before formal conflict exists. That is hugely important.

All of the above do, or will at some point, together or in cascading succession, cause economic destabilization. Take sanctions, for instance. Once sanctions are in place, supply chains begin to feel the pressure. This pressure is distributed to the populace, leading the government to perhaps engage in currency manipulation to survive at the cost of the governed through inflation, devaluation, and depletion, to name a few. This effectively creates a critical rift in the technological infrastructure needed for long-term economic and military stability. Economies have always been, and will always be, fair game in the scheme of operational terrain, for they are the lifeblood of systems. Once compromised, the potential to hemorrhage makes it all the more difficult for the system to coagulate.

This is where the fragmentation of society culminates. Let us start with polarization. Polarization breeds distrust among the populace, which, over time, leads to informational exhaustion. Once that occurs, we begin to see the rise of a perpetual crisis culture, in which populations are conditioned to instability because they no longer care about truth or fact. Therefore, destabilization begins within societies rather than invading them conventionally.

V. TECHNOLOGICAL ACCELERATION — AI, Automation, and the Compression of Decision

Overall, it comes down to compressing decision-making, and this is where AI comes in. Machine-assisted targeting enables predictive systems for automated analysis. This is crucial because it shrinks the human reaction window in escalation environments. This type of system is optimized for speed and restraint.

AI systems, in many ways, are perpetual. They monitor continuously, process constantly, and always adapt. This mirrors the idea that the absence of war is equivalent to lethargy, as the system increasingly refuses to maintain equilibrium.

At this point, we begin to see that the further amalgamation of man and machine, where the face of mankind begins to evolve. Algorithmic feeds in AI warfare process massive amounts of data to create a real-time, actionable “Common Operating Picture” that automates target identification and supports decision-making through recommendation systems. This also allows for an AI-generated narrative to produce

deepfakes, synthetic personas, and machine-mediated perception.

Overall, the result is a battlefield that increasingly intersects with cognition, interpretation, and emotional response, eliciting a reaction that justifies the means to an end.

From a philosophical point of view, the delegation of judgment is huge.

It is not that AI becomes conscious. Rather, humans increasingly defer decisions to systems, such as AI, to shape choices. This allows the

algorithm to prioritize the illusion of perception. The automation, in turn, influences the pathways of escalation. Therefore, technological systems will increasingly mediate human judgment itself.

VI. The Burden of Containment

This brings us back to the fact that the burden of containment is that peace increasingly resembles the continuous management of escalation rather than true stillness.

Diplomacy increasingly functions less in peace-making and more as a mechanism or tactic for stalling. This allows negotiations to continue without further adding to the issues at hand, unless one side does something that takes something off the negotiation table or adds to it, making the situation better or worse depending on the event. Treaties are valuable for the moment until something unfavorable happens, in which the treaty is called into question or loses value due to unforeseen circumstances. Summit meetings are a good place to hash out grievances on both sides. However, the real power lies in backchannel communication, where strategic dialogue is crucial to developing a potential deal that benefits both parties.

The core idea of deterrence is to prevent or discourage undesirable actions, as both state actors have recognized the consequences through visible force posturing and strategic ambiguity. In some ways, one could call it a peaceful game of chicken, since both sides are in the dark about each other’s intentions, which leads back to escalation management.

Overall, deterrence does not eliminate destructive capability; it just manages its behavior.

When it comes to de-escalation, modern systems increasingly rely upon friction mechanisms designed to slow escalation. Mechanisms like arms control or communications, where state actors can discuss the rules of engagement, allow both sides and their allies to build conflict-management structures to de-escalate while remaining deterrence-capable of striking.

When it comes to institutional restraint, civilizations build safeguards or structures specifically to delay impulsive activation. This is done within the government or governments through international institutions, where legal frameworks are lobbied, voted on, and tested through a bureaucratic process, usually with oversight.

Mankind remains one of the few remaining sources of friction in systems increasingly optimized for speed. Man understands that judgment can slow issues down for further scrutiny and debate. By throwing caution to the wind, uncertainty can reveal itself without slowing the system.

The tragic dimension is that the Mesopotamian god Ishum, divine watchman of the night, attempts to restrain Erra rather than destroy the Sibitti. In this context, Ishum never permanently defeats the Sibitti.

He delays them. That matters. Civilization often works similarly through nuclear deterrence, diplomacy, treaties, and institutions. They manage and disperse the pressure placed upon them, but can not erase it. Peace in today’s technological civilization resembles continuous containment rather than resolution.

VII. CONCLUSION — The Restlessness Remains

When it comes to civilization and the art of statecraft, one comes to realize sooner or later that it is reflective, cold, and controlled. States and their gods only know one thing, and that is to survive, even at the risk of an unintended suicide.

Erra’s weapons grow impatient during peace. Ours learned to wear human faces. Mankind’s weapons grow impatient during peace. AI learned to wear human faces. We cannot separate the weapon or discern the human face wearing it.

The Beast from the East: The Mongol Invasion of Europe, 1236–1242.

Beast from the East is officially on the march.

Today I signed my author’s contract with Helion & Company (https://www.helion.co.uk/), based in the UK, for The Beast from the East: The Mongol Invasion of Europe, 1236–1242. Years of research are becoming a reality.

Publication is planned for 2027, arriving around the 800-year anniversary of the Mongol invasion of the Rus principalities under Batu Khan—when the lands of Rus (modern-day Russia and neighboring regions) were a fragmented collection of principalities.

To celebrate, I’m also sharing an alternative book cover concept I put together.

More Mongols incoming.

To Kharg, or not to Kharg—that’s the Question. But Kharg is not a solution—it’s a trigger.

For many weeks, there has been a common argument about any operation around Kharg Island that always lands on the same concerns: it’s just too hard, too exposed, too squeezed by the terrain and the Strait. Because of this, drones will fill the sky, and the defender has every advantage; every movement gets funneled into kill zones. So people conclude the whole thing would fall apart under its own weight. It very well could. But the real issue isn’t whether it could fail—it’s what you’re actually fighting.

The issue is that a decision isn’t the same thing as an outcome. Seizing Kharg is just a decision. It’s the outcome that we question. The question that follows is how the whole system responds, as in the day after. The answer, as we see now, is that markets will flip-flop, shipping reroutes, insurance goes nuts, proxies get involved, escalation ladders light up, and perception shifts. Of course, it could stay the way we see it now, or it could draw back or escalate into a whole new beast. You control the move. You don’t control how the system rearranges around it.

Terrain + Geography = Real Constraint

The Strait of Hormuz is narrow, cluttered, and exposed, lying between Iran to the north and Oman’s Musandam Peninsula to the south. According to the IEA (International Energy Agency), it’s between 21 and 24 miles wide at its narrowest point. Despite this, the shipping traffic is constrained to two narrow lanes, each 2 miles wide.

The southern Iranian coast (Persian Gulf/Gulf of Oman) is characterized by a very narrow or non-existent coastal plain. In many areas, the Zagros Mountains fall directly into the sea, forming rocky cliffs and leaving little room for a coastal foothold—if any—and if so, minimal.

And even if a force pushes past the coastline, the terrain does not open up uniformly.

The only area where it meaningfully opens is to the southwest—the Khuzestan Plain, a low-lying, marshy, triangular extension of the Mesopotamian plain that stretches inland before abruptly meeting the Zagros foothills. Khuzestan is a strategically vital province in southwestern Iran, bordering Iraq and the Persian Gulf. It serves as a major industrial and agricultural hub centered on its capital, Ahvaz, one of the core pillars of Iran’s oil-rich economy.

Overall, one has a minimal foothold at best along most of the coast due to the mountains, which provide elevation dominance and interior depth. Even where the terrain opens, it does so in limited and predictable ways. This creates a strong ISR (intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance) vantage point.

Now, from an operational point of view, this translates into a few realities, starting with terrain.

Elevated terrain provides clear lines of observation and favors missile and drone launches into the Strait or into any nearby body of water. You factor that in with limited coastal space, which creates difficult amphibious landing conditions, restricting maneuver and concentrating forces into predictable zones. Thus, any force operating near the coastline would likely be continuously observed and targetable from the interior.

In short, this is defender-favorable terrain.

Take maritime insurance, for example. The moment Kharg turns into a battlespace, insurers will second-guess. They’ll either pull coverage completely or jack up war-risk premiums so high that shipping becomes untenable. Traffic will slow and reroute—not because anything has been destroyed yet, but because the system is already bracing for the punch. The effect is immediate and mostly beyond the control of the actors involved. There are always exceptions—but they don’t change the pattern.

The Part People are Missing: It’s an Island System, not an Island

The decisive terrain isn’t Kharg—it’s the Strait of Hormuz and the islands that sit inside and around it—whoever controls them controls access, denial, shipping lanes, and escalation leverage. Kharg only matters if the US can operate freely in the Gulf.

Qeshm Island is the largest island in the Strait and sits right along the Iranian coast. Its mountainous and broken terrain is ideal for missile batteries, drone launch zones, and ISR coverage. Therefore, the operational reality is that one does not bypass Qeshm—you either suppress it or live under it.

To the southwest of Qeshm is the smaller disputed island of Abu Musa. The sovereignty of Abu Musa is under Iranian control, but the United Arab Emirates disputes it. The operational role is to provide early warning, forward fire, and serve as a disruption node. In other words, the island serves as a tripwire + sensor platform.

Between the Qeshm and Abu Musa Islands lie the Greater & Lesser Tunb—choke point enforcers. They sit near the narrowest part of the Strait. These islands are small—but that’s the point. What these smaller islands provide is extended denial coverage. This creates overlapping fires and complicates naval movement. Think of it this way, they’re not big—they’re positional.

Most online takes assume: “Hit Kharg and the problem is solved.” But operationally, it’s more like if you try to move into the Strait, you’re under constant missile and drone threat, ISR tracking from multiple islands, not to forget also from the mainland. One may suppress one node, but others still function. One may clear islands, but the mainland still dominates. One may move deeper, but the exposure increases.

The real geometry is not linear—it’s layered.

