Two weeks before Donald Trump became the 47th president of the United States, his son Don Jr. paid a visit to Greenland, handing out free food and MAGA caps, and posing for photos. “Incredible people,” he said, of the random Greenlanders whom he met on the street. The trip seemed no more than a stunt, much like Trump’s first-term talk of buying the territory, which for centuries has been under the sovereignty of Denmark, a NATO partner and longtime ally of the United States. But within hours of Don Jr.’s departure, the president-elect held a press conference in which he said he was not ruling out the use of economic or military force to gain control of Greenland.

If I had pitched this scenario as the opening for a new season of Borgen, my TV drama series about Danish politics, which originally aired over four seasons in Denmark from 2010 until 2022 (and became available in the U.S. via Netflix in 2020), I probably would have been laughed out of the writers’ room. A small country of some 6 million inhabitants perched on a peninsula north of Germany, Denmark is a quiet, civilized constitutional monarchy with a parliamentary system that tends to result in uncontroversial coalition governments. Our prime minister since 2019, Mette Frederiksen, is the leader of Denmark’s Social Democrats and the current government in coalition with the Moderates and the Liberal Party.

The hero of Borgen was also a woman: My prime minister was named Birgitte Nyborg, and she was played by Sidse Babett Knudsen—an actor perhaps more familiar to American viewers as Theresa Cullen on HBO’s Westworld. Borgen is set in the heart of government in Copenhagen, and the tension in the show often comes when people are forced to choose between political power and their personal beliefs and ideals. Nyborg faces many obstacles, at work and at home, but she is trying to govern Denmark in a consensual yet courageous way, against the odds.

That may be something more possible in a parliamentary system such as Denmark’s, which requires coalition building to form a government, but it was also something that seemed more possible in the earlier, more optimistic era when I was writing it: As political drama, Borgen was unashamedly idealistic. If you want an apt comparison to a U.S. show, think Aaron Sorkin’s The West Wing.

The principal characters in Borgen believe in the values of respectful dialogue, democracy, and international law. Back in government, Trump seems bent on creating a new political reality, where objective truth no longer exists and can be replaced with pure fiction. Everything is reduced to the lingo of a real-estate deal, and there appear to be no limits to what kind of accusations and threats you can hurl around—even in the face of a loyal ally and NATO partner.

The last season of Borgen, which aired in Denmark and the U.S. in 2022, did in fact center on Greenland. The territory, considered the largest island in the world, has enjoyed home rule for close to five decades. Thanks to long-running and painstaking negotiations, the island’s 57,000 residents are now on a path toward independence. For now, Denmark remains in charge of its military security and foreign policy, in consultation with the Greenlandic government.

How much of this nuance Trump grasps is unclear. When he first floated the idea of buying Greenland, in 2019, he called the matter a “real-estate deal.” At the time, Frederiksen, who was already serving as prime minister, dismissed his suggestion as absurd; Trump took offense, calling her statement “nasty.” They later patched things up: Trump praised Frederiksen as “a wonderful woman,” and both sides left things as they were.

[Read: The intellectual rationalization for annexing Greenland]

President Trump has now returned to the fray, with a vengeance. Five days before his inauguration, a 45-minute phone call took place between Trump and Frederiksen. The exchange sounded brutal: Trump reiterated his demand to take ownership of Greenland; our prime minister repeated that it’s not for sale and is an autonomous territory under the Danish Kingdom. She also reminded the president that Denmark of course recognizes the strategic importance of Greenland to the Unites States—and has given the U.S. military access to Greenland for more than 80 years.

If I were writing that scene for Borgen, my prime minister would be desperately trying to control her temper while her chief of staff and aides would be listening in, trying to guide the conversation with silent gestures and notes. But I might have difficulty imagining a president so uninterested in the facts, let alone the history.

Greenland was colonized by the Danish priest Hans Egede in 1721. Denmark’s sovereignty over Greenland was briefly contested in an international court by Norway in the 1930s, but Norway lost the case and withdrew its claims. When Denmark was occupied by the Nazis in 1940, Henrik Kauffmann, the visionary Danish ambassador to the U.S., signed, on behalf of Denmark’s king, an agreement with Washington allowing the U.S. to supply Greenland and establish bases there. The result was the air base at Kangerlussuaq, where U.S. bombers could refuel on their way to Europe.

In 1949, Denmark became a founding member of NATO, and the kingdom has been a loyal ally of the U.S. ever since. In 1952, the U.S. built the huge Thule Air Base in northern Greenland, which, at its height, housed more than 10,000 personnel. The Indigenous Inuit population in the area was forced to leave the vicinity, one of many colonial injustices. During the Cold War, Copenhagen maintained a pragmatic silence as nuclear-armed U.S. Air Force B-52s violated an official policy banning atomic weapons on Danish soil. In 1968, a B-52 crashed at Thule, and four atomic bombs rolled out of the wreckage. Not even that international embarrassment could make Denmark waver in its partnership with the United States. For eight decades, the two countries have been joined in close friendship, with a reciprocal recognition of territories, rights, and obligations.

