The Next Great Game
By Todd Davis
Editor’s note: The opinions expressed here are those of the authors. View more opinion on ScoonTV
Arctic Militarization and the Drive for Polar Dominance
Trump doesn’t want Greenland for the reindeer.
Capricious as his executive whims may appear, the former president’s interest in acquiring Greenland was no idle fantasy. It signaled an opening gambit in the next Great Game: a 21st-century contest for control of the Arctic Circle, where mineral wealth, global trade routes, and military supremacy await the victor.
The pursuit of energy resources, secure passages, and forward military bases is nothing new. In the 19th century, Great Britain and the Russian Empire clashed in the shadows of Central Asia in what came to be known as the Great Game, a long strategic duel over influence in the Indian subcontinent.
Today, the Arctic represents a modern equivalent. It is a frontier where global powers can engage in colonial-style competition without the messy optics of subjugating indigenous populations. Polar bears don’t protest resource extraction or naval bases carved into the ice.
Russia, the United States, China, Canada, and the Nordic states are all investing heavily in the region. They understand the old truth: in exploration and empire-building, the first to arrive usually gets to draw the map.
Suppose Ukraine reflects a traditional land war for influence and resource corridors. In that case, the next frontier may well resemble a James Bond set piece: ice fortresses, covert operations, and high-stakes brinkmanship beneath the aurora.
Far-fetched? Perhaps. But the U.S. already tried to install nuclear missiles beneath the ice cap at Camp Century in the 1960s under Operation Iceworm. In the Great Game, nothing is off the table.
Maps, Manouvers, and Imperial Gambits
In 1819, a young Russian officer, Captain Nikolai Muraviev, rode into Central Asia disguised in local garb, speaking fluent Tartar and traveling with a caravan headed toward the khanate of Khiva. His camels were burdened not with arms but with opulence, gifts meant to charm a local ruler. It was espionage in slow motion. Reconnaissance wrapped in diplomacy. First contact, then commerce, then coercion. This was the blueprint for the Great Game.
Throughout the 19th century, the Russian Empire and Great Britain vied for control of the vast, unmapped spaces stretching from the Caucasus to the Himalayas. The stakes were nothing less than mastery over the Indian subcontinent and the buffer zones that surrounded it. The terrain was unforgiving, and the maps were lies as often as they were true. But still they came: surveyors, diplomats, explorers, and spies, each the advance guard of empire.
For Britain, India was the crown jewel of its colonial holdings, and any Russian move toward it set off alarms from Calcutta to Whitehall. For Russia, Central Asia was a frontier of opportunity and prestige. When skirmishes turned into confrontations, diplomacy gave way to saber-rattling. The Crimean War in the 1850s was the first real explosion of this imperial rivalry, but it was hardly the last.
If anything, the Game intensified. By the 1870s, Russia had occupied Tashkent and Samarkand. Britain, in turn, launched two separate wars in Afghanistan to keep the bear at bay. Neither side trusted the other. Both sides feared the vacuum of unclaimed space. In the end, the Game was not about conquest alone, but about position, being there before the other guy.
Sound familiar?
Fast forward two centuries, and the setting has changed from desert and steppe to ice shelf and permafrost. But the logic remains intact. Today, it is the Arctic where the new lines are being drawn, just as uncertain, just as contested, and potentially just as explosive.
The flags have changed. The tactics, not so much.
An Ice-Cold Opportunity
To the untrained eye, the Arctic appears desolate, an endless expanse of snow, ice, and polar silence. But beneath that frozen crust lies one of the most contested frontiers of the 21st century.
Geography, not aesthetics, drives ambition. The Arctic Circle is rapidly becoming a strategic corridor where national interest, military posturing, and economic competition converge.
Start with resources. According to U.S. Geological Survey estimates, the Arctic holds about 13% of the world’s undiscovered oil and 30% of its untapped natural gas. Trillions of dollars in rare earth minerals, fisheries, and deep-sea deposits lie dormant beneath the permafrost and continental shelves. If you can get to them.
Then consider trade routes. As polar ice recedes due to climate change, new sea lanes are emerging. The Northern Sea Route, hugging the Siberian coast, can shave thousands of nautical miles off the trip from Europe to Asia compared to the Suez Canal. The Northwest Passage, long the stuff of maritime myth, may soon be navigable for commercial shipping. Whoever controls these passages controls the flow of goods, and potentially the tolls that go with them.