The outer layer: naval access (Hormuz Strait)

Middle layer: island network (Qeshm, Abu Musa, Tunbs)

Inner layer: mainland fires (mountains + depth)

Final node: Kharg

So Kharg is not the door — it’s the room at the back of the house.

Think in operational terms, not target terms. The correct framing is this isn’t about taking an island—it’s about breaking a defensive system of positions. That system is distributed and mutually supporting. It forces troops into progressive exposure.

Kharg isn’t the objective—it’s the consequence. The real fight is the Strait—an island system backed by a continent.

Overall, whether this remains pressure or turns into action, the geometry doesn’t change.

Pressure Without Victory: The Strategic Stalemate with Iran

This is a follow-up to my last article titled What Would War with Iran Look Like?, published on February 25th, 2026. In that article, I outlined what a conflict with Iran might look like militarily and strategically.

In this somewhat shorter article, I want to examine what has actually been done strategically and tactically since then, among other things. What has become increasingly clear is that pressure campaigns do not necessarily produce strategic collapse. In many respects, they work exactly as intended, yet the outcome remains unresolved.

So let’s first examine the U.S. pressure architecture.

With any nation the United States puts in the crosshairs, it essentially becomes part of a pressured network. So what do I mean by this? What exactly do I mean by U.S. pressure architecture?

Let’s start with economic pressure. What does the United States do first?

Sanctions.

Sanctions are economic, non-military punishments. Think of them as trade bans, asset freezes, financial transaction blocks, travel restrictions, arms embargoes, or even export controls imposed by one or more countries. This is often led by the United States, the UK, the EU, or the UN against a particular country. So basically, take Iran. You have certain groups or individuals pressuring them into changing their behavior—whether that means stopping aggression, halting a nuclear program, addressing human rights abuses, or ending support for terrorism—without actually going to war.

SWIFT exclusion: if you don’t know what that means, it stands for the Society for Worldwide Interbank Financial Telecommunications. SWIFT basically removes you from the global WhatsApp group that banks use to send each other money. Suddenly, your international payments just bounce with a big “user not found” error.

This brings us to energy export restrictions. An example would be Russia. Because of sanctions, Russia is often forced to sell its oil—especially crude—at steep discounts. Sometimes prices fall $10 to $30 per barrel below global benchmarks like Brent crude because buyers know Russia has fewer options and faces higher risks and costs from sanctions.

And lastly, secondary sanctions.

Secondary sanctions, in a nutshell, are when the United States tells foreign banks and companies worldwide: if you keep doing major business with Russia’s military suppliers or Iran’s oil sector, we’ll cut you off from the U.S. financial system—even if you’re not American and the deal technically has nothing to do with us.

Take Russia again as an example. Outside firms helping Russia’s war economy have been forced to drop deals to avoid losing access to dollars and U.S. markets. For Iran, it’s a classic case of non-U.S. banks having to choose between Iranian oil trade and their U.S. correspondent accounts, massively slashing Iranian export revenues.

This brings us now to military pressure, much of which I discussed in my last article: precision strikes, carrier groups, airpower, and ISR surveillance. That in turn overlaps with cyber and intelligence pressure, including cyber operations, assassinations, intelligence disruption, and infrastructure sabotage.

To make all of this work, the United States usually relies on outside help. When it comes to Iran, Washington has been fairly effective at regional containment through Israel, the Gulf states, maritime patrols, and missile defense networks.

All of these arrows point toward Iran.

Why?

Because the objective is the systemic degradation of Iranian power.

This brings us to the article’s target: Iran. When it comes to the Iranian regime, you cannot look at it as a single knot. Rather, think of it as multiple smaller circles connected together and labeled. You have the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, the Qods Force (lit. “Jerusalem Force”), the political leadership, the energy economy, the security apparatus, and ideological legitimacy. All of these represent what is essentially a distributed internal structure.

Iran’s distributed response radiates outward rather than pointing inward. Now, what do I mean by that?

Let’s start with the proxy-warfare network they maintain: Hezbollah, Iraqi militias, the Houthis, Syrian militias, and Palestinian groups. Iran has a rather large network of proxies outside its borders that it can rely on. And it is without a doubt that many of these proxies have networks of their own. They also do not have to be kinetic all the time.

Then there is Iran’s economic adaptation: the shadow oil fleet, China trade networks, smuggling routes, and sanctions evasion. All of these have helped fund the Iranian regime and continue to do so.

So what is Iran’s strategic deterrence in all of this? They rely heavily on missiles—lots of them—and drones as well, which allow for maritime disruption. Think of the Strait of Hormuz. Iran still maintains leverage there.

The reason Iran has been so effective overall, and why it has not really been nudged off course, appears to lie in a combination of nationalism, revolutionary ideology, and a deeply entrenched anti-Western narrative.

The bottom line in all of this is that when it comes to Iran, persistent strategic friction is neither victory nor collapse. It is simply continuous pressure and adaptation.

Taliban commanders once made the point clearly: “You have the watches, but we have the time.” Ambassador Ryan Crocker later echoed this sentiment when discussing Afghanistan: “Americans have the watches; the Taliban have the time—we ran out of patience… Failing to be ready to stay the course is a huge problem for American diplomacy.

The same logic applies to Iran.

The United States and its allies may have the watches, but Iran has the time. They have been waiting it out since 1979, and it appears they are prepared to keep doing so.

However, I could be wrong.

The problem facing the United States is not the pressure campaigns. It’s not that pressure campaigns fail. Frankly, it’s the opposite. In many respects, they succeed. Take Iran, for instance. Iranian infrastructure is degraded, leadership figures are periodically eliminated, and the economy is continually squeezed, if not in some ways obliterated. On paper, therefore, Iran has already been defeated. But the difficulty lies elsewhere.

Understand that the Iranian system was never built around a single center of gravity that could be struck or collapsed. Instead, it resembles a distributed hydra, so to speak, capable of absorbing blows while shifting pressure outward through its proxies.

Economic adaptation under pressure produces ripple effects. As Iran scrambles to safeguard what strategic assets remain after repeated strikes, it doubles down on asymmetric pressure through its proxy networks across the region. This, in turn, forces surrounding markets and actors to adapt as well, spreading the disruption horizontally across the broader system.

What emerges is not victory, but a form of strategic fiction—sustained through a persistent pressure war in which neither side achieves decisive results, yet neither side disengages. Frankly, what we have here is a strategic standoff that could potentially put the broader global economy at risk.

There are two ways to look at how both the U.S. and Iranian systems are designed. The United States system is built for the decisive degradation of centralized adversaries. The Iranian system is built for distributed survival.

Both systems function exactly as designed. The result is strategic stalemate.

What Would War with Iran Look Like?

So what would a war with Iran look like? I have no idea, but I have a rough idea, like most. I think the first thing we have to establish is that the real objective isn’t destruction — it’s controlled escalation.

Before the first bomb, the core operational question is what political outcome is being forced. Nuclear rollback? Missile rollback? Regime destabilization? Deterrence by punishment? And how do you stop once the first rung of the escalation ladder is climbed?

The Pentagon’s reported worry — stocks, defenses, time — basically comes down to this: you don’t get to control the length of the war once Iran is firing back. This is according to the Wall Street Journal, which had an article titled “Pentagon Flags Risks of a Major Operation Against Iran,” February 23rd this year. And rightfully so.

So what would the war look like in phases? That is probably the best way to approach it.

Phase Zero or One

If we looked at Phase Zero or Phase One, we would have to call it shaping and positioning — quietly building the kill web. I don’t think there’s any other way around it.

The reality is that this part is what most people miss because it is non-climactic — anti-climactic. So what would this look like?

Picture forward basings. Dispersal of aircraft, often outside Iranian missile range, obviously—tankers and AWACS positioning.

We would probably see a rise in intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance:

  • Satellites
  • RC-135–type aircraft
  • MQ-9 remotely piloted aircraft

Overall, this allows for building the coalition in layers, in other words:

  • Overflight
  • Base access
  • Maritime corridors

This takes us to cyber and electronic preparation, which would include:

  • Mapping networks
  • Identifying choke nodes
  • Rehearsing deception

Even if not publicly acknowledged, this is standard practice in modern planning, regardless.

Recent reporting describing large aircraft movements and posture outside Iranian missile range fits this shaping logic, according to the Washington Post on February 24th.

The purpose of all this is to set conditions so the opening blows land as a system shock and not just a few good strikes.

Phase Two

The first night would probably be about integrated air defense systems and command coherence — not the nuclear sites.

In U.S. doctrine terms, the first operational imperative is counter-air: gain enough control of the air to operate and reduce inbound threats.

What gets prioritized early?

Iran’s integrated air defense system:

  • Sensors
  • C2 links
  • Key SAM nodes (surface-to-air missiles)

Also:

  • Battle management and communications systems that allow Iran to coordinate a coherent air-defense picture

Possibly runway and airbase denial if needed. That doesn’t necessarily mean cratering everything, just enough to complicate sortie generation.

The reason why is simple.

If you cannot operate in or near Iranian airspace with tolerable losses, everything else becomes slower, more expensive, and more escalatory.

Which brings us to Phase Three.

Phase Three

Phase three would be to roughly stop the arrows or offensive counter-air against missile launch capacity. This would involve operations designed to destroy, disrupt, or neutralize enemy missile launch platforms, supporting infrastructure, and command-and-control networks before or after launch.

U.S. joint doctrine explicitly treats offensive counter-air as the preferred way to reduce the threat burden on defenses, because shooting every inbound is a losing math problem. Basically, nearly downright futile.

So very quickly, the campaign becomes a race to disrupt Iran’s ability to launch:

  • Mobile launchers
  • Storage
  • Fueling and handling
  • Targeting chains

Which brings us to breaking the sensor-to-shooter loop that enables Iranian missiles and drones to find and hit U.S. bases or regional partners.

This is where cybernetic–kinetic decapitation comes into reality.

Kinetic strikes alone won’t erase dispersed missile forces. Period. It’s not going to do it.

The condition to win is paralyzing the system that makes launches effective:

  • Communications
  • Cueing
  • Targeting
  • Logistics
  • Coordination

You get the picture.

Phase Four

Phase four is the maritime and base-defense grind — because Iran gets a vote.

