Russia's Next War

Russia is not waiting for the West to make up its mind. While Washington debates aid packages, ceasefire proposals, and the political costs of long-term support, Moscow is preparing the next phase of a war it has waged since 2014. The coming test will not begin in Kyiv or Kharkiv, but in Moldova — a small, neutral, non-NATO state whose fate may determine whether Ukraine survives as a sovereign nation or becomes a landlocked, economically strangled remnant of its former self.

The next phase of this war is coming. Unless the United States and Europe recognize the consequences of their own signaling, Russia will not stop at the Dnipro — or even at the Black Sea.

The war in Ukraine did not begin in 2022. It began in 2014, when Russia seized Crimea and ignited separatist uprisings in Donetsk and Luhansk. What followed was not a series of isolated crises but a decade-long signaling environment that shaped how Moscow interpreted American resolve. Across four administrations, U.S. policy — whether restrained, inconsistent, escalatory, or accommodating — sent cumulative messages that informed Russia’s risk calculus and emboldened its long-term war strategy.

When Russia annexed Crimea, the United States responded with sanctions and diplomatic isolation but withheld lethal military aid. Analysts still debate whether this restraint reflected prudence or hesitation, but what mattered most was how it was received in Moscow. In a strategic culture that prizes tests of resolve, probes for weakness, and the exploitation of ambiguity, the absence of lethal aid was interpreted as a clear signal: Washington would impose economic penalties but avoid direct confrontation. This perception shaped Russia’s subsequent actions in the Donbas and laid the psychological and strategic groundwork for the full-scale invasion eight years later. The Kremlin concluded that the United States sought to manage the crisis, not escalate it — a conclusion that would echo through the decade.

The first Trump administration broke with Obama’s caution by approving lethal aid to Ukraine, including Javelin anti-tank missiles, while Congress expanded support. On paper, this marked a firmer line. Yet that stance was undermined by volatility. The 2019 hold on congressionally approved military aid — and the political controversy surrounding it — introduced uncertainty into U.S. policy. Analysts argued that this inconsistency weakened deterrence by suggesting that American support could be politicized or interrupted. For Moscow, the message was mixed: the United States could escalate support, but its commitment was not guaranteed. Russia learned that American policy could swing sharply depending on domestic politics, creating exploitable gaps in Western unity.

The Biden administration confronted the largest war in Europe since 1945. Between 2021 and early 2025, the United States committed more than $66 billion in security assistance, providing air defense systems, artillery, armored vehicles, long-range missiles, and sustained logistical support. This industrial-scale assistance enabled Ukraine to survive the initial onslaught and impose significant costs on Russian forces. Yet even this unprecedented support did not reverse Russia’s territorial gains. By late 2024, Moscow controlled nearly one-fifth of Ukraine’s territory. The Kremlin concluded that while U.S. aid could slow Russian advances, it could not force Russia to relinquish occupied land. Washington could raise costs, but it could not change outcomes.

The current administration’s 28-point ceasefire proposal marks the most dramatic shift in U.S. policy since 2014. As widely reported, the plan would recognize Russia’s territorial gains, codify Ukrainian neutrality in law, limit the size and structure of Ukraine’s armed forces, withdraw NATO personnel, and tie sanctions relief to reconstruction financing. European leaders and Ukrainian officials have warned that these terms amount to coerced capitulation. Analysts argue that such concessions signal to Moscow that territorial conquest can be rewarded through negotiation rather than reversed through resistance. For Russia, this is not merely a diplomatic opening — it is validation of its long-term war strategy. After a decade of testing Western thresholds, Moscow sees the current moment as confirmation that persistence pays, unity erodes, and political cycles in Washington can be leveraged to consolidate gains.

Russia’s strategy since 2014 has been remarkably consistent: seize key terrain, consolidate control, and treat time as a strategic asset. The full‑scale invasion accelerated this process, but it did not fundamentally alter Moscow’s objectives. From the outset, Russia has pursued a long war to reshape Ukraine’s geography, economy, and political viability, and each territorial gain has served a specific purpose within that broader design.