Thanks in part to the stability provided by this arrangement, the Arctic has been a peaceful region. Denmark has been able to uphold Greenland’s security with a small number of naval ships and planes and—as you may recall if you watched the last season of Borgen—the Sirius Dog Sled Patrol. This border-guard force, a military tradition dating back decades, consists of a dozen sleds, each with a dog team directed by a special-forces soldier, that patrol the coastline of northern and northeastern Greenland.

[Read: Trump triggers a crisis in Denmark—and Europe]

Trump’s reelection has disturbed the mutual understanding between Copenhagen and Washington. In the days leading up to Trump’s second inauguration, Danish media reported that diplomats were working behind the scenes to keep Greenland out of the new president’s speech. That lobbying effort apparently succeeded. (Panama was not so lucky. Speaking of America’s “manifest destiny,” Trump brought up that country’s canal. “We’re taking it back,” he said.)

The uneasy truce over Greenland did not last long. Within days, Trump was talking to reporters aboard Air Force One about taking control of the island. “I think we’re going to have it,” he said. “And I think the people want to be with us.” As a writer, I have to admire the economy of Trump’s phrasing: In fewer than 20 words, he can upset decades of delicate, emotionally fraught colonial relations between Denmark and Greenland.

Currently, Greenland runs its own domestic affairs via its Parliament and an executive body known as the Naalakkersuisut, but is heavily subsidized by the Danish state. Pro-independence Greenlandic politicians are inviting the U.S. president to push ahead with his demands, believing that this will aid their cause. They may be disappointed: Trump has not embraced their call for independence. Frederiksen may take some heart from a recent poll showing that 85 percent of their countrymen do not want Greenland to be incorporated into the United States.

What will the president’s next move be? We are not in the world of Borgen. The drama we’re viewing today seems animated less by idealism than by divisiveness, cynicism, and loudmouthed ignorance. Trump is a businessman who sees Greenland as a potential transaction. (When asked about Gaza last month, Trump replied that it had “a phenomenal location” and “the best weather,” as if he had Palm Beach in mind, not a Middle East war zone; indeed, he’s now proposed taking it over and turning it into a beach resort.) War was once said to be too important to be left to the generals; now politics is too important to be left to the politicians. Enter the tycoons.

The last act of the Greenland plot has yet to unfold. Trump is in his final term and may be thinking about his legacy. He may want to be remembered as the president who took back the Panama Canal and, through the acquisition of Greenland, expanded U.S. territory by a quarter. The Mexican dictator Porfirio Diaz once said, “Poor Mexico, so far from God and so close to the United States.” I hope Greenlanders will not end up feeling the same way. But as a writer of political fiction, I may have to start dreaming up stranger, darker plots if I want to keep pace with Trump’s new world order.

Elon Musk’s unceasing attempts to access the data and information systems of the federal government range so widely, and are so unprecedented and unpredictable, that government computing experts believe the effort has spun out of control. This week, we spoke with four federal-government IT professionals—all experienced contractors and civil servants who have built, modified, or maintained the kind of technological infrastructure that Musk’s inexperienced employees at his newly created Department of Government Efficiency are attempting to access. In our conversations, each expert was unequivocal: They are terrified and struggling to articulate the scale of the crisis.

Even if the president of the United States, the head of the executive branch, supports (and, importantly, understands) these efforts by DOGE, these experts told us, they would still consider Musk’s campaign to be a reckless and dangerous breach of the complex systems that keep America running. Federal IT systems facilitate operations as varied as sending payments from the Treasury Department and making sure that airplanes stay in the air, the sources told us.

Based on what has been reported, DOGE representatives have obtained or requested access to certain systems at the U.S. Treasury, the Department of Health and Human Services, the Office of Personnel Management, and the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, with eyes toward others, including the Federal Aviation Administration. “This is the largest data breach and the largest IT security breach in our country’s history—at least that’s publicly known,” one contractor who has worked on classified information-security systems at numerous government agencies told us this week. “You can’t un-ring this bell. Once these DOGE guys have access to these data systems, they can ostensibly do with it what they want.”

[Read: If DOGE goes nuclear]

What exactly they want is unclear. And much remains unknown about what, exactly, is happening here. The contractor emphasized that nobody yet knows which information DOGE has access to, or what it plans to do with it. Spokespeople for the White House, and Musk himself, did not respond to emailed requests for comment. Some reports have revealed the scope of DOGE’s incursions at individual agencies; still, it has been difficult to see the broader context of DOGE’s ambition.

The four experts laid out the implications of giving untrained individuals access to the technological infrastructure that controls the country. Their message is unambiguous: These are not systems you tamper with lightly. Musk and his crew could act deliberately to extract sensitive data, alter fundamental aspects of how these systems operate, or provide further access to unvetted actors. Or they may act with carelessness or incompetence, breaking the systems altogether. Given the scope of what these systems do, key government services might stop working properly, citizens could be harmed, and the damage might be difficult or impossible to undo. As one administrator for a federal agency with deep knowledge about the government’s IT operations told us, “I don’t think the public quite understands the level of danger.”

Each of our four sources, three of whom requested anonymity out of fear of reprisal, made three points very clear: These systems are immense, they are complex, and they are critical. A single program run by the FAA to help air-traffic controllers, En Route Automation Modernization, contains nearly 2 million lines of code; an average iPhone app, for comparison, has about 50,000. The Treasury Department disburses trillions of dollars in payments per year.