Even if Iran’s air defenses are degraded, the hard part is sustaining operations under retaliation. There’s no way around it.

So you’re going to have to expect a huge emphasis on integrated air and missile defense around:

  • Carrier groups
  • Major airbases
  • Key regional infrastructure

This is doctrinally central to U.S. counter-air and missile operations.

The Pentagon analysts worry for a reason.

Interceptors, along with precision stockpiles, are consumed quickly in a prolonged exchange. You can win tactically and still bleed strategic readiness.

This was pointed out by the Pentagon’s concerns about a major operation against Iran.

Phase Five

What would that look like?

Strategic pressure strikes:

  • Energy
  • Industry
  • Regime levers

This is the controversial part. For if the goal shifts from limited coercion to regime compliance, escalation moves toward:

  • Critical infrastructure
  • Industrial nodes
  • National-level command structures
  • Regime security organs: The Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC)

This is where wars either end — because the opponent yields — or metastasize because the opponent escalates asymmetrically, regionally, and politically.

In other words: The beast takes on a life of its own.

It is also where coalition support often fractures because humanitarian and political costs spike, and the question “Why are we doing this?” becomes much louder.

Not only in legislatures — but in the streets.

Eventually, everybody catches on.

Phase Six

This phase is where we may see the termination and off-ramps, because this is where most plans are weakest.

A serious plan has to be pre-baked. It doesn’t matter what it is — it just has to be pre-baked.

  • What success looks like in measurable terms — not vibes
  • What concessions end the campaign
  • How to prevent uncontrolled regional widening
  • How to handle Iran’s proxies
  • How to handle maritime retaliation if the main air war pauses

This reflects the current public debate. Officials reportedly weigh options ranging from limited strikes to prolonged campaigns, with concerns over costs and blowback. In other words, what is our exit strategy?

So what makes this opening air campaign any different from the 2003 Iraq campaign, operationally speaking?

Even without getting lost in platform details, the key differences are structural.

Geography and depth make it harder to see the entire battlespace.

Dispersed missiles and drones make it harder to eliminate and easier to regenerate.

Undergrounding and redundancy or slowing decisive effects.

Regional vulnerability of U.S. bases and partners — Iran can impose costs without prevailing.

That is why the campaign’s center of gravity tends to become:

  • Missile suppression
  • Base defense
  • Endurance

Not quick decapitation.

So what would cybernetic–kinetic decapitation look like in real terms?

It wouldn’t mean “hack everything.”

It would look more like:

  • Blind and confuse the sensing layer: This involves jamming or spoofing sensors, radars, or surveillance systems through cyberattacks, electronic warfare, or disinformation, essentially creating a “fog of war.”
  • Disrupt the coordination layer: Targeting communication networks, nodes, or decision hubs to isolate units and prevent unified responses. In other words, divide-and-conquer communication.
  • Throttle launch and targeting cycles: Slowing the adversary’s observe-orient-decide-act (OODA) loop by delaying, false data, or overloads, making their reactions sluggish.
  • Exploit paralysis with selective kinetic strikes: Using the induced vulnerability for exact physical attacks, like missiles or special operations, on critical targets.
  • Sustain while managing retaliation and off-ramps: Maintaining pressure through ongoing operations while controlling escalation, while offering diplomatic exits to avoid a wider conflict.

Modern air campaigns aim to achieve political objectives without occupying territory. It’s a cheaper cut.

The Larger Meaning: War in the Age of Persistent Visibility

In conclusion, a war with Iran would ultimately illustrate not just the mechanics of an air campaign but also a broader shift in how war is conducted in the twenty-first century. It is a far cry from the twentieth.

The campaign described here would not be centered on territorial conquest, nor would it depend primarily on traditional battlefield maneuver. Instead, it would revolve around managing visibility and strikeability within a persistently observed battlespace.

It is like fighting inside a snow globe, you might say. Everything can be seen, and nothing fully escapes observation, targeting, and death.

Modern war increasingly unfolds in a condition of persistent visibility. Satellites, drones, signals intelligence, and networked sensors have made the operational environment structurally transparent in ways that did not exist even a generation ago. Even as recently as 2003, the battlespace was obviously not as technologically dense as it is today.

Forces now emit — thermally, electronically, or physically — and in doing so become detectable. And once detected, they become targetable.

The result is a battlespace in which the logic of operations shifts. Movement alone no longer guarantees survival, but neither does concealment alone guarantee security. Both static and mobile forces operate under conditions of uninterrupted observation.

Under these conditions, the maneuver does not disappear, but it changes character.

Operational maneuver becomes inseparable from signature management. Understand that the force that survives is not necessarily the force that moves fastest; rather, it is the force that can control its visibility while sustaining combat power.

A war with Iran would likely demonstrate this clearly. The central operational problem would not be destroying Iranian forces outright, which would be an unrealistic objective against a large and redundant state. Instead, rendering them operationally ineffective via disrupting the systems that allow them to detect, coordinate, and strike.

This is why the campaign’s center of gravity would shift toward:

Sensor disruption

Command dislocation

Missile suppression

Defensive endurance

Victory in such a war would not come via decisive battlefield collapse, but through operational suffocation — the gradual reduction of the enemy’s ability to function as a coherent military system.

In that sense, the emerging model of warfare is neither purely maneuver nor purely attrition.

Better understood as maneuver-attrition conducted inside a transparent battlespace.

The objective is not simply to destroy the enemy’s forces, but to place them in a condition where meaningful operations become impossible.

That is the deeper logic behind what might be called cybernetic–kinetic decapitation — not the physical elimination of every launcher or facility, but the disruption of the networks that make those systems effective.

Modern war, in this sense, is less about the destruction of armies than the paralysis of systems.

And if a war with Iran comes, it will likely be remembered less for its opening strikes than for what it reveals about warfare in the age of persistent visibility.

Liminal Warfare and the Weaponization of AI in the Cognitive Domain

Digital Janus

My interest in liminal warfare was shaped by David Kilcullen’s articles “The Evolution of Unconventional Warfare” and “Liminal Manoeuvre and Conceptual Envelopment,” as well as his book The Dragons and the Snakes. That interest deepened through observing the growing role of automation and artificial intelligence in the Russo-Ukrainian war, alongside their expanding influence within the United States’ information and security environment.

Through Kilcullen’s work and the rapid development of artificial intelligence (AI), it became clear that modern conflict is no longer defined solely by armies, borders, or kinetic force. Increasingly, it unfolds in the space between recognition and response, between belief and doubt, where perception itself becomes contested terrain. In this environment, artificial intelligence does not merely accelerate warfare—it reshapes how conflict is understood, experienced, and normalized. To grasp what is emerging, we must first distinguish the forms of warfare operating at this threshold.

The primary target of liminal warfare is the thresholds of detection, attribution, and response. Its main domain is the “Gray Zone” between peace and war. The objective is to achieve strategic goals without triggering conflict. Its primary mechanism is to skate around ambiguity, deniability, and incremental actions.


The visibility is deliberately ambiguous or plausibly deniable. Think of a person walking by, minding their own business, but with ill intentions. Key actors are state and non-state actors, proxies, and proxies of proxies working as double agents for a multitude of organizations. When it comes to the tempo, understand that it is gradual, probing, calibrated, and protracted.


The role of artificial intelligence only enhances coordination, attribution denial, and scale. Success is measured by the absence of escalation or by delayed, confused responses that give the actor time to reassess and adapt. Failure collapses ambiguity and risks escalation into open conflict.

The primary target in cognitive warfare is human perception, cognition, and decision-making. The main domains of cognitive warfare are information, psychology, and perception. The objective is to shape beliefs and behavior to influence outcomes.


The primary mechanisms are narratives, framing, and psychological influence. When it comes to visibility, it is often invisible or normalized within information flows. Key actors are states, non-state actors, platforms, automated systems, etc. The tempo is continuous, adaptive, and rapidly scalable.


The role of artificial intelligence will accelerate narrative creation, targeting, and amplification of the cognitive domain. Success is measured not by fixed metrics, but by shifts in perception, belief, and decision-making. Failure manifests as loss of trust, cognitive fragmentation, and societal polarization.

Liminal warfare is the ‘threshold’—the boundary between time and space. When artificial intelligence is applied, the door of perception opens, revealing a kaleidoscope of infinite possibilities. It is not defined solely by overt kinetic violence, but by the ambiguous manipulation of perception, where advantage is exploited and gained before conflict is recognized. Therefore, the focus must be cognitive—for the mind itself is the first line of battle.


Given the immense and nearly limitless possibilities of liminal warfare at both the macro and micro levels, the integration of artificial intelligence allows cognitive warfare to move beyond surface influence and penetrate the cerebral domain—blurring and reengineering the boundaries of reality, reshaping perception to suit the aims of the actor or host, as agency shifts between states, non-state entities, and proxies. So what, then, are its goals?


Instead of targeting military hardware, the objective is to shape perception—creating confusion or division, eroding trust in institutions, and influencing the choices of individuals or entire societies. The “war” is over interpretation and meaning, not territory. But how does artificial intelligence change this?

Artificial intelligence is the game-changer in cognitive warfare because it scales narrative creation and analysis. It can generate text, images, audio, and video quickly and cheaply, producing content that appears highly credible throughout social media. With access to demographics and the vast quantities of behavioral data available online, AI enables messages to be tailored to narrowly defined audiences—by age, location, interests, and disposition. In this sense, AI facilitates liminal cognitive warfare across multiple domains of perception simultaneously.


This capacity enables AI-driven precision targeting. Where human-crafted propaganda was broad and slow, AI can identify cognitive biases, produce compelling content, and automate delivery to those most susceptible to influence. Targeted messaging thus becomes a weaponized precision tool—accelerating narrative dominance while reassuring the audience that nothing is wrong, nothing requires adjustment—the actor controls the transmission. The result is influence that is faster, cheaper, and harder to trace—almost terra incognita cognitiva.

“A friend to all is a friend to none,” Aristotle reminds us. The future presents a much grimmer picture: reality for everyone dissolves into no reality at all—spoken now by the ghost in the machine.