Finally, there’s the military equation. The Arctic isn’t just about extraction and transit. It’s a platform for projection, with submarine operations beneath the ice, long-range missile stations, early-warning radar, and over-the-horizon surveillance. Control of the Arctic offers not just economic leverage but first-strike positioning in any future great power conflict.
But the clock is ticking. Melting ice isn’t just an environmental signal. It’s an invitation.
The great powers know this. And like Muraviev entering Central Asia with his caravan, they’ve already begun to move. Some have reactivated Cold War-era bases. Others are laying fiber-optic cables under the sea or cutting billion-dollar checks for Arctic infrastructure. Each nation brings a different strategy, a different motive. All want the same prize.
So, who’s first to plant the flag, and what happens when the flags start to overlap?
Trump’s Ice Deal and the Reawakening of Arctic Ambitions
Donald Trump didn’t invent American interest in the Arctic, but he gave it a face and, a headline.
In 2019, Trump floated the idea of buying Greenland from Denmark, triggering widespread ridicule and diplomatic confusion. The media focused on the absurdity of the optics, but the strategic logic wasn’t far-fetched. Greenland is the geographic linchpin of Arctic dominance. Its landmass bridges North America and Europe, provides early-warning coverage over the polar approach, and offers basing options for long-range bombers and missile defenses.
And critically, it sits atop vast stores of rare earth minerals and untapped energy.
Remember, Greenland isn’t about reindeer, it’s about radar and resources.
Trump’s offer was blunt, almost parodic, but it reflected a growing realization in Washington. The Arctic is no longer a frozen afterthought. It’s a live theater. And the U.S., for too long, has been playing catch-up.
For decades, American Arctic policy was reactive and fragmented. The Cold War-era DEW Line (Distant Early Warning radar system) crisscrossed Alaska and northern Canada, designed to give advance notice of Soviet ICBMs. But when the Iron Curtain fell, interest in the region thawed faster than the polar ice.
That changed in the 21st century. Melting ice opened new possibilities and vulnerabilities. The Department of Defense began reassessing its Arctic posture. The Coast Guard released updated strategies. And Congress finally started funding new icebreakers, the kind of specialized ships that Russia already deploys by the dozen.
Trump’s Greenland moment wasn’t an outlier, it was a blunt signal. Under his administration, the Pentagon labeled the Arctic a strategic priority. The 2019 Department of Defense Arctic Strategy warned of great power competition, emphasized freedom of navigation, and committed to defending U.S. interests above the 66th parallel.
Thule Air Base, built during the Cold War and located on Greenland’s northwestern coast, suddenly took on renewed importance. Originally designed as a surveillance and refueling station, it now supports missile defense operations and remains the northernmost U.S. military installation in the world.
But the Trump administration’s Arctic policy wasn’t just about defense, it was about economic leverage. The goal was clear: keep China out, check Russia’s ambitions, and establish a firmer American footprint before others locked in access. Trump’s approach lacked nuance, but not instinct. He understood what Muraviev understood in 1819: the nation that arrives first often defines the rules.
The question isn’t whether the U.S. wants a stake in the Arctic. The question is whether it’s willing to pay the price, in tonnage, treaty, and tenacity, to claim it. Trump wants Greenland. Badly. His interest in Canda? Same reasons. Both have prime real estate and few resources to protect it.
During Trump’s second term, Arctic policy looks to aggressively capitalize on and enhance what he started five years ago.
Because while America ponders icebreakers, annexations, and trade agreements, Russia is already there.
The Empire Strikes North
If the United States is waking up to the Arctic, Russia has been wide awake for decades, with fur-lined boots on the ground and icebreakers prowling the sea lanes.
Vladimir Putin doesn’t view the Arctic as a future theater. For Moscow, it’s a live front; economically, militarily, and ideologically. While the West sees the Arctic as a zone of cooperation and science, the Kremlin sees it as a vault. A frozen treasure trove to be fortified and exploited.
Russia controls over half of the Arctic Ocean coastline and claims sovereignty over a staggering 1.7 million square kilometers of seabed. These claims, submitted to the UN under the Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS), are not mere diplomatic exercises. They are the prelude to extraction, militarization, and regional dominance.
And Putin is building the tools to enforce them.
Russia operates the world’s largest fleet of icebreakers, over 40, including nuclear-powered variants capable of cutting through thick multi-year ice where other nations can’t even navigate. The crown jewel of this fleet is the Arktika-class, a new generation of massive icebreakers that are both symbols of national pride and platforms for Arctic control.