Many systems and databases in a given agency feed into others, but access to them is restricted. Employees, contractors, civil-service government workers, and political appointees have strict controls on what they can access and limited visibility into the system as a whole. This is by design, as even the most mundane government databases can contain highly sensitive personal information. A security-clearance database such as those used by the Department of Justice or the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, one contractor told us, could include information about a person’s mental-health or sexual history, as well as disclosures about any information that a foreign government could use to blackmail them.

Even if DOGE has not tapped into these particular databases, The Washington Post reported on Wednesday that the group has accessed sensitive personnel data at OPM. Mother Jones also reported on Wednesday that an effort may be under way to effectively give Musk control over IT for the entire federal government, broadening his access to these agencies. Trump has said that Musk is acting only with his permission. “Elon can’t do and won’t do anything without our approval,” he said to reporters recently. “And we will give him the approval where appropriate. Where it’s not appropriate, we won’t.” The specter of what DOGE might do with that approval is still keeping the government employees we spoke with up at night. With relatively basic “read only” access, Musk’s people could easily find individuals in databases or clone entire servers and transfer that secure information somewhere else. Even if Musk eventually loses access to these systems—owing to a temporary court order such as the one approved yesterday, say—whatever data he siphons now could be his forever.

[Read: Trump advisers stopped Musk from hiring a noncitizen at DOGE]

With a higher level of access—“write access”—a motivated person may be able to put their own code into the system, potentially without any oversight. The possibilities here are staggering. One could alter the data these systems process, or they could change the way the software operates—without any of the testing that would normally accompany changes to a critical system. Still another level of access, administrator privileges, could grant the broad ability to control a system, including hiding evidence of other alterations. “They could change or manipulate treasury data directly in the database with no way for people to audit or capture it,” one contractor told us. “We’d have very little way to know it even happened.”

The specific levels of access that Musk and his team have remain unclear and likely vary between agencies. On Tuesday, the Treasury said that DOGE had been given “read only” access to the department’s federal payment system, though Wired then reported that one member of DOGE was able to write code on the system. Any focus on access tiers, for that matter, may actually simplify the problem at hand. These systems aren’t just complex at the code level—they are multifaceted in their architecture. Systems can have subsystems; each of these can have their own permission structures. It’s hard to talk about any agency’s tech infrastructure as monolithic. It’s less a database than it is a Russian nesting doll of databases, the experts said.

Musk’s efforts represent a dramatic shift in the way the government’s business has traditionally been conducted. Previously, security protocols were so strict that a contractor plugging a non-government-issued computer into an ethernet port in a government agency office was considered a major security violation. Contrast that with DOGE’s incursion. CNN reported yesterday that a 23-year-old former SpaceX intern without a background check was given a basic, low tier of access to Department of Energy IT systems, despite objections from department lawyers and information experts. “That these guys, who may not even have clearances, are just pulling up and plugging in their own servers is madness,” one source told us, referring to an allegation that DOGE had connected its own server at OPM. “It’s really hard to find good analogies for how big of a deal this is.” The simple fact that Musk loyalists are in the building with their own computers is the heart of the problem—and helps explain why activities ostensibly authorized by the president are widely viewed as a catastrophic data breach.

The four systems professionals we spoke with do not know what damage might already have been done. “The longer this goes on, the greater the risk of potential fatal compromise increases,” Scott Cory, a former CIO for an agency in the HHS, told us. At the Treasury, this could mean stopping payments to government organizations or outside contracts it doesn’t want to pay. It could also mean diverting funds to other recipients. Or gumming up the works in the attempt to do those, or other, things.

In the FAA, even a small systems disruption could cause mass grounding of flights, a halt in global shipping, or worse, downed planes. For instance, the agency oversees the Traffic Flow Management System, which calculates the overall demand for airspace in U.S. airports and which airlines depend on. “Going into these systems without an in-depth understanding of how they work both individually and interconnectedly is a recipe for disaster that will result in death and economic harm to our nation,” one FAA employee who has nearly a decade of experience with its system architecture told us. “‘Upgrading’ a system of which you know nothing about is a good way to break it, and breaking air travel is a worst-case scenario with consequences that will ripple out into all aspects of civilian life. It could easily get to a place where you can’t guarantee the safety of flights taking off and landing.” Nevertheless, on Wednesday Musk posted that “the DOGE team will aim to make rapid safety upgrades to the air traffic control system.”

Even if DOGE members are looking to modernize these systems, they may find themselves flummoxed. The government is big and old and complicated. One former official with experience in government IT systems, including at the Treasury, told us that old could mean that the systems were installed in 1962, 1992, or 2012. They might use a combination of software written in different programming languages: a little COBOL in the 1970s, a bit of Java in the 1990s. Knowledge about one system doesn’t give anyone—including Musk’s DOGE workers, some of whom were not even alive for Y2K—the ability to make intricate changes to another.

[Read: The “rapid unscheduled disassembly” of the United States government]

The internet economy, characterized by youth and disruption, favors inventing new systems and disposing of old ones. And the nation’s computer systems, like its roads and bridges, could certainly benefit from upgrades. But old computers don’t necessarily make for bad infrastructure, and government infrastructure isn’t always old anyway. The former Treasury official told us that mainframes—and COBOL, the ancient programming language they often run—are really good for what they do, such as batch processing for financial transactions.