For the most part, people can still distinguish what is real. But that margin is narrowing—sometimes slowly, sometimes with startling speed—until the distinction itself becomes difficult to discern. If AI-generated narratives can convincingly mimic authentic content, individuals lose the ability to trust what they see online. The result is not merely erosion, but the undermining of public trust, shared facts, and rational decision-making. Basically, one is left with a form of societal schizoidism—a metaphor for cognitive fragmentation and the loss of a shared reality, a total collapse of trust.


Influence can now be hyper-personalized. AI systems can tailor content based on psychological traits, exploiting specific cognitive vulnerabilities—fear, insecurity, identity—in ways that are difficult for individuals to detect or counter.


There are no borders in AI. Unlike traditional propaganda, it scales instantly and without meaningful constraint. Cognitive warfare is global and continuous, operating 24/7 through social media and messaging platforms; often, all it takes is a nudge. This use-ready capacity does not originate solely from foreign governments—it can be wielded by any actor capable of deploying AI to shape narratives at scale.


Modern media offers a helpful analogy. It increasingly resembles a failed game of telephone. Information moves from source to outlet to outlet, but instead of converging on clarity, it diverges. Those at the event are standing at ground zero, possessing firsthand experience of what occurred. Beyond that zone, information becomes secondary, then tertiary, and distortion begins to accumulate. Each relay introduces new interpretations, biases, and incentives, gradually degrading the message as it spreads.


The key point is that this analogy establishes the problem not as the work of a single bad actor, but as a systemic breakdown in information fidelity. The game of telephone illustrates how cumulative distortion and the loss of original context leave the audience increasingly removed from the source. This creates a quiet storm in which the erosion of trust is structural, not accidental.

Defense is not merely technological; it is intellectual. Narrative intelligence employs tools that detect, analyze, and contextualize narratives in near real time. It focuses on origins, rates of spread, the actors involved, the hosts affected, and the sentiment and impact of the message itself. This AI-assisted analysis reveals who is shaping public discourse—and how.


Transparency and context matter. Exposing the individuals and organizations driving a narrative—who is pushing it, and why—can reduce the effectiveness of manipulative messaging, though it cannot eradicate it. Because the battlefield is the mind, skills such as media literacy, critical reasoning, and fact-checking become defensive assets. Put simply: defense is data + design + education, not censorship alone. Censorship will take care of itself—not as policy, but through social enforcement, as individuals and groups police narratives and impose consequences on those who deviate, pending the next revision of acceptable belief.

The weaponization of perception and consciousness is nothing new. Throughout history, leaders and their entourages have manipulated information—narratives—to wage conflict not only against external enemies, but against their own populations. Narratives matter because they frame how events are interpreted, determining what is seen, ignored, or believed.


As Mao Zedong once observed, “seal up the enemy’s eyes and ears, and make them blind and deaf… confusing the minds of their commanders and turning them into madmen, using this to achieve our own victory.” The insight here is not merely tactical, but cognitive: the enemy is not only across the battlefield, but within one’s own ranks. This is where narrative power is most decisive.


Narratives shape and regulate a society’s beliefs and behaviors. Artificial intelligence does not invent this dynamic; it amplifies and weaponizes it—making narratives faster, more pervasive, and more ambiguous to counter. Even when a false interpretation is exposed, the critical question remains: how far has it already spread, and how convincing was it to its intended audience?


A widely accepted narrative also serves a secondary function: isolating and marginalizing those who question it. Dissent is not crushed by force, but filtered out cognitively and socially, exposing potential challengers long before they can organize. In this sense, the narrative becomes self-enforcing. Traditional warfare uses tanks; cognitive warfare uses stories.

In strategic communication, accuracy is rarely decisive on its own; what matters is how the target audience interprets and internalizes the information. Accuracy informs, but interpretation decides. Even information that is factually flawed or selectively presented can be practical if it anchors itself to a broadly accepted truth, using that credibility as narrative leverage.


The accuracy of strategic silence can be equally deafening. Silence does not simply mean “nothing”; it means “something is missing.” It signals absence, invites inference, and creates an interpretive vacuum that audiences instinctively fill—often with speculation, exaggeration, or worst-case assumptions—rendering even later factual clarification less effective.

When it comes to risk assessment, threat evaluation is no longer limited to kinetic danger; it must also account for the potential for narrative influence. Modern risk assessment increasingly treats narratives as munitions. This shift reflects the reality that physical damage is often secondary to the primary objective: manipulating the population’s perception of reality and its decision-making.


Liminal warfare operates on the “threshold” of detection, using ambiguity to achieve goals without triggering a conventional military response. This ambiguous action allows adversaries to perform covert operations whose sponsorship is suspected but remains unproven, such as Russia’s “little green men” in Crimea.


This pre-maneuver shaping phase—before physical force is employed—is where the battlespace is cognitively conditioned to accept a desired outcome. Success is therefore measured not by territory seized, but by the ability to hijack public attention, normalize ambiguity, and control the narrative.


The best policy to defend against AI-as-a-weapon in cognitive warfare is, obviously, through defense planning. Investment should prioritize narrative intelligence capabilities and training that enable early detection. These capabilities should integrate with existing intelligence, communications, and support structures to identify influence campaigns before they achieve strategic effect. Nevertheless, it still comes down to encouraging critical thinking and verification.

The war for the mind is not new, but artificial intelligence has dramatically altered its scale, speed, and opacity. By accelerating narrative production and exploiting ambiguity, AI intensifies liminal warfare by pushing conflict deeper into the cognitive domain—often before it is recognized as such.


The more disturbing question is not whether cognitive warfare will expand, but how far it can go as agency, interpretation, and meaning are increasingly influenced by artificial systems. In shaping narratives at scale, we are not merely using AI as a tool; we are altering the conditions under which reality itself is perceived and contested. The challenge ahead is both technologically strategic and profoundly human: preserving cognitive autonomy in an environment where perception has become the primary terrain of conflict.


However, a darker question needs to be addressed. How far can cognitive warfare go once artificial intelligence no longer transmits meaning, but inhabits it? Once that point is reached, we are no longer shaping narratives—we are preparing a vessel for a possible influence that does not need to enter the physical world to be real. In other words, Pandora’s box speaks. It is not a prediction. It’s a caution.

1) Liminal and Conceptual Envelopment: Warfare in the Age of Dragons
Fox, Amos. “Liminal and Conceptual Envelopment: Warfare in the Age of Dragons.” Small Wars Journal, May 26, 2020. https://smallwarsjournal.com/2020/05/26/liminal-and-conceptual-envelopment-warfare-age-dragons/

2) China’s Evolving Military Strategy (Book)
McReynolds, Joe, ed. China’s Evolving Military Strategy. Washington, DC: Jamestown Foundation / Brookings Institution Press, 2017. https://www.google.com/books/edition/China_s_Evolving_Military_Strategy/7WxADwAAQBAJ page 174.

3) Cognitive Warfare: The Fight for Gray Matter in the Digital Gray Zone
Cheatham, Michael J., Angelique M. Geyer, Priscella A. Nohle, and Jonathan E. Vazquez. “Cognitive Warfare: The Fight for Gray Matter in the Digital Gray Zone.” National Defense University Press, 2023. https://ndupress.ndu.edu/Media/News/News-Article-View/Article/3853187/cognitive-warfare-the-fight-for-gray-matter-in-the-digital-gray-zone/

4) Claverie & du Cluzel — The Cognitive Warfare Concept
Claverie, Bernard and François du Cluzel. “The Cognitive Warfare Concept.” Innovation Hub – ACT, 2023. PDF. https://innovationhub-act.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/12/CW-article-Claverie-du-Cluzel-final_0.pdf

5) Kilcullen— Liminal Manoeuvre and Conceptual Envelopment: Russian and Chinese Non-Conventional Responses to Western Military Dominance since 1991 Liminal Manoeuvre and Conceptual Envelopment: Russian and Chinese Non-Conventional Responses to Western Military Dominance since 1991. Issue 2, Online Journal, Queen’s University, 2020. PDF. https://www.queensu.ca/psychology/sites/psycwww/files/uploaded_files/Graduate/OnlineJournal/Issue_2-Kilcullen.pdf

6) Kilcullen — The Evolution of Unconventional Warfare
Kilcullen, David J. “The Evolution of Unconventional Warfare.” Scandinavian Journal of Military Studies 2, no. 1 (2019): 61–71. doi:10.31374/sjms.35. https://www.researchgate.net/publication/333222899_The_Evolution_of_Unconventional_Warfare

Liminal Warfare in the 21st Century

Getty Images

Liminal warfare, what is it? The term itself sounds strange. The combination of “liminal” and “warfare” comes off awkward, perhaps even contradictory. The term warfare implies clarity—enemies, commanders, battles, beginnings, and endings. Liminal, by contrast, refers to what exists in between. So what does liminal actually mean, and why does it matter for understanding how war is conducted today?

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the word liminal derives from the Latin limen, meaning “threshold” or “boundary.” More broadly, it refers to something relating to a transitional or initial stage of a process. In other words, it describes a state of being in between, a passage rather than a destination, akin to a doorway or a hallway rather than a room.

From this root emerges a related but distinct concept: liminality. Liminality, like liminal, derives from the same Latin root limen (threshold). While the two terms appear similar on the surface, they are not identical. Liminal describes a position or quality of being in between, whereas liminality refers to the condition itself—an ambiguous, transformative “betwixt-and-between” state that exists during periods of transition.

Think of it this way: liminal is an adjective. It describes something that exists on a threshold—between states, categories, or conditions, such as a liminal phase or a liminal conflict. Liminality, by contrast, is a noun. It refers to the condition or state of being on that threshold—the enduring in-between-ness itself.

  • A hallway: not a room, but a space between rooms.
  • Dawn or dusk: not fully day or night.
  • An airport terminal: not home, not the destination.
  • The moment after you quit a job but before you start the next one.

These are all liminal spaces or moments—defined by what they are between, not by what they are themselves.

  • Waiting months for immigration papers, when life is effectively on hold.
  • A prolonged government shutdown.
  • A ceasefire that never becomes peace.
  • Being “engaged” for years without either marrying or separating.

Here, the issue is not the moment itself, but the enduring condition of uncertainty.

