“W

e’re back!” the United States seems to say—again. With the Arctic now featured in the National Security Strategy, the appointment of the first U.S. ambassador to the region, and a rumored joint initiative with Canada and Finland to launch 70 to 90 icebreakers over the next decade, the Biden-Harris administration has abruptly seized the reins of a polar renaissance that had been faltering for years. The current president’s recent remarks—“We need Greenland for reasons of national and international security”—echo, in Trumpian fashion, the episodic bursts of attention that have long defined America’s approach to the Arctic. Like Jonathan Mostow’s Terminator, the U.S. has returned to the north: sudden, impassive, and unexpected—amid the debris of a world on fire. 

 

From the War on Terror to the Arctic 

The U.S. first “entered” the Arctic during the waning days of the war on terror, when the outgoing Bush administration released its inaugural Arctic strategy in January 2009: National Security Directive NSPD-66 (also known as HSPD-25)—hardly a catchy title for the general public. The document framed the Arctic primarily through a national security lens, highlighting concerns such as missile defense, early warning systems, terrorist threats, freedom of navigation, and climate change. These themes have shaped U.S. Arctic strategy ever since, across administrations and party lines. What changes is the emphasis: some presidents, like Obama and Biden, have leaned into multilateral cooperation, while others, like Trump, have struck a more assertive tone. 

O

ne thing is clear: as global warming erodes the natural barriers of Canada and Alaska, the Arctic is no longer a distant periphery—it has become a new security frontier for the United States, a nation long accustomed to the luxury of vast strategic buffers. On one hand, the accelerating effects of climate change and rising tensions with Russia have prompted a renewed focus on traditional national defense, with U.S. strategy continuing to highlight the presence of threats in the region. On the other hand, the opportunities created by climate change—frequently mentioned in every Arctic strategy—remain vague and poorly defined. This reflects an Arctic posture still dominated by military concerns and limited engagement with civil society. 

The last Democratic administration revived hopes for a liberal-leaning Arctic posture—one that could engage allies and partners in a multilateral framework, with the U.S. as primus inter pares. The explicit recognition of climate change across federal policy laid the groundwork for a more coherent Arctic strategy. This shift began with high-level declarations—Defense Secretary Austin, for instance, called climate change an “existential threat”—and a flurry of executive orders in January 2021. To be fair, even Trump’s initial Arctic policy, though couched in roundabout language, acknowledged climate change. But the result was a fragmented approach, shaped by friction between political leadership and the military establishment. 

 

Containment and multilateralism 

Despite shifts in tone and policy, the U.S.’s primary concerns in the Arctic still revolve around Russia and China. Russia remains the traditional threat. Even after relocating nearly half of its Arctic-based forces to the Ukrainian front, its “bastion strategy”—an anti-access/area denial (A2/AD) zone extending from the GIUK gap to internal waters and centered on the Kola Peninsula—continues to pose the most serious military challenge in the region. As declared at the 2022 NATO Summit in Madrid, Russia is the “most direct and significant” threat to the alliance. The accession of Sweden and Finland has extended NATO’s border with Russia by more than 1,300 kilometers, making Russian Arctic militarization a far greater concern than U.S. frustration over tolls along the Northern Sea Route. The shift toward a strategy of denial and the reactivation of NATO’s “Northern Flank” mark a turning point in U.S. circumpolar engagement. In the months ahead, Washington will need to carefully balance the physical presence of forces in Northern Europe with its ability to project power globally in a crisis. 

The 2018 reactivation of the U.S. Second Fleet signaled renewed attention to the North Atlantic and Arctic theaters. Around the same time, each branch of the U.S. armed forces released dedicated Arctic strategies for the first time. Between 2020 and 2021, two squadrons of F-35As were stationed at Eielson Air Force Base in Alaska. Finland, for its part, plans to purchase 64 of the aircraft in the coming years. Meanwhile, extreme-weather military exercises have ramped up significantly, including joint training with Norwegian and Finnish forces. 