Like the FAA employee, the payment-systems expert also fears that the most likely result of DOGE activity on federal systems will be breaking them, especially because of incompetence and lack of proper care. DOGE, he observed, may be prepared to view or hoover up data, but it doesn’t appear to be prepared to carry out savvy and effective alterations to how the system operates. This should perhaps be reassuring. “If you were going to organize a heist of the U.S. Treasury,” he said, “why in the world would you bring a handful of college students?” They would be useless. Your crew would need, at a minimum, a couple of guys with a decade or two of experience with COBOL, he said.

Unless, of course, you had the confidence that you could figure anything out, including a lumbering government system you don’t respect in the first place. That interpretation of DOGE’s theory of self seems both likely and even more scary, at the Treasury, the FAA, and beyond. Would they even know what to do after logging in to such a machine? we asked. “No, they’d have no idea,” the payment expert said. “The sanguine thing to think about is that the code in these systems and the process and functions they manage are unbelievably complicated,” Scott Cory said. “You’d have to be extremely knowledgeable if you were going into these systems and wanting to make changes with an impact on functionality.”

But DOGE workers could try anyway. Mainframe computers have a keyboard and display, unlike the cloud-computing servers in data centers. According to the former Treasury IT expert, someone who could get into the room and had credentials for the system could access it and, via the same machine or a networked one, probably also deploy software changes to it. It’s far more likely that they would break, rather than improve, a Treasury disbursement system in so doing, one source told us. “The volume of information they deal with [at the Treasury] is absolutely enormous, well beyond what anyone would deal with at SpaceX,” the source said. Even a small alteration to a part of the system that has to do with the distribution of funds could wreak havoc, preventing those funds from being distributed or distributing them wrongly, for example. “It’s like walking into a nuclear reactor and deciding to handle some plutonium.”

DOGE is many things—a dismantling of the federal government, a political project to flex power and punish perceived enemies—but it is also the logical end point of a strain of thought that’s become popular in Silicon Valley during the boom times of Big Tech and easy money: that building software and writing code aren’t just dominant skills for the 21st century, but proof of competence in any realm. In a post on X this week, John Shedletsky, a developer and an early employee at the popular gaming platform Roblox, summed up the philosophy nicely: “Silicon Valley built the modern world. Why shouldn’t we run it?”

This attitude disgusted one of the officials we spoke with. “There’s this bizarre belief that being able to do things with computers means you have to be super smart about everything else.” Silicon Valley may have built the computational part of the modern world, but the rest of that world—the money, the airplanes, the roads, and the waterways—still exists. Knowing something, even a lot, about computers guarantees no knowledge about the world beyond them.

“I’d like to think that this is all so massive and complex that they won’t succeed in whatever it is they’re trying to do,” one of the experts told us. “But I wouldn’t want to wager that outcome against their egos.”

In the early 1500s, an unknown wealthy patron is said to have commissioned Leonardo da Vinci to produce the Salvator Mundi, a striking ecclesiastical masterpiece in which Jesus is shown blessing humanity with his right hand while holding an orb representing the Earth in his left. The patron’s identity has been lost to history, and whether da Vinci actually painted it is still debated among scholars, but such commissions were common during the medieval and Renaissance periods: Medici-like benefactors, uncomfortable with the potential sinfulness of their extravagant wealth, sought to offset their guilt and enhance their prestige by sponsoring magnificent works of art and architecture for the public to enjoy.

Da Vinci’s Salvator Mundi changed hands countless times through the ensuing centuries. Mistaken as a comparatively commonplace artwork, it was owned by a 17th-century heir to the Scottish crown who was later beheaded, passed to the illegitimate son of an 18th-century duke, and then languished in obscurity for more than a century. An unknown buyer acquired the painting at auction for £45, or about $1,300 today, and it ended up in Houston. The painting later passed to Basil Clovis Hendry Sr., who ran a Baton Rouge, Louisiana, sheet-metal company. Then, in 2005, on suspicion that there was more to the painting than met the untrained eye, an art consortium bought the painting for just over $1,000. Years of restoration, cleaning, research, and speculation yielded a shocking announcement: The painting was Da Vinci’s lost Salvator Mundi.

What happened to the tableau after that is a good illustration of just how little today’s superrich resemble the public-spirited patrons of the past. Yves Bouvier, an art dealer who is currently accused of evading $800 million in taxes, bought the work for $83 million, then sold it the following day for nearly $50 million more to Dmitry Rybolovlev, a Russian oligarch and superyacht enthusiast who, according to the leaked Panama Papers, set up a shell company to hide artwork assets from his ex-wife during divorce proceedings. Finally, in a 2017 auction at Christie’s, Saudi Arabian Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman used a little-known proxy to purchase the Salvator Mundi for $450.3 million, the highest price paid for a single artwork in history.

In 2021, The Wall Street Journal broke the news that the priceless painting had been kept on private display aboard bin Salman’s superyacht, Serene, a 439-foot-long, half-billion-dollar boat that had recently run aground in a navigational accident. A fragile, irreplaceable object of significance to the shared cultural history of all humanity was being kept in a hot, humid environment for the private enjoyment of one royal billionaire and his ultrarich guests. (In another room, Serene was also equipped with state-of-the-art snow machines that could produce four-inch-deep flurries on demand.)