Liminal warfare is a strategic concept developed by Dr. David Kilcullen in response to Russia’s 2014 seizure of Crimea. Kilcullen demonstrates that Russia used modern hybrid tactics—ambiguity and the blending of conventional and unconventional methods—to operate in the “threshold” (liminal) zone, achieving political goals while bypassing traditional post-Soviet military methods and adapting to counter Western dominance.

In 2014, Russia seized Crimea using ambiguous forces—often referred to as “little green men.” Conventional military units, special forces, local proxies, and information operations were blended to create chaos and uncertainty about what was happening. This, in turn, triggered a natural response to the who, what, when, where, why, and how scenario. Political institutions and Western governments hesitated to respond decisively, allowing Russia to achieve its objectives without triggering open war. This invisible and mostly silent operation exemplifies liminal warfare: acting in the threshold between peace and war, exploiting cognitive and political ambiguities to achieve strategic aims.

At first glance, liminal warfare reminded me of the Chinese game of Go and the Russian concept of Deep Battle. That instinct felt right—but only partially, and only if those analogies are treated with care.

Liminal warfare resembles Go in its logic and Deep Battle in its mechanics, yet it cannot be reduced to either. It is better understood as a hybrid strategic grammar, borrowing from both while operating in domains neither was designed to address fully. In other words, it lives around—and within—the perceived shadows of the mind.

Some may find this phrasing more poetic than analytical. If so, it is worth recalling that war—whether kinetic or non-kinetic—has always operated within perceptual and cognitive shadows: the spaces in which conflict is recognized, interpreted, misinterpreted, and ultimately acted upon.

Sun Tzu gives us a useful entry point if we split one famous line in two:

“To win one hundred victories in one hundred battles is not the acme of skill.”

On the surface, this is a statement about kinetic success—conventional warfare measured in engagements won and forces destroyed. Victory is real, but it is still bounded by battle. Moreover, just because one wins the battle does not mean one has won the war.

“To subdue the enemy without fighting is the acme of skill.”

This is something else entirely. Here, the battlefield is no longer physical terrain but perception, cohesion, legitimacy, and decision-making. The enemy is not defeated by force, but by being rendered unable—or unwilling—to fight at all. This is liminal warfare: conflict conducted in the space before open war, where outcomes are decided without crossing the threshold that would make violence unavoidable. Furthermore, this line establishes that once the enemy’s liminality has been identified—once the fault lines in organization, authority, or perception are located—a liminal approach can proceed.

Liminal warfare challenges the traditional understandings of conflict. It operates in the ambiguous space between peace and war, manipulating perceptions, disrupting decision-making, and exploiting organizational vulnerabilities. While Russia’s actions in Crimea illustrate its practice in a regional context, the concept has broader implications for the 21st century. Understanding liminal warfare prepares us to recognize, anticipate, and respond to conflicts that do not follow conventional rules—and opens the door to exploring how other global powers, including China, approach this strategic space.


The Day After: The Peace No One Is Prepared For

What happens after the war ends in Ukraine—and it will—is the one subject most policymakers skirt, and perhaps with good reason. Because the day after is not a celebration, it is a reckoning.

Ukraine will not return to what it was in 2021. It will awaken to something far more unsettling: a society exhausted by war, disillusioned with its leaders, and divided by conflicting visions of what the country was supposed to become, regardless of political identity. The sentiment of betrayal by politicians who overpromised, by allies who underdelivered, by a strategy sold as inevitable victory, will fester. When that happens, the external enemy evaporates, and the internal enemies become visible.

Paraphrasing James C. Davies: nations don’t break from weakness, but from the collapse of the expectations they were led to believe—often for someone else’s agenda. Ukraine risks entering a postwar environment defined not by Russian aggression, but by Ukrainian fragmentation—regional mistrust, ethnic resentments, ideological vendettas, and political scapegoating—basically a hellscape that will affect all facets of life. That is how Balkanization begins: not through secession, but through the mentality of it. The idea that one’s real enemies live closer than Moscow has already taken root. And the more I think about it, the more I realize that “close” doesn’t just mean political factions or regional divisions within Ukraine. It also means the people who fled. When millions sought refuge in places like Poland, France, Germany, and elsewhere, they escaped the war physically—but they will return to a country transformed, hardened, and angry.

Those who stayed and fought may look at those who left not as fellow citizens coming home, but as outsiders who abandoned them when everything was on the line. Resentment is a powerful force, especially in a society held together by shared suffering. And when the war ends, those refugees will walk back across the border not to open arms, but to suspicion. They will be seen as people who missed the crucible, who didn’t carry the burden, who didn’t bleed with everyone else — yet now expect to reclaim the full privileges of citizenship.

This is how social fractures deepen: not only between east and west, soldier and politician, nationalist and pragmatist — but between those who endured and those who escaped. The enemy “close by” becomes not just the internal divisions born from war, but the distrust of those returning from safety to a nation that no longer sees them as the same.

But the internal fractures are only half the story. The other half is what leaves the country entirely.

This war has produced a generation of men who know nothing but combat. Many will return home to an economy that cannot absorb them—no jobs, no prospects, and no reason to embrace a peace that feels like defeat. That is when the training they received, the weapons they carried, and the networks they formed become a different kind of currency.

When the war ends, Ukraine—and Russia—will not simply demobilize soldiers. They will release them into a global marketplace where violence is both a commodity and a career. What emerges next is a conflict market for mercenaries: a worldwide, often illicit, and highly lucrative trade in private military services, where hardened fighters are hired for combat, security, training, or political enforcement.

Peace creates unemployment. The world provides opportunities. This market thrives on instability, and it will eagerly absorb thousands of men who have spent years learning the trade of war. For these veterans—Ukrainian, Russian, Chechen, and foreign volunteers (Colombian)—their experience becomes a portable skill set. Whether for money, purpose, or simply because peace offers them nothing, many will migrate into this shadow economy of conflict zones stretching from the Sahel to the Caucasus to the Middle East. Here, violence is no longer tied to national defense. It becomes transactional.

Ukraine will face a double blow: a country struggling with its identity at home while fueling instability abroad. The front lines may stop moving in Ukraine, but the war will continue—in the identities people cling to, and in the fighters who take their craft elsewhere. The tragedy is not merely that the war could have been avoided. It’s that its consequences will outlive the signatures on any peace agreement.

The day after is not peace.

Russia’s Modular and Non-Linear Warfighting Style

Russia’s war in Ukraine has entered a phase defined less by linear fronts and more by shifting domains of combat. Where once artillery barrages dominated the battlefield as the leading killer, new data from Russia itself suggests that first-person view (FPV) drones are steadily overtaking them. This shift is more than a technological upgrade; it represents a doctrinal evolution. FPVs broaden the battlespace, reach into rear areas once considered safe, and introduce a constant unpredictability that traditional fires cannot match.

At the same time, Russia’s pattern of attacks reveals a larger truth about modern war: it is non-linear. The tactical flavor of one month rarely matches that of the next, as methods of attack, applications of economy of force, and force multipliers cycle in and out depending on the conditions. This modular approach requires Ukraine to prepare for multiple, overlapping threats simultaneously, while also highlighting the multidimensional nature of contemporary conflict.

The charts below, provided by Vitaly on X and Telegram, effectively illustrate the shift in which drones are becoming the “new artillery” and how they expand the battlespace.

Russia used 4,136 drones, accounting for 60% of July’s total, likely by accumulating them after the mid-summer performance. 691 drones reached their targets, and even more fell as debris.

Chart 1
Chart 1 Continued
Chart 2
Chart 2 Continued

Blue (Intercepted): The substantial interception of drones shows that both sides continue to invest heavily in counter-drone defenses.

Red (Lost): A significant share still makes it through, indicating drones achieve their objectives despite defenses.

Yellow (Not Reported): A steady fraction goes unreported, possibly due to operational gaps or unclaimed hits.

What this means: The volume of drones being launched rivals the tempo of artillery fire in past wars. Even if many are intercepted, the persistent pressure expands the kill zone where troops are constantly hunted.

Chart 2: Drone vs. Fire Support Systems

Yellow (Barrages): Overall decline (166,471 total).

Red (FPVs): Steady growth, recently overtaking barrages (147,444 total).

Blue (Bombs): Growing use of glide bombs fitted with UMPK kits or (Universal Gliding and Correction Module), including FAB-500, FAB-1500, and FAB-3000, alongside conventional free-fall FABs, particularly in areas with weak Ukrainian air defenses. Total: 4,400.

Green (MLRS or Multiple Launch Rocket System): Decline in use (2,478 total), likely due to attrition and limited inventory.

What this means: FPV drones have overtaken traditional artillery barrages in usage. That is a massive shift for artillery, long regarded as the “god of war” since Napoleon and especially in WWI/WWII. Unlike MLRS and artillery, which are limited by range and stockpiles, drones can penetrate deeper, creating an unpredictable kill zone that extends across tactical, operational, and even strategic depths.

Analysis

From Artillery to Drones

Artillery barrages and MLRS peaked early in the war. Artillery is steadily trending downward, MLRS has declined more sharply, while drones are scaling up. This signals a gradual shift from fewer, high-impact rocket strikes to more numerous, low-cost strikes using drones and bombs that are cheaper, more precise, and harder to predict.

Saturation Warfare

Even with an 83% loss rate, the sheer volume ensures hundreds of drones get through. This mirrors the principle of massed artillery fire: most shells miss, but enough hit to break defenses.

Economic Exchange

Drones cost a few hundred to a few thousand dollars. Interceptors cost tens of thousands. Even “failed” drone attacks create economic attrition by draining NATO-supplied systems.

Russia, however, benefits from its economic endurance as it transitions its economy to a wartime footing. It trades pennies for the West’s dollars, stockpiles drones at a rate of 5,000 per month (and rising), and operationally integrates them much as artillery once stockpiled shells before offensives (which it still does).

Expanding the Kill Zone

Even with only ~17% penetration, drones are striking far beyond the front lines, rear depots, power plants, and bridges. This creates a non-linear threat: instead of predictable barrages, drones “skip” depth and spread lethal pressure across the entire battlespace.

