Why Commanders Don’t Sign NDAs
Existing rules and laws applying to military secrecy are sufficient—and asking officers to sign NDAs is deeply inappropriate.
WHEN REPORTS SURFACED that Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth was demanding those serving in the U.S. Southern Command area of operations sign nondisclosure agreements as part of the campaign against so-called “narcoterrorists,” it gave me pause. After nearly four decades in uniform—including years commanding in combat zones, handling top secret intelligence and being involved in compartmented information programs, and testifying before members of Congress—I can say this plainly: Such a move betrays a profound misunderstanding of how secrecy, accountability, and trust work inside the U.S. military.
A nondisclosure agreement—an NDA—is a civilian legal tool. It’s a contract, most often used in business, to prevent employees or contractors from sharing proprietary information, or for protecting personal information. It exists to protect a company’s competitive advantage or intellectual property, or to provide protection from legal action. But in government service there’s already a narrow, formalized version of that type of agreement: the Classified Information Nondisclosure Agreement, known as Standard Form 312. Every person who receives a security clearance is required to sign that form. It acknowledges that the signer understands their obligation to protect classified information and states the penalties for failing to do so. That’s the one legitimate NDA in the federal system—and it already covers every service member who handles classified material. Which is, in effect, every officer with a clearance. Which is, in effect, every officer.
The military doesn’t rely on contractual secrecy; it relies on law, duty, and discipline. When you hold a clearance, you are already legally bound to protect the nation’s secrets. The statutes governing that responsibility are unambiguous and severe. Under federal law—18 U.S. Code §§ 793 and 798—unauthorized disclosure of national-defense information can bring a prison sentence of up to ten years. Those laws apply to everyone in uniform, from the newest private to the most senior general, who holds a clearance to view any classified documents or who is privy to any classified information. No additional NDA is required to make that point.
When I was “read on” to sensitive programs beyond the normal clearances during my service, the additional process was precise, solemn, and—truthfully—intimidating. You first had to hold the right level of clearance—usually Top Secret—and then demonstrate a “need to know” the compartmented information that you were provided. Inside a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, or SCIF, you would be briefed on what the program was, how and why it was protected, what you were forbidden to reveal, and the penalties that would come if you violated the trust. In compartmented programs, you aren’t even allowed to publicly acknowledge the specific program’s existence, let alone your access to it. The penalties for violating any of those rules weren’t theoretical—they were career-ending and, in most cases, came with criminal indictment.
That’s why imposing additional NDAs on personnel in the Southern Command area of operations isn’t just unnecessary—it’s counterproductive and insulting. It signals mistrust in a system that already functions with rigor, gravity, and extreme disciplinary action if violated. Asking for anything “additional” also risks conflating operational security, which is essential, with overt political control, which is dangerous. The military already has every safeguard it needs to protect classified information: clearance vetting, the “need-to-know” principle, compartmentalization, and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. What it does not need is an improvised contractual mechanism that could be used to suppress accountability or restrict legitimate oversight.
Senior military officers—particularly three- and four-star commanders—occupy a unique constitutional space. They are responsible for the lawful execution of national policy, but they also have a statutory obligation, when requested, to appear before Congress and report honestly on the state of their forces and their missions. Congressional oversight of the military isn’t optional; it is one of the pillars of civilian control. When generals testify before Congress, they do so under oath, not as political appointees defending an administration but as professionals describing the security of the country as they see it.
I watched that obligation tested in 2003, when Army Chief of Staff General Eric Shinseki testified before Congress about the number of troops he believed would be required to stabilize Iraq following the invasion. His assessment—based on his experience, staff analysis, and military judgment—did not align with the narrative being advanced by Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld and his deputies. Shinseki calmly told lawmakers that “several hundred thousand” troops would be needed for postwar stability operations, which was significantly more than the Bush administration said was necessary. Shinseki was publicly rebuked and then quietly sidelined. Yet history proved him right. His testimony remains a defining example of professional integrity: a senior officer fulfilling his duty to speak truth to power, even when it carried personal cost. That is what the system demands, and what democracy depends upon.
If an NDA were to restrict that obligation—to limit what a commander can say to Congress or to the American people about operations, readiness, or the use of force—it would cross a constitutional line. It would turn a protective instrument into a political one. The goal of secrecy is to protect the nation, not to protect leaders from scrutiny.
I’VE SERVED UNDER MULTIPLE ADMINISTRATIONS, multiple secretaries of defense, in peace and war. Some of the most sensitive operations I’ve been a part of—counterterrorism and counterinsurgency missions, clandestine intelligence efforts, multinational engagement programs—were conducted under strict classification, some using compartmented programs that few knew about. Yet at no time did those classifications prevent us from reporting to Congress, briefing inspectors general, or answering for our actions when oversight was required. The system worked because it was built on trust and law, not on ad hoc paperwork designed to muzzle uniformed officers.
If I were a commander today, I would not sign an NDA like the one reportedly being circulated in the Southern Command theater. Not out of defiance, but out of respect for the oath I took to support and defend the Constitution. I would continue to safeguard classified information with the same care I always did—but I would not allow a redundant or politically motivated document to interfere with lawful communication between the armed forces, civilian leaders, and the representatives of the people. Refusing to sign wouldn’t be disobedience; it would be fidelity to both law and principle.
One more time: Soldiers don’t serve individuals; they serve the Constitution. They don’t conceal truth from oversight; they protect truth from exploitation. There’s a difference between secrecy that saves lives and secrecy that is based on misplaced loyalty. Our system is designed to tell those apart.
I understand why businesses need NDAs, but NDAs have no place in our government. They belong in corporate boardrooms, not command tents. They substitute legal fear for professional trust, and in doing so they erode the very foundation on which military leadership stands.
Because, in the end, this isn’t about secrecy at all—it’s about trust. Trust in the laws that already govern classified information. Trust in the officers and NCOs who have spent their careers safeguarding it. Trust in the system of checks and balances that keeps our military strong, apolitical, and accountable. Once that trust is broken—once leaders use the tools of secrecy to silence rather than to secure—it cannot be restored by any number of signatures on a form.
That’s why, if asked to sign such an NDA, I’d respectfully decline. Because the duty of a commander or any military officer isn’t to protect a narrative—it’s to protect the truth, the troops, and the Constitution they serve.
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