The journey of one painting charts a profound shift in modern societies. The role of the ultra-wealthy has morphed from one of shared social responsibility and patronage to the freewheeling celebration of selfish opulence. Rather than investing in their society—say, by giving alms to the poor, or funding Caravaggios and cathedrals—many of today’s plutocrats use their wealth to escape to private islands, private Beyoncé concerts, and, above all, extremely private superyachts. One top Miami-based “yacht consultant” has dubbed itself Medici Yachts. The namesake recalls public patronage and social responsibility, but the consultant’s motto is more fitting for an era of indulgent billionaires: “Let us manage your boat. For you is only to smile and make memories.”

In 1908, the English writer G. K. Chesterton observed that “the poor man really has a stake in the country. The rich man hasn’t; he can go away to New Guinea in a yacht. The poor have sometimes objected to being governed badly; the rich have always objected to being governed at all.”

Chesterton’s observation was astute for the modern era, but for much of Western history, it was only half true. In his 2023 book, As Gods Among Men, the economic historian Guido Alfani chronicles the role of the ultra-wealthy from antiquity to the era of cryptocurrency. The superrich have always wielded inordinate economic and social power and, as such, have plenty of historical ills to answer for. But the affluent of many past periods also invested in the shared betterment of society, understanding that doing so helped justify the existence of wealth inequality. Today’s ultrarich, by Alfani’s telling, are uniquely selfish, and by abdicating the philanthropic role, they are “fuelling resentment and leaving their place in society uncertain.”

The social contract that imposed certain civic responsibilities on the rich emerged after the Black Death decimated nearly half the population of medieval Europe. The dominant Christian theology of the Middle Ages held that wealth was inherently sinful in a world where most people toiled in terrible poverty. But as the continent recovered from the plague, a new, pragmatic arrangement emerged. The surviving wealthy would be expected to use their wealth to provide public goods. This echoed the norms of antiquity; the historian Paul Veyne has noted that in ancient Rome, for example, the belief was widespread that any defects in civic life directly reflected on the virtues of the city’s elite.

[Read: Cancel billionaires]

The barons of medieval society would serve two important functions, Alfani recounts: “making the city splendid in everybody’s interest by means of their ‘magnificence’ and acting as private reserves of financial resources into which the community could tap in times of crisis by means of taxation or of extraordinary contributions.” In other words, wealth inequality was tolerated because it provided a useful social function. The wealthy were expected to spend lavish sums on transforming cities by building shared public spaces. They were also meant to come to the rescue with their largesse in the case of a public crisis or calamity. Cosimo de’ Medici did precisely that, saving Florence from bankruptcy in 1434.

Benefactors did not necessarily serve these functions out of uncomplicated generosity. From their “magnificence” they could expect personal glory, political favor, and perhaps a pathway to eternal salvation. The savvy used patronage to expand, not drain, their wealth. Some patrons participated in history’s great crimes, from the Crusades to the slave trade. Nonetheless, as Alfani convincingly argues, even the most self-interested and amoral among them often wound up doing some good.

The 15th-century archbishop of Florence called this norm the “public theology of magnificence.” But it also required enforcement. When the rich refused to fulfill their social obligations, governments imposed taxes, extraordinary war levies, or, in the case of 16th- and 17th-century Spain, mandatory loans (called secuestros). The wealthy were not allowed to simply hoard their wealth, park it in an offshore haven, and escape catastrophe by sailing away from a collapsing society on a superyacht.

Even in Gilded Age America, with all its injustices, and where the pursuit of wealth was hardly condemned as sin, society’s richest members were expected to use their riches to benefit the public in times of crisis. J. P. Morgan bailed the United States out in 1907, acting as a banker of last resort. A decade later, the U.S. government pressed financiers and tycoons to invest in Liberty Bonds for World War I, a bad bet that worsened their financial positions considerably. During World War II, the top American marginal tax rate reached an eye-popping 94 percent.

Over time, however, the norms eroded. An ethos of what historians call “munificence,” a belief that the rich should be generous, but only if they wish, replaced the theology of obligatory magnificence. This subtle difference had profound implications: Patronage and public benefit were no longer assumed to be duties, but bonuses that wealthy individuals could provide out of the goodness of their hearts. The coronavirus pandemic ushered in even more grotesque inequality. Elon Musk’s net worth surpassed $400 billion. The world’s economies ground to a halt, and public coffers were crushed with debt, but superyacht sales surged by 46 percent. The public, especially the poor, suffered; the rich, like those of G. K. Chesterton’s caricature, escaped.

During the early coronavirus lockdowns, the billionaire media mogul David Geffen hunkered down on his 454-foot-long superyacht, Rising Sun, which included a private basketball court and wine cellar among its 82 rooms. He posted a stunning photo of a Caribbean sunset to Instagram at the height of the pandemic, with the caption “Isolated in the Grenadines avoiding the virus. I hope everybody is staying safe.”

