Combat-tested jets lose customers as allies question America's political reliability
Traditional defense partnerships fracture as procurement decisions prioritise political predictability over battlefield performance
Here's the moment that should have sealed the deal: Thai F-16s screaming across the border, striking Cambodian positions with surgical precision during five days of deadly clashes. American military technology performing flawlessly under fire, exactly as the sales brochures promised.
Then Thailand bought Swedish jets instead.
The $635 million decision to purchase Gripen E/F fighters over upgraded American F-16s came just days after the Royal Thai Air Force had demonstrated the lethal effectiveness of existing American systems. In any rational defense market, successful combat performance should guarantee customer loyalty. Yet Thailand walked away from proven winners in favour of untested alternatives.
This isn't an anomaly—it's a warning. Across the globe, America's closest allies are systematically abandoning military partnerships that have anchored international security for decades. The reason isn't battlefield performance. It's trust.
When performance isn't enough
Thailand's ten-month evaluation process should have been straightforward. The F-16 had just proven itself in live combat. The upgraded Block 70/72 variants offered cutting-edge capabilities. American military technology had literally saved Thai lives under fire.
Instead, Thailand chose Sweden. The Gripen E/F package offered 100 billion baht worth of industrial offsets—technology transfers and local production deals that America's export restrictions typically prohibit. Sweden was willing to share secrets that America guards jealously.
More telling still: Thailand had successfully used both American F-16s and Swedish Gripens during the border conflict. Both systems worked exactly as advertised. Yet only Sweden got the follow-on order. Air Marshal Prapas Sornchaidee's explanation revealed the new procurement calculus: "capability to match military doctrine" ranked alongside political reliability and long-term partnership stability.
The technical specifications told one story—MBDA Meteor missiles, advanced radar systems, sensor fusion capabilities that matched American alternatives. The political specifications told another: Sweden doesn't threaten trade wars against customers or weaponise defense relationships for domestic political gain.
The alliance exodus
Thailand isn't alone. Across continents, America's most trusted partners are quietly walking away from defense relationships that once seemed unshakeable.
Portugal's defense minister delivered the verdict with diplomatic precision: "The predictability of our allies is a factor to be reckoned with." Translation: America can no longer be trusted to honour long-term commitments. Nuno Melo announced Portugal would abandon F-35 plans entirely, seeking European alternatives for its F-16 replacement programme.
Canada began exploring Swedish Gripens and French Rafales as alternatives to its $19 billion F-35 commitment. Defense Minister Bill Blair's language was carefully neutral, but the message was clear: even Five Eyes intelligence partnerships can't guarantee procurement loyalty when political relationships become weaponised.
Denmark's Rasmus Jarlov abandoned diplomatic niceties entirely. As chairman of parliament's defense committee, he publicly regretted his country's F-35 purchases: "Buying American weapons is a security risk that we cannot run." He urged allies to avoid American systems "if at all possible."
Switzerland faces mounting pressure to cancel its $9.1 billion F-35 order after punitive tariffs. Spanish officials ruled out F-35 procurement altogether, choosing European alternatives. The pattern spans NATO allies, traditional partners, and neutral countries alike—all reaching the same conclusion about American reliability.
These aren't third-world autocracies hedging their bets. These are wealthy democracies with advanced militaries, sophisticated procurement processes, and decades of alliance experience. When they systematically abandon American partnerships, the message transcends individual grievances.
The software trap
Modern fighter jets aren't just weapons—they're subscription services with afterburners.
Unlike the F-16s of previous generations that could operate independently for decades, today's stealth fighters require constant software updates, intelligence feeds, and maintenance protocols controlled by their manufacturers. The F-35's mission systems need regular updates from American servers. Its sensor fusion depends on continued access to intelligence networks managed by the Pentagon. Even spare parts deliveries can be suspended at political whim.
Countries buying F-35s aren't just purchasing aircraft—they're entering decades-long dependency relationships where operational sovereignty becomes negotiable. European officials worry about potential "kill switches," though the reality is more mundane and equally concerning: simply withholding software updates or spare parts can ground entire fleets.
This represents a fundamental shift from defense procurement as ownership to defense procurement as ongoing partnership. When Thailand buys Gripens from Sweden, it's betting that Swedish politicians won't use aircraft maintenance as a diplomatic weapon. When countries buy F-35s from America, they're betting on the political restraint of a nation that increasingly uses economic coercion against allies.
The Gripen's design philosophy deliberately emphasises independence—the ability to operate from highway strips with minimal external support reflects Sweden's historical neutrality and wartime self-reliance doctrine. For countries reconsidering American partnerships, operational independence has become a premium feature worth sacrificing some technical capability.