Exploiting Attrition

Overall, by using cheap weapons (FPV drones, decoys, artillery shells, and glide kits), Russia forces Ukraine to expend resources and expand its defensive systems. This necessitates the purchase of very expensive interceptors, radars, and other NATO-provided systems, allowing Russia to preserve its higher-value strategic assets while steadily depleting NATO’s stockpiles.

At the same time, this dynamic pulls Ukrainian manpower away from the front. Personnel who could be fighting are instead tied down operating defensive systems. Case in point: during World War II, Germany had more than one million Luftwaffe personnel who could have been redeployed to the front but were not. Ukraine faces a similar dilemma today, but with far fewer resources.

Finally, Russia benefits from exploiting captured territory and its infrastructure, even when much of it lies in ruins. The land itself becomes a weapon against Ukraine and NATO: any attempt to retake it is costly not only in reconstruction but also in human lives, as advancing forces would face both physical devastation and entrenched resistance. In this way, attrition favors Russia, as Ukraine is forced to expend manpower, resources, and time attempting to reclaim territory. This flips attrition into a net resource gain for Russia.

Conclusion

Russia’s own numbers confirm that FPV drones are slowly replacing artillery barrages as the leading killer. In doing so, they’ve made the battlefield broader and more unpredictable. Yet the tactical flavor of one month rarely carries into the next due to the fog of war. Russia’s methods do change, but often flip back to earlier approaches, cycling rather than progressing linearly. However, that should not fool anyone into thinking the threat is predictable.

Shift in lethality: FPVs outpace artillery as the primary killer.

Expansion of the battlespace: Drones strike from unexpected angles, turning rear areas into targets.

Fluid tactical flavor: Drones and bombs cycle in and out depending on supply chains, weather, and countermeasures.

In short, Russia’s warfighting style is characterized by modularity and non-linearity. They cycle tools, including methods of attack, applications of economy of force, and force multipliers, at both macro and micro levels. These shift as conditions change, forcing Ukraine to counter multiple threats simultaneously.

Remember: war is non-linear—a complex contest of power unfolding across time, space, and every domain simultaneously.

Sources

Russia on track to build artillery shell stockpile triple the size of the US’s and Europe’s combined: top US general

Is Russia producing a year’s worth of NATO ammunition in three months?

WW2 Germany Population, Statistics, and Numbers

Russia Will Soon Fire 2,000 Drones a Day: ISW – Newsweek

With China’s Help, Moscow Says It Has Tripled Its Drone …

Russia ramps up drone war with more than … – RBC-Ukraine

Shahed drones – Intelligence reveals Russia’s monthly UAV …

Russia wants to produce over 6000 “Shaheds” per month – CNN

Russia significantly increases production of long-range drones


Soviet Deep Operations Doctrine: Origins and Key Theorists


This work is not intended to be an exhaustive overview of Soviet Deep Operations but rather a culmination of three years of interest and study in the subject—an area I intend to continue investigating with the hope of writing a full-length book. I am grateful to Dr. Curtis S. King, Associate Professor at the Combat Studies Institute, Fort Leavenworth, KS. Although we have never met, his insightful series “Mikhail Tukhachevsky, Soviet Theory, and Operational Warfare” on YouTube was the catalyst that sparked my deep dive into this field. His lecture provided a foundation from which I began exploring the writings of various Soviet military theorists and the invaluable contributions of Colonel David M. Glantz, particularly his book “Soviet Military Operational Art: In Pursuit of Deep Battle.” I highly recommend Dr. King’s lectures to anyone interested in the intricate world of Soviet military thought. This journey has been guided by the knowledge shared by these scholars, whose works have been instrumental in shaping my understanding of this complex and fascinating doctrine.


The genesis of the Deep Operations doctrine can be traced to the Soviet Union’s interwar period during the 1920s and 1930s. This unique doctrine’s objective is to achieve a decisive victory by neutralizing the enemy’s logistical capabilities, causing the defensive front to collapse under its weight.

The development of deep operations, also known as the Soviet deep battle doctrine, was profoundly influenced by the contrasting nature of warfare on the Western and Eastern Fronts during World War I. The Western Front’s static, trench-based warfare with little movement and the Eastern Front’s more fluid and dynamic nature, which proved to be a significant challenge, left a lasting impact. Franz Conrad von Hötzendorf (1852–1925) famously remarked, “In the west, the armies were too big for the land; in the east, the land was too big for the armies,” highlighting the fundamental differences in the strategic environments of the two fronts.

Soviet military theorists were highly critical of the static nature of trench warfare on the Western Front, seeing the prolonged stalemate and high casualty rates as evidence of strategic and tactical failures. They recognized the limitations of the Western Front’s geography, where the dense network of trenches, fortifications, and obstacles severely restricted large-scale maneuver operations. This concentration of forces in a narrow zone led to logistical challenges and limited opportunities for decisive movements.

Technological innovations, such as artillery bombardments, dominated the Western Front, yet these often failed to achieve strategic breakthroughs. While advancements like tanks and aircraft emerged, their initial deployment was limited and did not immediately transform the nature of warfare. Commanders, many of whom were veterans of previous wars like the Boer War and the Russo-Japanese War, struggled to adapt to the new realities of modern warfare. Their experience in leadership, logistics, and traditional tactics proved inadequate for the complex demands of World War I, where the effective execution of combined arms theory was still evolving.

Brusilov offensive 1916

Soviet military thinkers in the 1920s identified the vast size of the Eastern Front as both a strategic asset and a significant challenge. The expansive geography of Russia and Eastern Europe created operational and logistical difficulties that deeply influenced Soviet military thought. The immense distances made maintaining supply lines daunting, with armies operating far from their bases and facing delays in receiving essential supplies, equipment, and reinforcements. The underdeveloped infrastructure, particularly in remote areas, exacerbated these challenges, with poor roads, limited rail networks, and harsh weather conditions frequently disrupting the flow of resources.

Command and control also posed significant challenges on the Eastern Front. The sheer size of the theater necessitated decentralized command structures, leading to coordination difficulties and slower decision-making. Communication across vast distances was often unreliable, resulting in delays in transmitting orders and intelligence. While necessary due to the front’s scale, this decentralized command structure often led to a lack of cohesion and operational fragmentation. Commanders frequently focused on their immediate areas of responsibility, sometimes prioritizing local objectives over the broader strategic picture. This fragmentation hindered the effectiveness of operations and contributed to the Russian Army’s overall strategic failures in the war.

The decentralized command further complicated the maintenance of supply lines. Competing priorities among semi-independent units led to logistical bottlenecks and shortages. The movement and allocation of reinforcements were often poorly coordinated, leaving critical areas unsupported due to the lack of centralized control and planning.

This fractured command structure was a key reason for the Russian Army’s defeat. The Imperial Russian Army’s inability to execute large-scale, coordinated operations effectively stemmed from its fragmented leadership, nepotism, and overall corruption. Even well-conceived strategic decisions often failed due to poor communication and inadequate coordination across the military’s various components.

Soviet military thinkers later lambasted the Russian Imperial Army for its failure to adapt to the demands of modern warfare. They pointed out that the Army’s leadership had not developed a contemporary military doctrine to meet the evolving battlefield challenges. Instead, outdated tactics, such as mass infantry assaults, persisted, leading to severe casualties and operational failures. The inability to modernize and innovate within its military doctrine was a critical flaw that ultimately contributed to the Army’s decline.

Conclusion

In summary, Soviet military thinkers in the 1920s attributed the defeat of the Imperial Russian Army in World War I to a combination of ineffective command structures, logistical failures, and an inability to adapt to the demands of modern warfare. These factors combined created a situation of strategic exhaustion, a state of depletion that led to the Army’s eventual collapse and the revolutionary discontent that followed. This analysis laid the groundwork for developing the Deep Operations doctrine, which sought to address the shortcomings of earlier military strategies and adapt to the realities of 20th-century warfare.

After World War I, Soviet military thinkers in the 1920s—like Mikhail Tukhachevsky, Alexander Svechin, and Vladimir Triandafillov—took a hard look at the differences between the Eastern Front of World War I and the Polish-Soviet War of 1920. These two conflicts were worlds apart regarding scale, movement, and strategic challenges. For these military minds, understanding these differences was key to shaping the future of warfare.

Although the Red Army did not officially use what we now know as Deep Operations or Deep Battle during the Polish-Soviet War, the conflict was a crucial testing ground for these ideas. The strategies employed by the Red Army during the war hinted at the early stages of deep operations, showing promising glimpses of their potential—even if they were not fully formed or executed by later standards. In many ways, this war was a proving ground, helping to lay the groundwork for the doctrines that would eventually define Soviet military strategy.

The Eastern Front in World War I was massive and complex, with millions of troops battling across vast territories. Unlike the static trench warfare of the Western Front, the Eastern Front was highly fluid, marked by rapid advances and retreats that demanded enormous logistical and operational coordination over great distances. In contrast, the Polish-Soviet War of 1920 was much smaller. It was a fast-paced series of campaigns involving fewer troops and resources, more about swift maneuvers than a prolonged struggle. Although intense, it lacked the grand scale and industrial might of World War I.

Soviet military thinkers recognized that the lessons from the Polish-Soviet War could not be directly applied to a conflict on the scale of World War I. The smaller size of the war allowed for more flexibility but also exposed glaring weaknesses in Soviet operational planning and execution—flaws that could have been catastrophic in a larger conflict.

In the early stages of the war, the Red Army attempted a bold maneuver, aiming to penetrate Polish territory with a rapid advance toward Warsaw. The plan was to bypass fortified positions and strike directly at Poland’s heart, hoping to force a quick surrender. This approach reflected early ideas that would evolve into the deep battle concept—skipping strong points to disrupt the enemy’s rear and command. However, poor coordination, lack of reserves, and stretched supply lines meant the Red Army could not maintain its momentum, revealing significant flaws in executing complex operations.

The war underscored the critical importance of logistics, driving home that logistical planning couldn’t be an afterthought but had to be integrated into every operational planning level, especially in long-distance, sustained offensives. It also highlighted the need for better coordination and communication among combat units, which later became crucial aspects of the deep operations doctrine.