[Read: A yacht owner’s worst nightmare]

What people spend their money on, beyond hard-nosed investments, sends a social signal. For example, the drivers of Priuses and Cybertrucks are sending rather different signals, as their visible purchases likely reflect different underlying behaviors and beliefs. At the extremes, the wealthy may go to great lengths to display their affluence. For example, in potlatch ceremonies among Indigenous communities of the Pacific Northwest, individuals showcase their riches by engaging in the ritualized destruction of expensive objects.

In The Patron’s Payoff, Jonathan K. Nelson and Richard J. Zeckhauser argue that historical patronage was a form of pragmatic signaling, conveying virtues such as religious devotion and civic duty. But it also provided benefits to the wealthy, who became part of an elite club and were able to use their patronage for personal glory and social advancement. Today the signaling of wealth has shifted from public-facing duties to efforts to provoke private envy.

When the Saudi crown prince pays half a billion dollars for an invaluable artwork and then displays it for ultrarich elites on his private superyacht, he is engaging in a form of signaling, but not one aimed at the public. Instead, the “haves” and “have yachts” play a status game only for the benefit of the rich themselves. Cathedrals were beautifying public icons that often served the poor; yachts are designed to hide their splendors from the prying eyes of the riffraff. One of the great wealthy villains of modernity, Martin Shkreli, didn’t just buy a coveted piece of cultural heritage—the notorious Wu-Tang Clan album—for his own private consumption. He said he would destroy it, potlatch-style. This kind of signaling is a far cry from the one that centered on civic virtue and religious devotion.

The U.S. government has facilitated the ultrarich in their abdication of social responsibility. For example, Charles B. Johnson—the former CEO of Franklin Templeton Investments, a Republican megadonor, and a part owner of the San Francisco Giants—purchased the opulent Carolands chateau, a 46,000-square-foot Gilded Age estate with 98 rooms. According to a ProPublica investigation, Johnson received a $38 million tax break because he pledged to turn Carolands into a museum open to the public 40 hours a week. He didn’t keep that promise—Carolands allows small tours only on Wednesdays at 1 p.m.—but he got the tax break all the same.

Some among the American ultrarich openly deride philanthropy as an ineffective use of money. The tech mogul Marc Andreessen has argued that charitable giving is less useful than investing in tech companies, because “technological innovation in a market system is inherently philanthropic.” (One in 12 people globally lives in extreme poverty, defined as earning less than $2.15 a day; it’s hard to imagine how they have benefited more from Ning, Andreessen’s social-media platform, than they would from, say, food and medicine.) The billionaires Larry Page and Peter Thiel have expressed similar views. Thiel concentrates his philanthropy on what he designates to be breakthrough technology. He has donated to the Seasteading Institute, which says it is “reimagining civilization with floating communities” and “significant political autonomy”—as though the superyachts and offshore tax havens aren’t enough. Why not live offshore, bobbing in a libertarian commune free from burdensome social obligations, such as taxes?

[Read: Space billionaires, please read the room]

Some billionaires have maintained the notion of magnificence by pouring money into solutions to social problems, such as treatments for malaria or children’s hospitals. The Gates Foundation, for example, has made tremendous progress against scourges of public health. But by and large, the notion that wealthy individuals will marshal their resources to alleviate social crises has come to seem quaint in today’s world. In 2008, President Barack Obama proposed that the income of private-equity-fund managers be treated as ordinary personal income rather than capital gains—and ran afoul of the billionaire Stephen Schwarzman, who later compared the president’s proposed tax-policy changes to “when Hitler invaded Poland in 1939.”

Evading social responsibility, even during crises, carries risks for the ultrawealthy. Their opulence compared with the standard of living of their co-citizens becomes harder to justify, and widespread resentment, seemingly inevitable. Some appear to understand that such inequality is unsustainable, but that hasn’t inspired them to become keepers of social wealth for times of shared crisis. Rather, if society collapses, billionaires may just escape onto the waves. A select few are making their contingency plans in rocket ships—as though no longer seeking favor with God but hoping to abscond to the heavens just the same.

Donald Trump is waging war on the civil service in the name of efficiency. But Washington created the modern civil service to make the government efficient in the first place, ending a patronage system wracked with graft and incompetence. Trump’s so-called reforms will only make it harder for the White House and the Republican Congress to enact their own policy aims, and harder for any president to get things done in the future.

Trump sees the “deep state” as an impediment to policy change, not as an instrument of it; he attacks the idea of a nonpartisan civil service and the civil service itself. Government workers are “crooked people,” Trump said while campaigning last year. “They’re dishonest people. They’re going to be held accountable.” To that end, his White House has offered to buy out federal employees under his “Fork in the Road” policy, fired more than a dozen inspectors general, transferred hundreds of workers outside their area of expertise, spurred experienced career employees to quit, put thousands of workers on furlough or leave, and attempted to strip job protections from nonpartisan employees. A message sent to millions of civil servants late last month emphasized the importance of loyalty and trust; a message sent this week argued that fewer positions should be held by the “impartial.”

In many ways, Trump is seeking to return the country to the spoils system that existed in the 19th century. Pioneered by President Andrew Jackson, that system awarded tens of thousands of civil-service jobs to allies and co-partisans of the White House. (The phrase “to the victor belong the spoils” does not originate in ancient Athens or Rome. It was first uttered by New York Senator William L. Marcy in the early 1830s.) This kind of patronage was efficient, Jackson and his supporters argued: “Rotation in office” meant that the civil service aligned with the ideology of the president, and brought fresh workers into the stodgy government.