Alongside these come a constellation of military bases. Some are refurbished Cold War relics, others freshly constructed. From Franz Josef Land to Wrangel Island, Russia has planted flags, airstrips, radar systems, and anti-air defenses across the High North. The Northern Fleet, based on the Kola Peninsula, has been restructured into the Russian Arctic Command, with capabilities tailored for cold-weather operations and Arctic power projection.
What’s the motivation? It’s part survival, part ambition.
Putin’s long-term energy strategy leans heavily on Arctic reserves. The region and areas strategically adjacent to the Arctic hold a significant amount of oil and natural gas resources, particularly in fields like Yamal, Kara Sea, and Shtokman. The Northern Sea Route (NSR), the fabled passage along Russia’s northern coast, shortens shipping distance from China to Europe by thousands of kilometers and has become central to Moscow’s logistics and trade dreams.
In 2020, the Kremlin released a new Arctic Policy Strategy, emphasizing resource development, national security, and the assertion of sovereignty. Notably, this document listed foreign military presence near Russian territory as a threat, and justified Russia’s growing Arctic posture as a defensive necessity. But observers note the buildup has far outpaced any Western challenge.
Where the U.S. debates shipbuilding budgets, Russia holds Arctic military exercises involving thousands of troops, strategic bombers, and hypersonic missile tests. In 2021, Russian paratroopers jumped from high altitude over the North Pole in full combat kit, a feat of both propaganda and practice.
Putin’s Arctic vision is both imperial and pragmatic. Control the trade route. Drill the oil. Dominate the region. The Arctic is not a sideshow to him, it’s Russia’s flank, frontier, and economic future.
China, a Near-Artic Intruder?
China has no Arctic coastline, but that hasn’t stopped Beijing from making a bid to be an Arctic power.
In 2018, China formally declared itself a “near-Arctic state”, a term with no legal meaning but enormous geopolitical intent. The message was clear: access to Arctic resources, trade routes, and influence is too important to be left to geography.
Under Xi Jinping, China has woven the Arctic into its broader Belt and Road Initiative, branding its northern ambition as the Polar Silk Road. Investments have poured into infrastructure projects across Greenland, Iceland, and northern Scandinavia, while Chinese shipping companies have begun using Russia’s Northern Sea Route for cargo transits between Asia and Europe.
China’s Arctic strategy leans on a dual-use model: scientific research stations, ice-capable ships, and satellites are all cast as civilian assets, but with clear strategic utility. Its sole icebreaker, Xuelong, conducts regular expeditions, while construction of a second, more advanced vessel is underway. Beijing has also been an observer in the Arctic Council since 2013, using diplomacy to build legitimacy while pushing for greater say in regional governance.
In the Arctic, China isn’t the loudest power. But it may prove the most patient, and patience, as always, is a strategic weapon.
Gatekeepers of the Ice
The race for the Arctic Circle also involves minor nations, either as part of NATO or individually due to their close economic and military positions in the region. These include Amercan’s new not so friendly neighbor Canada, along with the Nordic states of Sweden, Norway, Finland, and Denmark who may or may not be able to hold onto Greenland.
For Canada, the Arctic isn’t a distant frontier, it’s a national identity made manifest in permafrost. With the second-largest Arctic landmass after Russia and vast stretches of territorial waters in the Northwest Passage, Canada sees itself not just as an Arctic power but as an Arctic steward.
That stewardship is being tested.
Melting sea ice is transforming the Northwest Passage from myth to maritime reality, prompting debates over sovereignty. Canada claims it as internal waters. The U.S. and others view it as an international strait. That legal disagreement has remained a Cold War-era polite standoff.
Until now, when high stakes and rising powers may make it a flashpoint.
Trump’s push toward buying Greenland and annexing Canada is not a whim. It signals something deeper: a U.S. interest in acquiring Arctic real estate. Some in Trump’s orbit even floated Alberta as a more natural candidate for annexation, a resource-rich, conservative province with oil sands, pipelines, and Arctic proximity. It’s absurd on paper, but in geopolitics, proximity plus resources often equals strategic fantasy.
History has also taught us that what America wants when it becomes focused on Manifest Destiny, America gets.