In the east, Russia’s grip on Luhansk and Donetsk has provided more than a battlefield advantage. These regions offer industrial infrastructure, Soviet‑era logistics networks, and a fortified eastern front that Ukraine has struggled to penetrate. They also carry ideological weight for the Kremlin, which portrays the Donbas as historically and culturally aligned with Russia. This combination of industrial capacity, defensible terrain, and symbolic value has made the Donbas the backbone of Russia’s long‑term military posture and a platform for continued expansion.

Further south, the territories of Zaporizhzhia and Kherson form the hinge of Russia’s strategy to dominate Ukraine’s coastline. Control of these regions secures the land bridge to Crimea, protects the peninsula’s northern approaches, and enables Russia to maintain continuous pressure on Mykolaiv and Odesa. The Dnipro River, now a natural defensive barrier, allows Russia to hold these areas with fewer forces while maintaining strategic depth. This southern corridor is not merely occupied territory; it is the logistical and operational spine that connects Russia’s eastern gains to its most prized asset, Crimea.

The maritime dimension of Russia’s strategy is equally decisive. The capture of Mariupol, Berdiansk, and Melitopol has transformed the Sea of Azov into a Russian‑controlled lake, eliminating Ukraine’s access to its eastern waters and tightening Moscow’s grip on regional trade routes. But these victories are only a prelude to the larger objective: dominance of the Black Sea. At the center of that objective lies Odesa, Ukraine’s final major deep‑water port and the gateway to global markets. Odesa is the lifeline for Ukraine’s grain exports and the anchor of its maritime economy. Without it, Ukraine would become a landlocked state dependent on Western aid, unable to sustain itself economically or project any meaningful maritime presence.

Russia understands this with absolute clarity. Every move it has made since 2014 — from the Donbas to the southern corridor to the Sea of Azov — has been designed to set the stage for a decisive strike on Ukraine’s remaining access to the Black Sea. The pattern is unmistakable, and the next phase is already taking shape.

Moldova is the most vulnerable state in Eastern Europe — and the most strategically significant for Russia’s next phase of operations. It sits at the intersection of Western aspirations and geopolitical exposure: a country that has moved decisively toward Europe but remains outside the security guarantees that protect its neighbors. Moldova’s political leadership has aligned with the West, pursued European Union membership, and sought deeper integration with democratic institutions. Yet its constitutionally mandated neutrality prevents it from joining NATO, leaving it without the collective defense commitments that have deterred Russian aggression elsewhere. This combination, Western-oriented yet unprotected, leaves Moldova uniquely exposed at a moment when Russia is searching for the next opening in its long war.

The most volatile element of Moldova’s security landscape is Transnistria, a narrow strip of territory along the eastern border that has been controlled by pro-Russian separatists since the early 1990s. Russian troops remain stationed there under the guise of “peacekeepers,” though their presence serves Moscow’s strategic interests far more than Moldova’s stability. Transnistria is isolated, lightly defended, and politically aligned with the Kremlin. Militarily, absorbing it would require little effort. Politically, however, such a move would send a powerful signal: Russia is willing to expand the conflict beyond Ukraine and challenge the West’s ability to respond to aggression outside NATO territory.

The strategic logic behind a potential Russian move into Moldova in 2026 is clear. By pressuring Moldova and tightening its grip on Transnistria, Russia could threaten Odesa from the west, completing the maritime encirclement of Ukraine. Such a maneuver would not only advance Russia’s long-standing objective of landlocking Ukraine but also destabilize Ukraine’s southwestern flank at a moment when Kyiv is already stretched thin. A crisis in Moldova would force Ukraine to divert attention and resources, weakening its ability to defend its remaining access to the Black Sea.

At the same time, a Russian operation in Moldova would test European resolve in ways that actions inside Ukraine no longer do. Moldova is not protected by Article V, and its security depends on political will rather than a treaty obligation. Any hesitation or division among Western governments would confirm Moscow’s belief that unity is brittle and that political fatigue is eroding the coalition supporting Ukraine. For Russia, Moldova is the perfect proving ground — a low-risk environment where it can probe Western reactions before considering more ambitious coercive actions against the Baltic States. What happens in Moldova will not stay in Moldova. It will shape the next phase of European security and determine whether Russia believes the West is prepared to defend the order it claims to uphold.