But having party loyalists manage the Postal Service and firing thousands of people every time the White House changed hands was not a model of efficiency. Postmasters, clerks, and surveyors paid a share of their salary as kickbacks to the party in control of their position. “Solicitation letters were sent by the party to each worker, return envelopes were provided to ensure that payments were made, and compliance was carefully monitored,” the economists Ronald Johnson and Gary Libecap note. Scandals abounded. The collector of the Port of New York embezzled $1 million, not adjusted for inflation, before fleeing for England in 1838.

[Read: Make government efficient again]

In 1880, President James Garfield ran on reform, promising in his inaugural address to pass civil-service regulations “for the good of the service” and “for the protection of incumbents against intrigue and wrong.” Shortly after, he was assassinated by a deranged preacher and onetime resident of the Oneida free-love commune who’d been seeking a diplomatic appointment in Paris. At that point, Congress decided things needed to change. Garfield’s successor, Chester Arthur, “only got his job as vice president because he was a product of the spoils system,” Jon Rogowski, a political scientist at the University of Chicago, told me. Arthur had held the post of collector of the Port of New York too, and had gotten rich on the job. “He was this incredible messenger, saying, We should reform, even though it would dramatically upend the very system that I came through myself,” Rogowski said.

The Pendleton Act of 1883 finally ended the spoils system, requiring government employees to pass an exam and forbidding hiring on the basis of race, politics, religion, or national origin. It led to a 25 percent reduction in staff turnover and increased the qualifications held by bureaucrats. Postal-delivery errors dropped by 22 percent, and the volume of mail delivered by carriers increased as much as 14 percent.

During the Progressive Era and the New Deal—and after the Watergate scandal—Congress passed further regulations, making it easier for federal agencies to promote high-performing employees, protecting whistleblowers, ensuring that the executive branch did not overstep its authority, and eliminating racial bias and nepotism in hiring. Today, a thicket of laws prevents the White House from making partisan hiring decisions, and civil servants from engaging in partisan activity. The Government Accountability Office and inspectors general root out incompetence, inefficiency, and waste.

[Read: Trump’s campaign to dismantle the government]

Every bureaucracy has some bloat. But there are no more civil servants now than there were in the late 1960s, even as the population they serve has grown by two-thirds. The tasks these 2.2 million employees perform are often uncontroversial; the Department of Veterans Affairs is one of the largest employers, and 70 percent of the civil service works in defense and security-related agencies. Moreover, federal workers are more efficient than private workers; they are less expensive to hire too.

Nor is the system biased against conservative administrations. Government employees are not particularly ideological. They tend to have long careers, working with presidents from both parties. On the job, civil servants tend to be better than politicians at shaping policy. The country does not need White House staffers to make decisions “setting interest rates or deciding which banks to bail out, to determine schedules for Air Force aircraft maintenance, or to certify particular drugs as safe and effective,” the political scientist Francis Fukuyama argues. When they do, he says, “the results are almost always harmful.”

Other countries show the risks. Viktor Orbán’s attack on Hungary’s civil service has led to the degradation of the country’s water, sanitation, and electric systems, and corruption in the construction industry and real-estate market. In Brazil, Jair Bolsonaro’s purging of public officials made the government less efficient.

In the United States, the strong, nonpartisan civil service reduces costs for taxpayers, with meritocracy and impartiality bolstering the country’s economic growth, one sweeping review found. The system also protects the public from graft and lawlessness. “There is a group of actors that are sworn to uphold the Constitution,” Donald Moynihan, a scholar of public administration at the University of Michigan, told me. “If someone in the government is trying to do an illegal thing, there will be a general counsel who says no, and there will be a bunch of civil servants who raise red flags, and there will be an inspector general who will catch it.”

Civil servants and inspectors general are raising red flags right now, filing lawsuits and notifying members of Congress as scarcely adult Trump officials commandeer government systems, access private data, illicitly shut down payments, and put whole agencies through the “wood chipper,” in the Trump adviser Elon Musk’s phrasing, contravening the country’s laws. But, as Moynihan pointed out, Trump is attempting to “defang” these systems of internal control.

[Read: Trump advisers stopped Musk from hiring a noncitizen at DOGE]

As a result, Americans can expect greater incompetence, higher costs, increased turnover, less expertise, falling trust in government, and lower morale. They can also anticipate higher sovereign-debt costs: Investors charge eroding democracies with incompetent bureaucracies more to borrow. The fallout will not end when the Trump administration ends. Future presidents will have to rely on less experienced civil servants to enact their policies.

The country’s civil service could use reform—to empower it. Right now, Washington’s bureaucrats are mired in bureaucracy, tasked with meeting strict and onerous procedural requirements rather than achieving the government’s policy goals. Hiring rules make it hard for Washington to poach experienced workers from private industry; procurement rules make outsourcing over-common and expensive. But Trump is seeking to cow the civil service and politicize it, not reform it. Rather than seeing the country’s 2 million public employees as agents, he sees them as enemies. This is not going to make the government more efficient. It is not going to make America great.