Ultimately, the Polish-Soviet War was a condensed version of the operational and strategic challenges faced on the Eastern Front during World War I. It served as a wake-up call for Soviet military thinkers, pushing them to refine their understanding of warfare. They saw the need for a new approach to integrate various military actions into a coherent whole, combining strategy and tactics through effective command, control, and logistics. This would eventually lead to developing the deep operations doctrine, focusing on synchronized, multi-layered attacks designed to keep constant pressure on the enemy.

In short, the Polish-Soviet War was a stark reminder of past challenges and a critical learning experience. It drove home the need for a more sophisticated approach to warfare, setting the stage for the deep operations doctrine that would redefine Soviet military strategy in the decades to come.

Vladimir Triandafillov (1894–1931)

Vladimir Triandafillov (1894–1931) coined the term “deep operation” and played a pivotal role in formulating the concepts that defined this military strategy in his book The Nature of the Operations of Modern Armies (1929). As a key theorist and planner in the Red Army, Triandafillov expanded on the ideas of deep operations. He introduced the concept of glubokiy boy (deep battle or fight), emphasizing the need for multi-echeloned attacks to sustain offensive momentum and penetrate great depths with massed armies to overwhelm and outmaneuver the enemy to obtain victory. However, Triandafillov was a realist. While he was offensive-minded, the Soviet Union’s economy was not ready for the high casualties that future wars would produce due to not being advanced enough for mechanization.

Alexander Svechin (1878–1938)

Alexander Svechin (1878–1938) was a prominent military theorist and historian who played a crucial role in shaping Soviet strategic thought by emphasizing that military strategy should be considered an art rather than a science, as argued in his book Strategy, which remains a crucial text in understanding the evolution of Soviet military doctrine. He argued that no universal strategy fits all situations; instead, the strategy must be adaptive and based on a deep understanding of the specific political, economic, and social contexts. Svechin also introduced the idea of operational art as the bridge between tactics and strategy. He emphasized the need for flexible and coherent operational planning that could adapt to changing circumstances on the battlefield. Svechin, like Triandafillov, argued that for deep operations to work, they had to prepare for a protracted conflict and stressed that the Soviet Union must be ready for total war, which would require the mobilization of all national resources.

Mikhail Frunze (1885–1925)

Mikhail Frunze (1885–1925) was a Bolshevik revolutionary who became one of the foremost military leaders in the early Soviet Union and significantly shaped its military doctrine. Regarding theory, Frunze advocated for creating a unique unified military doctrine, separate from the Czarist one, that would align with the political goals of the Soviet state. However, he would concede that his idea of a unique proletarian military was flawed since one would have to return to yesteryear’s military traditions and methods to be effective. He believed that military strategy should not be purely technical but should also serve the ideological aims of the Communist Party. Frunze advocated for the professionalizing and modernizing of the Red Army. He argued for the importance of a standing army, a professional officer corps, and the use of modern technology in warfare. He viewed warfare as an extension of class struggle. He believed that the Soviet military must be prepared to wage revolutionary wars against capitalist states and that this ideological perspective should inform all aspects of military strategy and organization.

Mikhail Tukhachevsky (1893–1937)

Mikhail Tukhachevsky (1893–1937) was a prominent Soviet military leader and theorist and is often regarded as the father of the deep operations theory. Tukhachevsky advocated for mobile warfare with large-scale, coordinated operations that would penetrate deep into enemy lines. He believed that massed artillery, mechanized forces, and aviation should work together to achieve deep penetrations that would bypass enemy strongpoints and collapse their defenses from within. His ideas laid the foundation for developing Soviet operational art, emphasizing enemy force’s destruction through depth rather than mere attrition, unlike Svechin, who advocated for a protracted war.

Georgii Isserson (1898–1976)

Georgii Isserson (1898–1976) was another leading Soviet military theorist who contributed to developing deep operations doctrine. While Tukhachevsky is regarded as the father of deep operations, Isserson expanded the idea of deep operations (glubokaya operation), which involved simultaneous strikes at multiple depths within the enemy’s operational depth. He argued that modern warfare required a shift from linear tactics to operations that could achieve strategic effects by dislocating the enemy’s command and control structures and logistical networks. Isserson’s works, particularly “The Evolution of Operational Art” and “Fundamentals of the Deep Operation,” became foundational texts in Soviet military education. His ideas were critical in shaping the Red Army’s approach during World War II.

The development of operational art in the Soviet military doctrine was, in part, intended to alleviate the pressure on Soviet forces by improving how military operations were planned and executed at a scale larger than tactics but smaller than grand strategy. Operational art aimed to bridge the gap between strategy and tactics, allowing for more effective management of large-scale, complex operations across vast distances, which was crucial given the Soviet Union’s unique geographical and logistical challenges.

The solution began by embracing and working with the vast Soviet landscape, a valuable strategic asset, and a double-edged sword. Leon Trotsky did not have a hand in developing deep operations but served as the Commissar of War and effective leader of the Red Army. However, in his 1919 article “Proletariat, to Horse!” Trotsky emphasizes the need to bring mobility back to the battlefield, reflecting lessons learned from the aftermath of World War I and the ongoing Russian Civil War at the time, where static, positional warfare often led to stalemates. Trotsky argues that increased mobility, particularly the use of cavalry, could exploit the vast and open Russian terrain to outmaneuver and surprise the enemy, restoring a dynamic element to warfare. Trotsky viewed Russia’s vast steppes and open spaces as a strategic asset that could be leveraged through mobile warfare. By emphasizing mounted troops, the Red Army could capitalize on the terrain in a way that other military forces might struggle with, especially those more reliant on mechanized units or static defenses. His ideas contributed to a broader Soviet military tradition that valued maneuvering and understood the need to take advantage of the terrain by developing deep operations, which was still to come.


It Begins with the Unified Military Doctrine

Mikhail Frunze played a crucial role in shaping Soviet military thought during the early 1920s, particularly through his advocacy for a “Unified Military Doctrine,” which was briefly discussed in his biography. Frunze wanted to create a cohesive and standardized military doctrine that would reflect the unique ideological and strategic needs of the Soviet state.

Frunze believed that the Red Army should not only be a fighting force but also an ideological tool aligned with the goals of the Soviet state. His vision of a Unified Military Doctrine emphasized that military strategy and operations should not be politically neutral or purely technical but deeply intertwined with Marxist-Leninist principles, making the army an extension of the Communist Party’s will and a departure from traditional military doctrines.

Frunze advocated this Unified Military Doctrine, arguing that future wars would be total wars requiring the complete mobilization of society’s resources, both military and civilian. He emphasized the importance of a politically indoctrinated and disciplined army prepared for battle, a huge contrast to the many Western armies at the time.

Drawing from insights gained during the Russian Civil War, Frunze proposed integrating regular military forces with irregular partisan units. He regarded partisan warfare as a pivotal component of Soviet military strategy, particularly for safeguarding against potential invasions and executing offensive operations in hostile terrain.

Frunze pushed for a centralized and unified command structure within the Red Army, seeking to eliminate the fragmentation and inconsistencies that plagued military operations during the Civil War. This included establishing standardized training, command procedures, and organizational reforms to professionalize the Red Army while maintaining its revolutionary character.

Although Frunze did not fully develop the concept of Deep Operations, his ideas laid the groundwork for later Soviet theorists. He stressed the need for flexible and dynamic operational art beyond trench warfare and static defense, envisioning fluid and coordinated maneuvers to achieve strategic breakthroughs.

Overall, Mikhail Frunze conceded that there was no distinct “proletarian military art” at the time, a significant point in his discussions on Soviet military doctrine. Frunze acknowledged the challenges in creating an entirely new military art that was uniquely proletarian, given the Red Army’s reliance on inherited military practices and the limited time it had to develop its doctrines independently. This admission reflected the complexities of merging revolutionary ideology with practical military needs.

While Frunze’s Unified Military Doctrine did not achieve all its lofty goals, it was a necessary and influential step in the evolution of the Soviet military. Its primary value lay in its role as a transitional doctrine that helped stabilize and professionalize the Red Army. It was a vital part of the ongoing development of Soviet military thought.

While Frunze’s ideas called for the professionalization of the Red Army, Alexander Svechin gave it a practical doctrine in his book Strategy. Alexander Svechin was vital in developing Soviet military thought in the interwar period. His theories were highly influential in shaping the Red Army’s strategic approach, particularly in contrast to the more operationally focused ideas of contemporaries like Mikhail Tukhachevsky. Svechin’s theories emphasized the importance of strategic depth, adaptability, and the need for a scientific approach to military planning.

Svechin argued that strategy should be viewed as an art and a science. He emphasized the need for a thorough, scientific analysis of military problems, integrating a broad understanding of political, economic, and social factors into military planning. For Svechin, war was not merely about operational or tactical success but required a comprehensive approach that connected military actions with political objectives.

If and when war broke out, Svechin, like Frunze, recognized the significance of “total war,” where the entire nation, not just the military, was involved in the conflict. He emphasized that modern wars required mobilizing all economic, industrial, and social resources to achieve victory. This holistic approach influenced Soviet planning for potential large-scale wars, integrating civilian and military efforts.

However, Svechin, contrary to the more aggressive strategies advocated by other Soviet theorists, recognized the value of strategic defense. He argued that defensive strategies could be a viable and necessary component of warfare, especially when dealing with a superior adversary or preparing for a counteroffensive. His emphasis on defense reflected a pragmatic approach to military planning, considering the realities of Soviet military capabilities at the time. The reason for this is the Soviet Union’s economic limitations. Svechin emphasized the need to prepare the nation for war by aligning military plans with economic capabilities and ensuring that military actions were sustainable over the long term. He believed that war could not be left to chance and that strategic foresight was essential.

Svechin advocated for adaptability in military strategy, arguing that no single formula existed for success. He recognized two broad types of war: the war of attrition (positional warfare) and the war of maneuver. Svechin argued that commanders must be prepared to switch between these types depending on the situation, resources, and enemy capabilities. He was critical of an over-reliance on maneuver warfare, highlighting the dangers of being unprepared for prolonged conflicts.

