From WWII Triumph to Strategic Failure: China Dominates Islands America Won

Paul Riverbank, 1/29/2026China quietly boosts influence in Pacific islands, challenging U.S. presence with construction and diplomacy.

Cleo Paskal, an authority on Pacific strategy at the Foundation for Defense of Democracies, recently found herself witnessing this transformation in real time. She described evenings spent on the deck of a Chinese cargo vessel, watching the old infrastructure receive new life. "It’s small if you’re measuring concrete, but sizable if you’re measuring presence," she remarked. Yap, positioned with uncanny precision between Hawaii, Guam, and the Asian rim, isn’t just another island; it sits astride the arteries of the U.S. military’s Pacific reach, unseen but undeniably strategic.

China’s blueprint here goes beyond aviation. The same firm is pouring resources into restoring Yap's main bridge, another vital connection on the island. On the face of it, such upgrades sound helpful, even overdue. Yet local observers and U.S. military planners see something deeper—a patient weaving of influence, one contract or handshake at a time. The United States, for its part, has spent billions on Yap’s principal island, according to Paskal. However, its focus remains fixed on military logistics, with less attention to the smaller, scattered communities encircling the main hub. China, less encumbered by established channels, edges in through local government meetings, bank negotiations, and arrangements with customs officials—avenues often overlooked by larger actors.

Think of China's approach not as a sprint, but a quiet, persistent marathon. There’s a willingness to invest despite short-term financial losses—an approach more about laying tracks than immediate payoffs. “It’s political warfare by inches,” Paskal contends. While Washington’s gaze lingers on potential conflict scenarios and force deployments, Beijing’s playbook favors embedding business, forging relationships, and normalizing routine presence. It’s subtle, slow, and for now, remarkably effective.

The shadow of history is never far away in the Pacific. During the Second World War, Ulithi Atoll—a stone’s throw from Yap—was perhaps the world’s largest naval staging ground. Hundreds of ships would gather here, preparing for the push toward Japan. In the aftermath, the U.S. forged close deals with Micronesia and similar Pacific nations, locking out rival militaries and allowing thousands of Micronesians to move freely to the United States, even to serve in its armed forces. For decades, these arrangements kept the Pacific friendly to American interests.

But tides, inevitably, shift. In recent years, Micronesia’s national leadership has grown warmer toward China. Former president David Panuelo, before losing his re-election campaign, accused China of deploying what he termed “political warfare,” including bribery and quiet pressure tactics. His defeat seems emblematic of a new openness to Beijing—not just in Yap, but across the scattered isles of Micronesia.

When pressed on these moves, Beijing sticks to its script: respect for sovereignty, no hidden strings. Yet Paskal and other analysts remain unconvinced, citing mounting efforts across the Pacific, where countries from Palau to Tuvalu have felt the subtle tug to flip recognition from Taiwan to the People’s Republic.

This competition—influence for some, subversion for others—isn’t confined to infrastructure. Out at sea, the tempo is unmistakably higher. Four Chinese warships recently passed through the Miyako Strait, slipping into waters that U.S. planners have considered strategic since the dawn of the atomic age. Japanese Defense Minister Shinjiro Koizumi labeled these sailings “high-frequency advances”—an apt phrase for increasingly regular challenges to the so-called First Island Chain. It's a stretch of islands that has, for decades, been a keystone of America’s forward presence.

On the beaches of southern Taiwan, military exercises—with drones slicing the humid air, snipers scanning for silhouettes—underscore how the region’s anxiety is neither abstract nor distant. As Taiwan digs into rehearsals for a possible invasion, its navy’s layered approach to defense is more than a show: it’s a tangible signal amid growing uncertainty.

For American analysts, anxiety doesn’t crystallize around a single stretch of tarmac or one rebuilt bridge. Instead, there’s mounting concern that cumulative erosion—one small deal at a time—undermines the entire Pacific security edifice built after World War II. Gordon Chang, a frequent commentator on U.S.-China dynamics, puts the matter in stark terms: “These islands, for which so many Americans paid dearly, risk quietly sliding out of Washington’s orbit. Guam isn’t just close; it’s home soil. We’ve got the leverage—why aren’t we using it?”

The options ahead are sobering. The U.S. could adapt, broadening its outreach and deepening engagement beyond traditional military channels. Or it might let inertia hand over ground by default, as China’s offers gain traction in boardrooms and village halls alike. In this contest, the true stakes are invisible—alliances, reliability, and, ultimately, the shape of order itself across the Pacific. One new runway here, another handshake there; over years, those moves accumulate. And by the time the full picture comes into focus, some doors may no longer open as easily as they once did.