Across four administrations, U.S. policy has shaped Russian expectations in ways that have proven far more consequential than any single decision or aid package. Over the past decade, what emerged was not a coherent strategy but a sequence of signals that Moscow interpreted as inconsistent, fragmented, and increasingly permissive. Each phase of American policy — restraint, inconsistency, escalation, and now accommodation — built on the last, creating a cumulative impression that the United States lacks strategic continuity and that its political cycles create exploitable windows of opportunity.

The initial restraint in 2014 signaled to Moscow that Washington would avoid escalation even in the face of territorial aggression. The subsequent volatility between 2017 and 2020 suggested that U.S. support for Ukraine could be politicized or interrupted by domestic political pressures. The surge in military assistance between 2021 and 2024 demonstrated that the United States was willing to raise the costs of Russian expansion but was not prepared to reverse Russia’s territorial gains. The current shift toward ceasefire diplomacy and territorial concessions signals that negotiated recognition of conquest may now be possible.

For Russia, this sequence is not contradictory — it is clarifying. It reinforces the belief that persistence pays, that Western unity erodes under pressure, and that American resolve is contingent rather than enduring. These perceptions shape Russia’s risk calculus today, informing its confidence that the next phase of its strategy can proceed with manageable consequences.

Russia’s next move is not speculative. It is the logical extension of a decade-long strategy that has unfolded in plain sight, shaped by territorial ambition, strategic patience, and the belief that Western resolve can be worn down over time. Every phase of the war — from Crimea to the Donbas to the southern corridor — has been designed to set the conditions for the next. Now, with much of eastern and southern Ukraine under Russian control and Western unity strained, the next phase is coming into focus. Moldova is the hinge, Transnistria the pretext, and Odesa the prize.

The first step in this trajectory is the destabilization of Moldova, a country whose pro-European orientation has made it a target of Russian interference. Moscow has long used hybrid operations — disinformation campaigns, political manipulation, economic pressure, and covert influence networks — to weaken Chişinău’s institutions and erode public confidence in its Western-leaning government. These efforts are not random acts of disruption; they are preparatory moves designed to weaken Moldova’s internal cohesion and create the appearance of instability that Russia can later exploit.

From there, the path leads to Transnistria, the narrow strip of territory along Moldova’s eastern border that has been under pro-Russian separatist control since the early 1990s. Russian troops stationed there under the guise of “peacekeepers” provide Moscow with a ready-made justification for intervention. Militarily, absorbing or coercing Transnistria would require minimal effort. Politically, however, it would send a powerful signal: Russia is willing to expand the conflict beyond Ukraine and challenge the West’s ability to respond to aggression outside NATO territory. Such a move would immediately alter the strategic landscape of Eastern Europe.

With Moldova destabilized and Transnistria secured, Russia would be positioned to pressure Odesa from the west, completing the maritime chokehold it has been building since 2014. Odesa is not merely another city; it is Ukraine’s only deep-water port, the gateway to global markets, and the economic artery that keeps the country alive. If Russia can threaten Odesa from both the east and the west, Ukraine’s access to the Black Sea would collapse. The country would become landlocked, dependent on Western aid, and unable to sustain long-term economic viability. This is not a symbolic objective — it is the strategic centerpiece of Russia’s long war.

Once Ukraine is economically isolated and militarily constrained, Russia will be positioned to force negotiations on its own terms. A landlocked Ukraine with a strangled economy would have little leverage and few options. Moscow understands this and is shaping the battlefield accordingly. The goal is not merely to seize territory but to create conditions in which Ukraine cannot function as a sovereign state without accepting Russian demands.

And beyond Ukraine lies the final test: NATO’s credibility. If Russia can destabilize Moldova, pressure Odesa, and extract concessions from Kyiv without triggering a decisive Western response, it will conclude that the alliance’s red lines are flexible and its commitments negotiable. That conclusion would have profound implications for the Baltic States, where Russia has long sought opportunities to probe, pressure, and test the limits of collective defense.

This is not a hypothetical scenario. It is the trajectory Russia has been building for more than a decade — unless the West recognizes the pattern and responds with coherence and resolve, the next phase will unfold exactly as Moscow intends.

James M. Deitch served as the Motor Transport Operations Chief for 6th Motor Transport Battalion, 1st Fleet Service Combat Support Group during Operation Desert Storm from 1990 to 1991. He served in the Marine Corps from 1984 to 1996.