A Hypothetical Shock to NATO: What If Canada Walked Away From the F-35?

Imagine a moment that would have seemed unthinkable just a few years ago. In early 2026, Canada’s defense minister steps to the podium in Ottawa and announces that the government will cancel its order for the remaining 72 F-35 fighter jets and instead purchase 88 Gripen E aircraft from Sweden. The decision is official, not leaked, not speculative. Washington is stunned. Pentagon conference rooms fall silent. Lockheed Martin watches a multibillion-dollar contract evaporate. Across NATO, allies quietly ask the same question: what just happened?

This scenario is hypothetical. As of January 2026, Canada remains committed to the F-35, having signed a contract in 2023 to purchase 88 F-35A aircraft worth up to 19 billion Canadian dollars, with the first 16 expected to arrive in 2026. But among defense analysts, former officials and military commentators on American social media platforms — from retired U.S. Air Force officers on X to procurement specialists on Substack and YouTube — the idea of Canada reconsidering the remaining jets is no longer dismissed as fantasy. It is discussed as unlikely, but not impossible.

To understand why this thought experiment matters, it helps to look at the broader context. Canada is not just another F-35 customer. It is a founding partner of the Joint Strike Fighter program, having joined in 1997 and invested more than $600 million in research and development. Canadian firms manufacture components used across the global F-35 fleet. The program has long been presented as the ultimate symbol of allied integration with the United States at the center.

Yet since Donald Trump returned to the White House in January 2025, the tone of the U.S.-Canada relationship has hardened. Trade disputes, renewed tariff threats, and increasingly blunt rhetoric about burden-sharing and sovereignty within NORAD have unsettled Ottawa. In American political circles, these tensions are often framed as leverage. In Canadian debates, they are increasingly framed as risk.

Against that backdrop, Saab, the Swedish defense company behind the Gripen E, has been quietly discussed online by U.S. and Canadian defense commentators as offering something fundamentally different: not just an aircraft, but an industrial model. According to publicly discussed elements of Saab’s past bids, the Gripen proposal emphasizes full domestic assembly, deep technology transfer, and 100 percent industrial offsets. In practical terms, that would mean final assembly lines in Canada, thousands of high-skill jobs, and — most controversially — Canadian access to the aircraft’s software and source code.

That last point is where the hypothetical becomes geopolitically explosive. The F-35 is not simply a fighter jet; it is a tightly controlled ecosystem. Software updates, mission data files and even aspects of maintenance depend on U.S.-managed systems. Critics on American defense podcasts and forums have long argued that this creates a form of “strategic dependency,” even for close allies. Gripen advocates counter that Saab’s model offers something closer to technological sovereignty: the ability for a country to integrate its own weapons, modify software for national requirements, and operate independently if political relations sour.

For Canada, proponents argue, the implications would be profound. Gripen E’s operating costs are widely cited by analysts as significantly lower than those of the F-35, with estimates often placing Gripen’s cost per flight hour under $10,000 compared with figures for the F-35 that range far higher. Lower costs translate into more training hours, more Arctic patrols, and potentially higher readiness — a point frequently emphasized by military commentators on U.S. social media who focus on real-world sortie generation rather than headline stealth capabilities.

There is also geography. Gripen was designed around Sweden’s doctrine of dispersed operations, capable of operating from short, austere runways with minimal ground crews. Videos and analyses circulating online often highlight Gripen landing on highways or operating in winter conditions — imagery that resonates in discussions about Canada’s Arctic, where infrastructure is sparse and distances vast.

The immediate reaction from Washington, in this hypothetical, would likely be restrained in public and intense in private. Official statements would emphasize respect for Canadian sovereignty. Behind closed doors, analysts expect pressure. Questions would be raised about Gripen’s integration into NORAD, intelligence-sharing protocols, and the long-term reliability of supply chains not controlled by the United States. Some American commentators have speculated that Lockheed Martin could respond by reevaluating Canadian participation in the F-35 industrial base, a move with significant economic consequences.

NORAD would sit at the center of the storm. Technically, Gripen E uses NATO-standard data links such as Link 16, and defense experts widely agree that integration is feasible. Politically, however, it would require Washington to accept a front-line North American air defense aircraft it does not control. That would mark a historic shift. As several U.S. analysts have noted online, NORAD has always been binational in command, but effectively unilateral in technology. A Gripen-equipped Royal Canadian Air Force would challenge that balance.

Beyond North America, the ripple effects could be even larger. If Canada — often described in American discourse as one of the United States’ closest and most dependable allies — were to walk away from the F-35, it would send a powerful signal. European countries that have quietly debated the costs and constraints of the F-35 might feel emboldened to demand better terms or explore alternatives. Sweden, a relatively new NATO member, would instantly become a top-tier defense supplier to a G7 nation, transforming its standing within the alliance.

Some American analysts argue that such diversification could actually strengthen NATO by reducing dependence on a single platform. Others warn it could complicate interoperability and logistics at a time of rising global tension. Both views circulate widely in online debates, reflecting a deeper question about the future of alliances in a multipolar world.

At home, Canada would face its own reckoning. A Gripen assembly line could anchor a domestic aerospace ecosystem involving universities, startups and advanced manufacturing — a vision often highlighted by industrial policy advocates on both sides of the border. But autonomy also brings responsibility. Canada would bear greater long-term costs for upgrades, sustainment and capability development previously shared within the F-35 consortium.

In the end, this hypothetical is not really about jets. It is about models of security. One model emphasizes deep integration under U.S. leadership, trading sovereignty for guaranteed access to the world’s most advanced military technology. The other prioritizes independence and flexibility, accepting greater risk in exchange for control.

As of now, Canada has chosen the first path. But the fact that the second can be discussed seriously — even hypothetically — tells us something important about the shifting dynamics of power, technology and trust among allies. In an era when security and independence increasingly pull in opposite directions, the hardest choices may still lie ahead.