On the island of Yap, somewhere between the Pacific’s turquoise shallows and the old scars of World War II, an unexpected event is taking shape. You won’t see armies landing, but you might notice concrete being poured or a runway—just long enough for cargo planes—stretching across land once carved out by Japanese engineers. Ask locals, and they’ll point to the company behind the work: it’s Chinese, hired quietly but deliberately. That runway, soon to be operational, seems almost modest in scale. Still, to anyone following regional geopolitics, it’s impossible to miss its greater meaning.Cleo Paskal, an authority on Pacific strategy at the Foundation for Defense of Democracies, recently found herself witnessing this transformation in real time. She described evenings spent on the deck of a Chinese cargo vessel, watching the old infrastructure receive new life. "It’s small if you’re measuring concrete, but sizable if you’re measuring presence," she remarked. Yap, positioned with uncanny precision between Hawaii, Guam, and the Asian rim, isn’t just another island; it sits astride the arteries of the U.S. military’s Pacific reach, unseen but undeniably strategic.China’s blueprint here goes beyond aviation. The same firm is pouring resources into restoring Yap's main bridge, another vital connection on the island. On the face of it, such upgrades sound helpful, even overdue. Yet local observers and U.S. military planners see something deeper—a patient weaving of influence, one contract or handshake at a time. The United States, for its part, has spent billions on Yap’s principal island, according to Paskal. However, its focus remains fixed on military logistics, with less attention to the smaller, scattered communities encircling the main hub. China, less encumbered by established channels, edges in through local government meetings, bank negotiations, and arrangements with customs officials—avenues often overlooked by larger actors.Think of China's approach not as a sprint, but a quiet, persistent marathon. There’s a willingness to invest despite short-term financial losses—an approach more about laying tracks than immediate payoffs. “It’s political warfare by inches,” Paskal contends. While Washington’s gaze lingers on potential conflict scenarios and force deployments, Beijing’s playbook favors embedding business, forging relationships, and normalizing routine presence. It’s subtle, slow, and for now, remarkably effective.The shadow of history is never far away in the Pacific. During the Second World War, Ulithi Atoll—a stone’s throw from Yap—was perhaps the world’s largest naval staging ground. Hundreds of ships would gather here, preparing for the push toward Japan. In the aftermath, the U.S. forged close deals with Micronesia and similar Pacific nations, locking out rival militaries and allowing thousands of Micronesians to move freely to the United States, even to serve in its armed forces. For decades, these arrangements kept the Pacific friendly to American interests.But tides, inevitably, shift. In recent years, Micronesia’s national leadership has grown warmer toward China. Former president David Panuelo, before losing his re-election campaign, accused China of deploying what he termed “political warfare,” including bribery and quiet pressure tactics. His defeat seems emblematic of a new openness to Beijing—not just in Yap, but across the scattered isles of Micronesia.When pressed on these moves, Beijing sticks to its script: respect for sovereignty, no hidden strings. Yet Paskal and other analysts remain unconvinced, citing mounting efforts across the Pacific, where countries from Palau to Tuvalu have felt the subtle tug to flip recognition from Taiwan to the People’s Republic.This competition—influence for some, subversion for others—isn’t confined to infrastructure. Out at sea, the tempo is unmistakably higher. Four Chinese warships recently passed through the Miyako Strait, slipping into waters that U.S. planners have considered strategic since the dawn of the atomic age. Japanese Defense Minister Shinjiro Koizumi labeled these sailings “high-frequency advances”—an apt phrase for increasingly regular challenges to the so-called First Island Chain. It's a stretch of islands that has, for decades, been a keystone of America’s forward presence.On the beaches of southern Taiwan, military exercises—with drones slicing the humid air, snipers scanning for silhouettes—underscore how the region’s anxiety is neither abstract nor distant. As Taiwan digs into rehearsals for a possible invasion, its navy’s layered approach to defense is more than a show: it’s a tangible signal amid growing uncertainty.For American analysts, anxiety doesn’t crystallize around a single stretch of tarmac or one rebuilt bridge. Instead, there’s mounting concern that cumulative erosion—one small deal at a time—undermines the entire Pacific security edifice built after World War II. Gordon Chang, a frequent commentator on U.S.-China dynamics, puts the matter in stark terms: “These islands, for which so many Americans paid dearly, risk quietly sliding out of Washington’s orbit. Guam isn’t just close; it’s home soil. We’ve got the leverage—why aren’t we using it?”The options ahead are sobering. The U.S. could adapt, broadening its outreach and deepening engagement beyond traditional military channels. Or it might let inertia hand over ground by default, as China’s offers gain traction in boardrooms and village halls alike. In this contest, the true stakes are invisible—alliances, reliability, and, ultimately, the shape of order itself across the Pacific. One new runway here, another handshake there; over years, those moves accumulate. And by the time the full picture comes into focus, some doors may no longer open as easily as they once did.