Svechin was one of the first Soviet theorists to distinguish between strategy, operational art, and tactics. He defined strategy as the highest level of military art, concerned with the overall conduct of war and the connection between military means and political ends. Operational art was the link between strategy and tactics, involving the planning and execution of campaigns. Svechin’s ideas helped establish the framework that later Soviet military theorists would refine into the concept of Deep Operations.

Overall, Svechin’s theories concerning Deep Operations were conservative compared to the more revolutionary ideas of his other proponents, who focused on rapid, offensive warfare. However, Svechin’s emphasis on adaptability, strategic planning, and the scientific approach to war provided a foundational theoretical framework that continued to influence Soviet military thought.

While Svechin argued from a defensive position, his counterpart Mikhail Tukhachevsky sought an offensive approach. Mikhail Tukhachevsky was one of the most influential Soviet military theorists and commanders of the interwar period. Often referred to as the “Red Napoleon,” Tukhachevsky was a key architect of Soviet military modernization and played a pivotal role in developing the theory of Deep Operations, which profoundly shaped Soviet military doctrine leading into World War II. His theories emphasized offensive warfare, maneuverability, and the integration of new technologies, such as mechanization and aviation, into military strategy.

Tukhachevsky is best known for developing the concept of Deep Operations, a revolutionary approach to warfare that aimed to break the enemy’s front line and disrupt its rear simultaneously. Unlike traditional warfare, which focused on achieving victory through attrition and positional battles, Deep Operations sought to create multiple breaches in the enemy’s defenses, exploit those breaches with rapid mechanized forces, and cause systemic collapse by attacking command structures, supply lines, and reserves far behind the front.

Tukhachevsky was a staunch advocate of offensive warfare. He believed the defense was inherently passive and could only lead to a prolonged, costly war of attrition, which was unsustainable for the Soviet Union. He argued that decisive, aggressive action was necessary to maintain the initiative, disrupt enemy plans, and achieve rapid victory. This offensive mindset underpinned much of his strategic thinking and was reflected in the Red Army’s doctrinal evolution under his influence.

A forward-looking thinker, Tukhachevsky emphasized the need to modernize the Soviet military by integrating new technologies such as tanks, aircraft, and motorized infantry. He envisioned a highly mobile army that could conduct deep, rapid maneuvers. Tukhachevsky was one of the first Soviet theorists to fully grasp the potential of mechanized and armored forces in creating breakthroughs and exploiting them at an operational depth, which would overwhelm traditional defensive tactics.

To make deep operations work, Tukhachevsky advocated using combined arms, integrating infantry, artillery, tanks, and air power to achieve synergy on the battlefield. He believed that different arms of the military should operate in close coordination to support each other, creating a force multiplier effect. This approach aimed to maximize the strengths of each component and minimize their weaknesses, achieving overwhelming force at decisive points.

Tukhachevsky believed that future wars would be characterized by mass and scale, requiring vast mobilization of men and resources. In other words, total war. He stressed the importance of preparing the Soviet Union for large-scale conflicts involving millions of troops and requiring extensive logistical planning. His theories highlighted the need for the Soviet military to be prepared for protracted and widespread engagements rather than limited or localized conflicts.

To control this juggernaut of a fighting force, Tukhachevsky proposed a command structure that allowed for centralized strategic planning but encouraged decentralized execution at the operational and tactical levels. While high command would set the overall objectives and strategies, field commanders were given flexibility and autonomy to adapt to the evolving battlefield conditions. This approach was intended to make the Soviet military more responsive and adaptable in dynamic combat situations.

Tukhachevsky strongly emphasized the innovative use of artillery and air power to support offensive operations. He advocated massing artillery to create overwhelming firepower at critical points of attack and using air forces for direct support, strategic bombing, reconnaissance, and disrupting enemy communications. His theories anticipated using air and ground forces to achieve tactical and operational breakthroughs. Tukhachevsky also recognized the importance of psychological factors in warfare. He emphasizes speed, surprise, and relentless pressure to demoralize the enemy and force them into disorganized retreats or surrenders.

Tukhachevsky’s theories were groundbreaking and pushed the Soviet military towards a modern, highly mechanized force that sought to dominate through speed, coordination, and deep penetration into enemy territory. However, his ideas were not without controversy; they clashed with more conservative views within the Soviet military, and Tukhachevsky’s career was cut short by Stalin’s Great Purge in 1937, during which he was arrested and executed. Despite his tragic end, Tukhachevsky’s military theories influenced Soviet military doctrine and played a critical role in shaping the Red Army’s approach during World War II.

While Svechin was defensive and positional, Tukhachevsky was offensive and maneuvering, and many of the remaining Soviet theorists agreed with both sides. In the end, both Svechin and Tukhachevsky agreed that to maneuver, one must position, and to maneuver to attack, one must do so from a position of strength.

Frunze emphasized political-ideological integration and class warfare, focusing on unified doctrine.

Svechin advocated adaptability, caution, and the balance of offensive and defensive operations, criticizing dogmatic approaches.

Isserson expanded on deep operations, emphasizing continuous and multi-layered attacks to achieve deep penetration.

Tukhachevsky championed aggressive, large-scale, mechanized warfare, emphasizing mobility and technological innovation.

Triandafillov focused on the operational level, highlighting depth, echeloning, and logistics as crucial elements of sustained offensive operations.

“The three basic elements of an operation, strength, time and space, are always combined in a strategy of destruction so that gaining time and space is a means and defeating the mass of the enemy’s army is the end.” —Alexander Svechin p, 239.

Before initiating an offensive action, extensive reconnaissance and intelligence-gathering operations are carried out to pinpoint enemy positions, assess their strengths and weaknesses, and understand their command structures. It is imperative to gain a comprehensive understanding of the depth of the enemy’s defenses. Soviet commanders meticulously develop a multifaceted military operation with well-defined phases, objectives, and coordinated efforts across different branches. Their strategic focus revolves around targeting the enemy’s logistical network, command structures, reserves, and depth rather than solely concentrating on frontline positions.

After thorough preparation and strategic planning, the Soviet forces position themselves for tactical maneuvers. The operation begins with intense artillery and aerial bombardments designed to destroy enemy fortifications, disrupt command and control, and suppress enemy firepower. Precision strikes target key points within the enemy’s tactical depth, such as communication hubs and artillery positions.

Afterward, a combined arms assault consisting of infantry, tanks, engineers, and supporting artillery launches a coordinated attack on the enemy’s frontline defenses. The aim is not just to penetrate but to create multiple breaches in the enemy’s line, allowing for deeper exploitation. These shock units, specially designated with superior firepower and armor, are employed to break through the first line of defense quickly. Engineers clear obstacles and mines, while flamethrowers and other specialized weapons neutralize fortified positions.

Once a breach is achieved, mechanized and tank units exploit the gaps, pushing into the enemy’s rear areas. This phase aims to destabilize the enemy by rapidly advancing and targeting their command centers, artillery positions, and logistics hubs. This causes a cascade of confusion that will disrupt the enemy reserves, which are intercepted and neutralized by the mechanized and airborne units before they can reinforce the front line. Simultaneously, airborne operations may seize critical locations, such as bridges or road junctions, to further complicate enemy movements. Tactical air forces provide continuous support by attacking enemy reinforcements, supply lines, and defensive positions in depth, maintaining pressure and preventing the enemy from regrouping.

The operation involves multiple echelons (waves) of forces moving forward. The first echelon focuses on breaching and exploiting the front, while the second echelon reinforces the attack and pushes deeper. The third echelon (often fresh reserves) prepares for new offensives or exploitation in response to the evolving battle. These simultaneous, multiple-layered, continuous attacks are launched on multiple enemy positions simultaneously, overwhelming their ability to respond effectively. This disrupts their defense and command structure, creating confusion and compounding losses. Mobile logistics units rapidly follow the advancing forces, establishing supply points to maintain the momentum of the attack. Supply lines are secured to ensure the continuous flow of ammunition, fuel, and reinforcements.

The primary objective is to completely encircle and cut off large enemy formations, trapping them without access to essential supplies and reinforcements. This move often results in the capture or annihilation of enemy units. Soviet forces strategically advanced into enemy territory to seize vital targets crucial to the enemy’s war efforts. These targets encompassed transportation hubs, industrial areas, and communication centers, which played a pivotal role in maintaining the enemy’s logistical and operational capabilities.

After achieving the operational goals, forces consolidate their gains and prepare for either a transition to defense against potential counterattacks or continued offensive operations. This phase focuses on securing captured territory, reorganizing forces, and setting conditions for future actions. The scale and speed of Deep Operations often have psychological effects on the enemy, potentially leading to loss of morale, panic, and political instability, which can hasten the collapse of enemy resistance.

Success on the battlefield hinges on the ability to strike effectively at enemy lines while coordinating the combined efforts of different military branches—air, artillery, and mechanized forces. Deep Operations emphasize relentless, continuous offensive actions that deny the enemy the chance to regroup or mount a coherent defense. Commanders must remain adaptable and capable of making swift, decisive moves to exploit emerging weaknesses in real-time. This approach shifts warfare from static, attritional confrontations to dynamic, fluid campaigns that aim to win battles and comprehensively dismantle the enemy’s strategic capacity to fight.

Strategic depth, however, is a double-edged sword. The vast expanses of the Soviet landscape, both then and now, present a complex paradox: they serve as a protective buffer against invasion and pose significant logistical challenges for any military force seeking to defend or advance. This immense scale can absorb and dissipate military strength, complicating even the most sophisticated doctrines, such as the German Bewegungskrieg or Blitzkrieg, which struggled against these geographic constraints during World War II.

This geographic reality fundamentally drove the Soviet Union’s development of Deep Operations. The vast, relatively flat terrain of Eastern Europe and Soviet territories provided the ideal setting for a doctrine prioritizing operational depth and rapid maneuver. Deep Operations were designed not just to repel invaders but to leverage the Soviet Union’s expansive borders as a battlefield advantage, turning space challenges into a powerful tool for defense and offense. This doctrine’s evolution reflects a profound understanding of how geography shapes strategy, offering a tailored solution to the unique demands of the Soviet strategic environment.

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