The cost of lost trust
America's aerospace industry employs 2.23 million people and generates nearly $1 trillion in annual sales. Defense exports alone reached $138.7 billion in 2024. This isn't abstract economic data—it's the foundation of entire communities across the American heartland.
California's 771,000 aerospace jobs depend on international partnerships that seemed unshakeable just years ago. When Thailand chooses Swedish jets, it's not just about one contract. It's about the supply chains stretching from Long Beach to Seattle, the engineering firms in suburban office parks, the precision manufacturers in industrial districts that most Americans never see but depend upon.
Lockheed Martin's F-35 programme alone accounts for 25% of the company's revenue, with international customers providing the scale that makes domestic production economically viable. Each lost customer doesn't just reduce foreign sales—it threatens the entire programme's economics, potentially making American jets unaffordable for America itself.
The ripple effects cascade through thousands of smaller suppliers. Nearly 60% of aerospace employment comes from the supply chain companies that machine components, develop software, and provide specialised services. When Saab wins in Thailand, Swedish suppliers benefit while American workshops lose orders that often sustained them for years.
European companies are positioning themselves as the beneficiaries of American political unreliability. Saab markets the Gripen explicitly as offering "operational independence" alongside technical capability. Dassault promotes the Rafale as a European alternative free from American political dependencies. These aren't just sales pitches—they're strategic repositioning for a world where trust has become a scarce commodity.
The new defense calculations
Countries are learning to hedge their bets in ways that would have seemed unthinkable during the height of American hegemony. The European Union now actively promotes collective defense procurement specifically designed to reduce dependence on American suppliers. Brussels officials speak openly about the need for "strategic autonomy" in defense—diplomatic language for reducing reliance on unreliable partners.
This isn't anti-American sentiment—it's sophisticated risk management. Sweden's success in Thailand demonstrates that second-tier suppliers can compete effectively when they offer political predictability alongside reasonable technical capabilities. Countries are discovering they don't need the absolute best systems if those systems come with political strings attached.
The shift forces American companies into unfamiliar territory. Defense contractors built their business models around decades-long relationships with allied governments that valued American technology above all other considerations. Now they must compete not just on capability but on political reliability—a dimension where America's recent track record creates significant disadvantages.
European manufacturers understand this opportunity. They market their systems explicitly as politically safer alternatives that avoid American dependency traps. The sales pitch practically writes itself: similar capability, greater independence, more predictable partnerships.
When allies become customers
The procurement shifts reveal something more troubling than lost sales: they signal the erosion of alliance structures that have anchored global security since World War II. When countries lose confidence in American political reliability, they naturally develop alternative security arrangements that reduce dependence on American commitments.
Traditional alliance theory assumed that shared threats would ensure continued cooperation regardless of political changes within democratic systems. That assumption no longer holds when democratic electorates can choose leaders who treat allies as transaction partners rather than security partners.
Countries now demand explicit contractual guarantees about long-term support that previous generations took for granted. They want legally binding commitments about spare parts availability, software support, and technology access that transcend electoral cycles. These requirements force American defense companies into unfamiliar territory where political risk has become a primary competitive disadvantage.
The broader implications extend far beyond fighter jet competitions. When allied countries diversify their defense suppliers, they inevitably develop closer military relationships with those alternative suppliers. Swedish defense cooperation with Thailand creates new partnership channels that may compete with American influence over time.
The reckoning
Thailand's paradox—choosing Swedish alternatives after American jets proved their worth in combat—captures the fundamental challenge facing American defense relationships. Technical superiority no longer guarantees customer loyalty when political reliability becomes questionable.
For an industry built on decades-long relationships and equipment lifecycles measured in generations, this represents an existential threat. American aerospace companies spent generations building technical advantages that took enormous investments in research, development, and manufacturing capabilities. Those advantages remain intact, but they're no longer sufficient when customers prioritise political predictability over absolute performance.
The message from Thailand and dozens of other traditional partners is unmistakable: in an era of increasing political volatility, trust has become more valuable than technology. America's defense industry dominated global markets by offering the best equipment. Now it must learn to compete in markets where being reliable matters more than being best.
The stakes extend far beyond corporate balance sheets. When America loses its role as the dominant global defense supplier, it loses crucial leverage in international relationships built over decades of security cooperation. Countries that buy Swedish jets or French fighters develop security relationships that may compete with American influence.
Thailand chose Sweden not because Swedish jets are superior to American alternatives, but because Sweden offers something America no longer can: the confidence that today's partnership will still exist tomorrow. Until American political leaders understand this distinction, more allies will follow Thailand's example—proving their loyalty by walking away.