Trump’s broken-clock doctrine

His enablers do not ask whether his foreign policy is effective; they work backward to justify it.

By Brian O’Neill

In the early months of his second term, President Donald Trump has embraced the same instinct-driven, bluster-heavy approach to foreign policy that defined his first—but now with even greater confidence.

If his first term saw moments of restraint, however brief or forced, his reelection has reinforced his belief that disruption is power, and that every previous caution was unnecessary. From annexing Greenland to declaring Canada the 51st state, his pronouncements—some audacious, others absurd—signal not a shift but an escalation.

His call to reclaim control of the Panama Canal was no less provocative. Trump insisted China's growing influence posed direct threats to U.S. national security, insisting that America needed to take back the canal, which had been peacefully transferred to Panama under a treaty signed by President Carter in 1977. Panamanian officials promptly rejected Trump's claims, asserting their country's sovereignty and dismissing accusations of undue Chinese influence.

Some would argue—and Trump certainly would—that developments over the past week affirm his approach not as reckless or fickle, but as a form of three-dimensional chess. In a significant economic maneuver, American investment firm BlackRock announced on March 4 a $22.8 billion deal to acquire major port operations at both ends of the Panama Canal from Hong Kong-based conglomerate CK Hutchison. The deal, which includes 43 ports globally, triggered an immediate and furious response from Beijing. On March 13, Ta Kung Pao, a Chinese Communist Party-controlled newspaper, condemned the sale as a betrayal of Chinese national interests, while state-backed media outlets accused CK Hutchison of capitulating to U.S. pressure and warned that the move would undermine China’s trade security.

Perhaps emboldened by this development, reports surfaced on March 13 that the White House had directed the U.S. military to develop plans for an expanded presence in Panama. This initiative, framed as an effort to counter China's regional influence, aligns with a broader pattern in Trump's second-term foreign policy: escalating tariffs against allies, questioning NATO’s Article 5 obligations, and issuing high-profile diplomatic rebukes, such as his public admonishment of Ukrainian President Zelensky.

Trump's assertions often draw eye rolls and dismissive laughter, both at home and abroad. Yet, when the geopolitical cards occasionally fall in line with his instincts—however crudely expressed—his critics find themselves momentarily silenced. For his supporters, these events affirm their belief that Trump is a master strategist with a sound approach.

Trump’s foreign policy—more reactionary than considered, self-aggrandizement versus prescription—raises the unsettling question: can impulsive and seemingly chaotic decisions sometimes resemble strategic brilliance? Sun Tzu, the ancient Chinese military strategist, advocated unpredictability to confound adversaries—but he meant controlled ambiguity, not reckless unpredictability.

Critics might dismiss this as the proverbial broken clock: inevitably correct at certain points by sheer luck, not skill. And yet, international politics judges outcomes, not intentions. What happens if observers credit Trump with strategic acumen he neither planned nor fully understood? Could a chaotic presidency inadvertently validate chaos as strategy?

His first administration, particularly under figures like James Mattis, H.R. McMaster, and John Kelly, projected an illusion of strategic depth. These officials, however flawed their tenure, at least provided a veneer of discipline—attempting to channel Trump’s impulses into something resembling coherent policy.

Those guardrails are gone. Trump’s second-term advisers do not refine his instincts; they reinforce them.

This is a dangerous shift. History warns of the perils of leaders who insulate themselves within echo chambers, reinforcing their own biases rather than inviting dissent. Rather than challenging Lyndon Johnson’s flawed assumptions, his Vietnam-era advisors reinforced them—allowing escalation to harden into doctrine.

Today, Trump’s White House functions in much the same way, with loyalty prized over competence. His enablers do not ask whether his foreign policy is effective; they work backward to justify it, reframing spontaneous actions as deliberate strategy.

Trump’s policymaking, particularly in foreign affairs, has often been likened to the "Madman Theory". The concept is often attributed to Richard M. Nixon; in fact, it predates him to Machiavelli, who advised that “at times it is a very wise thing to simulate madness.” Nixon modernized the strategy for the Cold War to convince adversaries that he was willing to take extreme action.

Yet, the distinction is not simply that both leaders engaged in erratic behavior. Nixon used unpredictability as a tactic. With Trump, unpredictability is simply his nature.

Nixon’s threats were part of a deliberate game to manipulate adversaries into giving ground. Trump, by contrast, swings wildly—threatening “fire and fury” one day, then professing “love” for Kim Jong Un the next.

The White House today does not resemble Sun Tzu’s disciplined deception; it looks more like a gambler’s wild bets, mistaken for strategy only when luck intervenes.

Trump's approach might be better described as "The Shotgun Doctrine": firing indiscriminately. Occasionally, his scattershot approach hits its intended target—but more often, it wounds allies, damages institutions, and undermines trust.

To press the metaphor to its limits, a quail is brought down now and then, but soon the hunting dogs are gone, the hunting party dwindles, and the once-thriving landscape is left scarred and barren. What began as aggressive unpredictability becomes unsustainable, as allies retreat, adversaries adapt, and the cost of chaos outweighs its victories.

The Panama Canal incident will be presented as evidence of his unconventional but effective leadership, ignoring countless episodes in which impulsiveness resulted in limited results or unforeseen outcomes.

But there is a breaking point for this approach. A leader who is erratic all the time eventually stops being feared—not because their threats are too great, but because he becomes too predictable in his unpredictability. Once the pattern is recognized, adversaries adapt, counter, and neutralize its effectiveness.

Russia has called Trump’s bluffs countless times and will do so again. Russian President Vladimir Putin’s refusal on March 13 to embrace fully Trump’s Ukraine ceasefire is not a rejection—it’s a calculated delay. Though Trump framed Putin’s response as "promising” but “incomplete," the Kremlin’s actual stance is more revealing. Putin has crafted a protracted negotiation process, not to explore peace but to extract concessions—knowing that Trump values the illusion of progress over the substance of commitment.

The real test is coming. What happens when NATO allies, once cautious, decide they too can afford to call Trump’s bets? For now, they hesitate, constrained by internal divisions and economic pressures. But as they find firmer footing, they will start countering his unpredictability with deliberate strategy.

When Trump can no longer force concessions through sheer bluster, what does he do next? His instinct has always been to double down—to raise the stakes, escalate the rhetoric, and push forward with even less restraint. But when everyone at the table expects the bluff, the game changes.

At some point, wildcard diplomacy stops looking like leverage and starts looking like impotence. The moment allies and adversaries alike cease reacting, Trump will not face a choice—escalation itself will expose the limits of his approach. If he doubles down, he risks confirming that his threats lack real coercive power. If he pulls back, he reveals that his unpredictability was never truly strategic.

Either way, the illusion of control fades, and the consequences of his tactics become unavoidable.

The Panama Canal incident, like so many before it, will be framed as a vindication of Trump’s approach. His supporters will hold it up as proof that instinct beats expertise. But history judges not just isolated victories, but the larger trajectory of a nation’s power.

A broken clock might be right twice a day, but no serious strategist would build plans around it.

Brian O’Neill, a retired senior executive from the CIA and National Counterterrorism Center, is an instructor on strategic intelligence at Georgia Tech.

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