W

ashington sees China’s growing Arctic presence as a soft power strategy aimed at gaining influence through regional governance, investments in critical minerals, and scientific research—some of which is suspected to have dual-use potential. This is why the U.S. rejected China’s 2018 self-designation as a “Near-Arctic State.” Recent U.S. statements regarding Greenland and the possibility of referendums should be understood in this context: part of an effort—through rhetoric or policy, with unclear means—to counter China’s foothold in the critical minerals market and to reinforce American forward defense. Still, this renewed U.S. focus on the Arctic may not be permanent. American interest in the “northern front” has long followed a pattern of sudden engagement followed by abrupt disengagement. One telling example: funds allocated in the 2018 federal budget for expanding the icebreaker fleet were redirected in 2020 to build the wall along the U.S.–Mexico border. 

It was, after all, a 2008 U.S. Geological Survey bulletin that first triggered a wave of sudden—and often superficial—interest in the Arctic’s potential, especially in fossil fuel reserves. Long held up as a banner for Arctic access, the report ultimately proved overly optimistic. The Trans Alaska Pipeline System (TAPS), which still carries crude from the North Slope across 800 kilometers of tundra and mountains to the port of Valdez, has seen a steady decline in volume—from 2 million barrels per day in the 1980s and ‘90s to just 500,000 today. This downward trend shows no sign of reversing, despite seasonal and yearly fluctuations. Yet U.S. policy toward hydrocarbons remains a constant tug-of-war. In September 2023, the Biden administration blocked seven North Slope drilling leases previously approved by Trump—only for Trump to later greenlight them again. The debate also intensified around Biden’s approval of the controversial Willow project, owned by ConocoPhillips, which the Carnegie Endowment estimated could generate emissions equivalent to 4 percent of the total U.S. carbon footprint. More recently, the conclusion of a decade-long negotiation for the $44 billion Alaska LNG Project was announced. Backed by Trump, the plan would see a pipeline built from the North Slope to Nikiski, where liquefied gas would be exported to East Asian markets. Despite some interest from Asian governments, the project faces significant hurdles. Long lead times, the uncertain future of Trump’s political return, tariffs on U.S. energy partners, net-zero commitments by buyer countries, and global economic volatility through 2030 all cast doubt on its viability. 

 

 

 

 

Disappointed expectations 

It’s worth remembering that Alaska has yet to fulfill the rosy expectations tied to the so-called “new Arctic.” Both American and international companies have consistently run up against the gray zones of international law and the steep costs of building in extreme conditions. In recent years, several energy firms—including major European players—have withdrawn from the region. In the event of a major disaster, natural or otherwise, the U.S. Coast Guard would face a daunting challenge: reaching targets north of Nome would require traveling 1,000 to 2,000 kilometers by sea or air, in harsh weather, with only one operational American icebreaker—the medium-class Healy, which has suffered repeated onboard accidents. 

Inflation and rising raw material costs have triggered two major reversals. In October of last year, plans to expand the port of Nome—the only deep-water port capable of jumpstarting true Arctic trade—were scrapped. Meanwhile, with just two active icebreakers (one of them, the heavy Polar Star, also serving in Antarctica), the U.S. risks being unprepared for emergencies in Arctic waters. In 2024, the United States sought to bridge this capability gap through the Icebreaker Collaboration Effort—aptly named the ICE Pact—signed with Finland and Canada. The agreement commits the three countries to jointly build at least nine icebreakers over the coming years—though just how many years remains unclear. U.S. investments in the Arctic so far have been selective—focused on advancing national interests without committing beyond what is strictly necessary, especially amid rising global threats and fiscal constraints. The current Arctic strategy reflects the early contours of a more modest form of containment: a deliberate, restrained presence designed to be effective without being expansive. In this context, Arctic Ambassador Michael Sfraga’s coordinating role will be key in fostering cooperation with European allies—nations with deep Arctic expertise, greater geographic exposure, and a pressing need to act within their own military, political, and commercial spheres. These allies are asserting their indispensability, while the United States, increasingly inward-looking, channels its efforts into its own Arctic territories—concentrating military posture and energy development within a strategic framework once again marked by the tension between shared responsibility and national retrenchment.