The recent trip by CIA Director John Ratcliffe to Moscow, ostensibly to share U.S. assessments of the Ukraine war with Russian intelligence counterparts, likely delivered a sobering message. Even if Ukraine isn't on the verge of victory, the conflict has exacted a staggering toll on Russia—in lives lost, resources consumed, and now, with increasing strikes on its energy infrastructure, a growing vulnerability. Yet, the question lingers: will President Vladimir Putin heed the warning, or will he, like many leaders before him, dismiss the news he doesn't want to hear?
One can imagine a reciprocal scenario: Russian Foreign Intelligence Service chief Sergey Naryshkin briefing President Trump on the grim realities of America's military engagement with Iran. Based on U.S. reporting, Naryshkin might detail that the conflict has cost over $29 billion, with the administration recently requesting an additional $67 billion. He'd note that nearly a quarter of the MQ-9 Reaper fleet—45 drones—has been lost, along with over 850 Tomahawk cruise missiles and more than 1,000 defensive interceptors fired against Iranian attacks. He'd point to the destruction of a command-and-control center in Bahrain, major radar sites, and reports of damaged or destroyed aircraft, including F-35s, F-15s, tankers, and an AWACS. He'd mention the scuttling of two MC-130 transports and the extended repair timelines for both the USS Ford and USS Lincoln carriers after months at sea without maintenance.
Such a briefing would likely be met with presidential fury. Trump, like Putin, has shown a consistent pattern of rejecting negative feedback—a trait not uncommon among leaders, as history attests. The Vietnam War offers a stark example. It took the Tet Offensive in early 1968 and Walter Cronkite's public declaration of stalemate to finally pierce President Lyndon Johnson's conviction that victory was within reach.
I witnessed this dynamic firsthand in June 1967. As a young officer recalled from Vietnam to brief the president, I was instructed by Johnson to be blunt. I told him that "we were getting the sh-t kicked out of us" and that our options were "to get in or to get out"—meaning a full-scale invasion to cut North Vietnam in half, or withdrawal. My two colleagues never got to speak. For the next 55 minutes, Johnson, Defense Secretary Robert McNamara, and National Security Advisor Walt Rostow delivered a pep talk on the war's progress, never disputing my assessment but simply ignoring it. It was a classic case of cognitive dissonance—the reality was too painful to confront.
Years later, during the run-up to the second Iraq war, I saw a similar pattern. Despite close ties to Secretary of State Colin Powell, my repeated pleas—based on IAEA and General Anthony Zinni's assessments—that Iraq lacked usable weapons of mass destruction fell on deaf ears. Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld, whom I'd known since the first Gulf War, also dismissed my doubts. President George W. Bush had set his course: the "Freedom Agenda" demanded an invasion, and no Plan B was ever articulated.
These experiences suggest a troubling continuity in presidential psychology. When leaders invest heavily in a conflict, they often become unable to process information that contradicts their narrative. The costs—in blood, treasure, and strategic misjudgment—can be catastrophic.
Today, as Putin faces mounting losses in Ukraine and Trump navigates his own foreign policy entanglements, the question remains whether either will break this pattern. Trump's approval ratings remain at historic lows, partly reflecting public fatigue with endless conflicts. Yet, the resistance to bad news persists. If Naryshkin were to brief Trump, my guess is the response would mirror that of his predecessors: denial, deflection, and a stubborn refusal to alter course.
The lesson from history is clear: leaders who insulate themselves from uncomfortable truths do so at their own peril—and at the peril of their nations.
