Elon Musk: The accidental sovereign?

History shows us what happens when private industry becomes so deeply embedded in war that it starts shaping its outcomes.

By Brian O’Neill

War has always been the business of nation-states. They wage it, fund it, and dictate its terms. But Ukraine’s war for survival has brought an old question into a modern light: What happens when the tools of war belong to a private company, one that is indispensable but not held accountable?

The modern battlefield is no longer just about tanks, artillery, and airpower. It is also about communications, surveillance, and digital connectivity. And, in Ukraine, the most critical piece of that infrastructure is not controlled by NATO, the United States, or Ukraine itself. It is controlled by Elon Musk.

Musk is not a military general, nor a defense secretary. Yet his company, SpaceX, through its Starlink satellite network, plays a role in warfare once largely reserved for nation-states. Ukrainian forces depend on Starlink for battlefield communications, drone reconnaissance, and intelligence sharing. Without it, Ukraine’s war effort would grind to a halt.

But unlike traditional defense contractors who supply weapons under government contracts, Musk alone decides where and when his service operates. He is not bound by treaties, alliances, or strategic commitments. His decisions are not debated in any parliament or congress. When Ukraine planned a strike on Russian forces in Crimea, Musk refused to extend Starlink coverage, effectively vetoing a military operation.

This is not just an entanglement of a businessman in geopolitics. History shows us what happens when private industry becomes so deeply embedded in war that it starts shaping its outcomes.

Musk is not the first businessman to dictate the course of war. A century ago, the Krupp family of Germany played the same role, supplying the steel, artillery, and tanks that fueled Prussia’s wars, rearmed Germany after World War I, and built Hitler’s war machine.

The rise of Krupp’s military influence, led by Alfred Krupp, began in the Franco-Prussian War of 1870-71, when its advanced breech-loading cannons helped Prussia crush France. By World War I, under Gustav Krupp’s leadership, the company was no longer just a weapons manufacturer; it also was a strategic force shaping German military doctrine. When the Treaty of Versailles sought to limit German rearmament, Krupp circumvented restrictions by secretly producing weapons through foreign subsidiaries. When Hitler came to power, Krupp was already prepared to mass-produce tanks and artillery for a rapid military buildup.

Krupp was not just a supplier of war matériel. It dictated military priorities. He personally lobbied Hitler to shape Germany’s war economy. His son Alfried took over in 1943 and directed an industrial empire stretching across occupied Europe, exploiting forced labor and concentration camp prisoners to fuel Nazi expansion.

The similarity to Musk is striking. For generations, the Krupp dynasty was defined by a single leader who controlled the backbone of Germany’s military strength. Musk controls Ukraine’s access to digital battlefield infrastructure. Both built their power through technology, became indispensable to their governments, and operated outside state control. And just like the Krupps, Musk is too valuable to be held accountable. After World War II, Alfried Krupp was convicted of war crimes for using slave labor, but his company was so critical to Germany’s postwar reconstruction that he was released after just three years—his empire restored.

The lesson is clear: When private industry becomes too deeply embedded in warfare, it stops being a tool of the state and starts shaping war itself.

Starlink itself operates more like the East India Company—a private entity so powerful that it dictates the realities of war. The East India Company was more than a business; it was a geopolitical force. At its peak, it controlled vast territories, waged wars, and commanded a private army larger than Britain’s standing forces. It installed puppet rulers, engaged in diplomacy, and reshaped entire regions, often acting beyond the control of the British government.

Starlink does not operate directly on the battlefield, but the principle is the same. The system has become so integral to Ukraine’s survival that NATO and the United States are arguably now in the same position the British Crown once faced with the East India Company: forced to accommodate the decisions of a private entity because they lack a viable alternative. Like the East India Company, Starlink has become so strategically indispensable that governments must shape their policies around it, rather than the other way around.

The British in 1858 nationalized the East India Company after realizing that allowing a corporate entity to control war and diplomacy was unsustainable. The question now is whether the West has learned anything from history—or whether it is again allowing a private enterprise to control the fate of nations.

The fundamental problem arises when private actors in war become essential to national strategy, yet remain beyond its control. They can change their minds, shift their priorities, or respond to personal incentives rather than geopolitical ones. When a nation builds its war effort around an unpredictable external force, it invites disaster.

Vacillation in war is fatal. Germany’s failure in World War I was partly because of strategic hesitation—shifting between offensive and defensive operations, unable to commit fully to a decisive approach. In Vietnam, the United States continually adjusted its war objectives, expanding and contracting its engagement, leading to strategic paralysis. The lack of clear, consistent policy turned these conflicts into drawn-out failures.

Now, Ukraine’s fate is tied to the shifting moods of a single billionaire. One day Musk supports Ukraine; the next, he suggests that Crimea should remain part of Russia. One day he calls

Starlink indispensable; the next, he complains about who should pay for it.

And Musk has already demonstrated his willingness to restrict its use at critical moments. If that hesitation had happened during the D-Day invasion or the Berlin Airlift, history might have looked very different.

This is precisely the danger President Dwight Eisenhower warned about in his 1961 farewell address. He foresaw a world in which private industry would shape military strategy, not just supply it. He warned that the rise of the military-industrial complex could lead to a future in which war was dictated by the interests of private companies rather than elected governments.

Eisenhower worried that defense contractors and arms manufacturers would become so embedded in national security that they would start dictating war policy to elected leaders. What he did not predict was that a single entrepreneur, through control of critical infrastructure, could decide in real-time how and where a war is fought.

The problem is no longer just the military-industrial complex—it is the privatization of military command itself.

The issue isn’t just Ukraine. The next geopolitical crisis will raise the same questions. If China moves on Taiwan, will U.S. forces be dependent on Starlink for communications in the Pacific? If European defense networks are attacked, will NATO find itself reliant on the goodwill of an entrepreneur who feuds with world leaders on social media?

The West is not just outsourcing military infrastructure to private actors; it is ceding strategic control.

This situation is unsustainable. Military-critical communications networks should not be subject to a billionaire’s whims—a vulnerability that both the previous Biden administration and the current Trump administration have allowed to fester, whether out of complicity, deference, fear, or self-interest. No company should have unilateral control over military infrastructure.

Musk says he will never “turn off” Starlink in Ukraine. That might be true—for now. But Ukraine’s war effort, and perhaps its survival, now hinges on something just as dangerous: his willingness to keep it on. And for some, truisms, much like political loyalties, tend to shift with the wind. Trump, whether out of complicity or cowardice, has left that reality unchallenged.

The privatization of war is not just about technology or contracts—it is about the slow erosion of state control over war itself. If Ukraine is the first major conflict shaped by this reality, it will not be the last.

The question is whether governments will wake up before the next crisis arrives.

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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