On Tuesday morning, I was at the United States Military Academy, in West Point, for a national-security conference. I was invited to observe several classes of cadets in a comparative-politics course. At the end of each class, their instructor, a young Special Forces major who had already seen a variety of conflicts during his short career, would give the students the chance to ask me questions about the “real world” Army. I find such interactions with cadets to be fun and engaging. After warming up, they always seem to get around to asking: What are the hot spots in the world, and where do you see us serving in support of our country during our career?

In answering, I give them my own history. Entering West Point in 1971, my class expected to serve in Vietnam. But by the time we’d graduated, five years later, America was out of that war. Most of us were instead sent to Europe, preparing for a clash between the Soviets and NATO that never arrived. After the Berlin Wall came down, we thought our nation would be at peace for years—but then the Army, which had trained for years to defend the border of Germany, found itself attacking Iraqi forces in Desert Storm. Then, after 9/11, we conducted counterterror and counterinsurgency fights in two distinctly different countries we’d never expected to go to.

The message for the cadets? As soldiers, prepare yourself for anything. Go where you’re sent, conduct operations to the best of your ability, serve your nation well, and follow your oath to defend the Constitution.

That night, in my hotel room, I watched the president stand next to the Israeli prime minister and suggest where the next generation of U.S. soldiers might go. Most Americans were surprised by Donald Trump’s announcement that the United States would be “taking over Gaza”—that we would clear unexploded ordnance, “level the site,” deploy U.S. troops if necessary, and turn the area into the “Riviera of the Middle East.”

After the press conference, I watched analysts, human-rights activists, and Middle Eastern officials condemn the proposed displacement of Palestinians, with some seeing in the proposal a violation of international law.

As stunned as I was by Trump’s announcement, my first thought was: If the military were told to deploy, how in the heck would it do this mission? As a commander, I had been assigned some tough missions. And I remembered reading that when General George C. Marshall made Dwight D. Eisenhower the commander of the European invasion force in World War II, he gave him the succinct written order to “enter the continent of Europe and defeat the Nazi war machine.” Eisenhower wrote that he was immediately overwhelmed by the scope and scale of that mission, the resources that it would require, and the operational environment—enemy, allies, terrain—the troops would face. But he started his planning, and eventually executed the D-Day landings. If the U.S. could pull that off, how much more difficult would it be for it to take over Gaza and turn it into the Riviera of the Middle East?

Answering that question requires translating Trump’s general directive into the specifics of implementation. First, consider the dimensions of the Gaza Strip. At approximately 141 square miles, it’s six times the size of Manhattan. Just razing half-destroyed structures, ridding the area of rubble, and erecting new buildings would present a daunting engineering challenge. One engineer I spoke with that night estimated that the cost would be $30 billion to $80 billion. That broadly aligns with the United Nations Development Program’s estimate of $30 billion to $40 billion.

The UN also estimates that the war has left more than 50 million tons of rubble in Gaza, and claims that clearing that debris could take more than 15 years. Given that more than 170,000 buildings have been damaged or destroyed during the Israeli military’s months-long operations, replacing them would require thousands of civil, structural, electrical, and environmental engineers coordinating their various disciplines, and could take decades.

Who would do this work? One cable pundit suggested using the United States Army Corps of Engineers. That organization has only about 35,000 civilian and 700 military personnel, and is already stretched thin by its domestic responsibilities. Deploying even a portion of the Army Corps would require a considerable commitment, and extensive support for the force within the area of its operation. Such an endeavor would likely necessitate extensive coordination with international partners and private organizations to manage the substantive building effort.

What the military calls the operational environment, or OE, is something that any commander or manager must assess before committing forces to an area. The Gaza/Israel OE is fraught with dangers that would affect and impede the already-challenging rubble-removal and construction efforts. The intelligence needed to counter the activity of terrorist groups comes from a variety of agencies, including the CIA, the FBI, and the Defense Intelligence Agency. All of these are undergoing personnel scrubs by DOGE, which is interrupting the flow of information that would help identify, prevent, and respond to threats. Dismissing senior counterterrorism leaders at the FBI, or encouraging large numbers of CIA officers to leave the agency, will weaken international intelligence sharing, risk increasing terror activity, and heighten international-security risks.

Almost-uniform international opposition would further complicate the challenge. Palestinian leaders were quick to denounce the demand that more than 2 million Gazans leave their home. Our European allies—on whom we depend for support in the area—met Trump’s comments with skepticism and criticism. UN Secretary-General António Guterres said that forced displacement would be “tantamount to ethnic cleansing.” And the proposal also aroused domestic opposition, including from some of Trump’s closest political allies.

When Eisenhower was told to storm the European continent, he could count on the support of the American people, our allies, and our intelligence services—and could draw on enormous resources made available for the task. If the Gaza mission were to be handed to the military today, it would enjoy none of those advantages.

I purposely have not provided what the military calls a troop-to-task requirement, or an analysis of the number of soldiers that would be needed to accomplish the mission. And if troops did go to Gaza as part of this operation, as the president said might be needed, some of them would likely never return—just as thousands didn’t return from storming the beaches during World War II. Before the current administration goes any further, it should take stock of that reality.