This was supposed to be the safest defense contract in the Western world. Instead, it’s becoming a case study in how coercion backfires.

Canada’s massive $19 billion agreement to buy Lockheed Martin’s F-35 fighter jets is no longer stable — not because the aircraft failed, not because Ottawa ran out of money, but because Washington crossed a line Canada cannot politically uncross.

The spark came from a warning delivered not in Ottawa, but on U.S. soil.

Standing at an American air base, the U.S. ambassador to Canada suggested that if Ottawa chose a non-American fighter jet, the United States might “reconsider” how it defends North American airspace — including the possibility of U.S. aircraft operating directly over Canada.

The implication was unmistakable: buy American, or the rules of continental defense change.

Within days, what was once the largest foreign F-35 purchase in history stopped being a certainty. Canada’s defense minister confirmed that Prime Minister Mark Carney ordered a full review of the remaining aircraft.

Talks with Sweden’s Saab — long considered a backup — suddenly became very real.

Only the first 16 F-35s are now guaranteed. The remaining 72 jets, worth roughly $16 billion, are officially back on the table.

Ironically, the threat handed Canadian leaders the political justification they’d never fully had. For years, the F-35 was controversial in Canada. It won the competition, but public support was fragile.

The air force wanted it. Defense planners insisted interoperability with the U.S. under NORAD demanded it. The contract was finally signed in 2023 after two decades of debate.

Then the environment changed.

Donald Trump’s return to tariff threats, sovereignty rhetoric, and transactional diplomacy transformed the F-35 from a military decision into a political liability.

When the ambassador tied Canada’s aircraft choice to airspace sovereignty, the debate fundamentally shifted. Capability stopped being the core issue. Autonomy took its place.

Ottawa’s response was measured but decisive. Deposits for the first 16 aircraft will stand. They’re already in production and scheduled for delivery later this decade. Everything beyond that is now subject to what officials describe as a “strategic reassessment” — language that signals far more than routine paperwork.

Because Saab isn’t just offering a jet. It’s offering an industrial future.

Assembly lines in Canada. Technology transfer. Thousands of domestic aerospace jobs. Maintenance, upgrades, and lifecycle support handled by Canadian workers, in Canadian facilities. Ownership, not access.

Lockheed Martin’s model is different. Canadian firms participate in a global supply chain, but final assembly, upgrades, and control remain firmly American. That distinction barely mattered when relations were stable. It matters enormously when defense cooperation is framed as leverage.

Canadian ministers have been careful, but the message is consistent: defense procurement is industrial policy. Once you build something yourself, you keep the skills, the workforce, and the bargaining power for decades.

The Gripen may not match the F-35’s stealth or sensor fusion, but it solves problems the F-35 never could for Canada — namely, dependence.

This is why the ambassador’s comment landed like a grenade. It reframed the entire conversation. Military experts still argue the F-35 is unmatched. Politicians are now asking a harder question: what’s the value of superior capability if the supplier uses it as a pressure tool during political disputes?

For Carney, the answer fits neatly into his broader agenda: reduce vulnerability to American pressure, diversify trade, decentralize risk. Downsizing or cancelling the F-35 deal suddenly looks less like retreat and more like strategy.

And the fallout doesn’t stop at Canada.

Canada isn’t just another buyer. It’s a foundational F-35 partner. Losing Ottawa weakens the program’s coalition effect — the political glue that keeps costs down and allies aligned.

Denmark has already expressed discomfort. Portugal is watching closely. Canada stepping back would mark yet another ally reassessing under pressure.

The uncomfortable truth for Washington is this: the U.S. cannot defend North America without Canada, regardless of what aircraft Canada flies. Russian approaches cross Canadian airspace first.

Intercepts require coordination, not branding. That makes the threat look less like security policy and more like commercial coercion.

And once sovereignty enters the conversation, technical arguments lose their power.

What once seemed unthinkable now looks plausible: cancel the remaining jets, absorb the penalties, redirect the money, build domestically. The deal isn’t collapsing quietly. It’s unraveling in public — driven not by engineering failure, but by diplomacy replaced with pressure.

The longer that pressure continues, the easier Canada’s decision becomes.