Meanwhile, the Nordic states; Norway, Sweden, Finland, Denmark, and Iceland punch above their weight in Arctic governance. Norway maintains a robust military presence in the High North and regularly hosts NATO Arctic exercises. Denmark controls Greenland’s foreign and defense policy, giving Copenhagen a key voice in Arctic diplomacy. And Finland’s cold-weather forces and icebreaker fleet give it capabilities far beyond its size.
Together, the Nordics favor a rules-based Arctic focused on scientific cooperation, climate change, and peaceful navigation. No surprise there. But with America talking about the annexation of Greenland, Russia building Arctic bases, and China laying economic groundwork, even these quiet gatekeepers are preparing for a louder, sharper era.
Flashpoints in the Polar Theater
The Arctic is no longer a frozen void; it is a contested battlespace. As the ice retreats, new sea lanes emerge: choke points, strategic zones, and battle corridors previously unreachable are now open to military maneuver and surveillance. The great powers are not just posturing, they are rehearsing for real conflict under the aurora borealis.
The most plausible direct conflict scenarios pit Russia against NATO in a clash for strategic control of the Arctic Ocean and its marginal seas. One scenario involves a Russian move to militarize the Svalbard Archipelago, a Norwegian territory protected by the 1920 treaty yet increasingly viewed by Moscow as vulnerable to occupation. In response, NATO could rapidly deploy from bases in Tromsø, Thule, or Keflavík. A standoff in the Barents Sea could unfold with Russian Kirov-class battlecruisers shadowed by U.S. Virginia-class submarines and Norwegian P-8 Poseidon patrol aircraft.
Russia knows that NATO will almost certainly not trigger Article 5 over what most people would view as islands of ice in the Arctic Circle. Can anyone envision President Trump using military action against Russia in this scenario? A lack of deterrence could embolden Russian polar strategy.
Another scenario centers on the Northern Sea Route, where Russian forces might establish exclusion zones under the guise of “environmental protection” or “accident response.” NATO convoys attempting to transit the Arctic from Europe to Asia could find themselves intercepted or forced to reroute, escalating tensions. Electronic warfare and hypersonic missile deployments would likely be the first moves, targeting radar installations and icebreaker command centers.
Hybrid warfare tactics may also dominate the early phases of conflict: cyberattacks on Arctic monitoring stations, the use of commercial vessels for surveillance, and “gray zone” operations involving Spetsnaz units disguised as civilian researchers. In such an environment, attribution is difficult, escalation is easy.
The Arctic battlespace is uniquely challenging; climate, logistics, and communications degrade faster than armor. Yet the prize is tantalizing. Whoever controls the Arctic in the 21st century will command not just the polar region but the global flows of energy, trade, and force projection. In this theater, a new kind of cold war may erupt, not metaphorical, but tactical, material, and ice-bound.
The Game Without End
Captain Nikolai Muraviev’s mission was unofficial, his goal unspoken. But his journey marked the first move in a contest that would span generations, exploration giving way to commercial ties, to political interference, and ultimately to conquest. The original Great Game was never declared, but it was certainly played.
Two centuries later, the terrain has shifted north. The caravans are now icebreakers; the outposts are missile silos and radar domes. And the players? Still familiar names: Russia, Britain, being represented by NATO, and now a far more assertive United States. The ambitions of men like Vladimir Putin and Donald Trump revive a geopolitical style once thought outdated: territorial, personal, and backed by hard power. Whether their mutual interest in Arctic expansion leads to conflict or cold cooperation remains uncertain. Strongmen rarely share toys.
But is this Arctic obsession good for ordinary citizens? For Americans, the answer depends on the lens. Increased Arctic presence promises economic opportunities: energy jobs, port development, and defense contracts. It also demands major federal investment, renewed military commitments, and a readiness to operate in one of Earth’s most unforgiving environments. For all the talk of reindeer and real estate, the Arctic frontier is expensive, dangerous, and volatile.
And who won the original Great Game? Britain outmaneuvered Russia in Central Asia, but not forever. Today, the UK maintains a hard line, Russophobic attitude toward Moscow with espionage, sanctions, and direct involvement in the Ukraine War. This suggests a more unsettling truth. Perhaps the Great Game was never meant to be won. Perhaps it simply moves its board.
The Arctic, once dismissed as a frozen void, has become the new stage. What happens next depends on whether the players prefer strategy or spectacle. Because in the Great Game, no frontier stays quiet for long.
Curtis Scoon is the founder of ScoonTv.com Download the ScoonTv App to join our weekly livestream every Tuesday @ 8pm EST!
