Of course, while India exudes a peculiar overconfidence when dealing with its northern neighbor Pakistan or the ancient and much larger civilization to the east, it knows better than to challenge the world's most formidable military power, the United States. After witnessing the catastrophic failure of the mercenaries hired by a Japanese businessman to deal with Castle in New York, even the cow-urine-drinking, curry-loving minds of India had a rare moment of clarity. They realized that trying to target the writer in his own city was nothing more than a pipe dream. So, they decided to rally allies to help achieve their goal.
Since India was in negotiations with Israel to import the locally designed and manufactured Phalcon airborne early warning aircraft, they saw an opportunity. After all, Castle's true cloaking technology would dramatically improve the survivability of such slow and defenseless aircraft. For once, India's leadership, often accused of being delusional, proposed working with Israel to pressure Castle into handing over his technology.
However, to India's surprise, Israel flatly refused the proposal.
From Israel's perspective, why bother with underhanded tactics when their inherent advantage—being a nation built by Jews—meant they would likely gain access to Castle's technology through legitimate channels?
As everyone knows, the upper echelons of power in the U.S. are dominated by two groups: WASPs (White Anglo-Saxon Protestants) and Jews. For Israel, Castle's partnerships with companies backed by Jewish capital, such as Northrop Grumman, were already a promising avenue for access to his innovations. Moreover, Castle was on the verge of collaborating with Lockheed Martin, another company with significant Jewish backing.
Why would Israel risk working with a globally infamous and unreliable partner like India when they could simply wait for Castle's technology to become available through legal means?
India's aviation sector, particularly Hindustan Aeronautics Limited (HAL), had a notorious reputation worldwide. Over the past 40 years, India's Air Force had crashed over 1,000 planes—a grim "achievement" placing it among the global leaders in aircraft losses. For example, the MiG-21, a fighter jet universally praised elsewhere, had suffered 482 crashes under India's care. Even Israel, known for its daring endeavors, balked at collaborating with such a partner.
Israel diplomatically declined India's proposal, stating:
"We currently have no need for such technology. While we morally support your ambitions, we believe you can handle this on your own. Best of luck!"
Disappointed by Israel's rejection, India realized that pursuing Castle alone was utterly unrealistic. Despite India's frequent delusions of grandeur when dealing with neighbors, they were well aware that targeting someone in the U.S.—particularly with the American military still heavily deployed in Afghanistan—was a different beast entirely.
Having been rejected by Israel, India pondered its next move. Who could they approach to collaborate on extracting this technology from Castle?
Initially, India considered turning to Russia, as Moscow was already heavily involved in refurbishing the Gorshkov aircraft carrier for India.
But memories of the Gorshkov deal brought nothing but bitterness, dissuading India from seeking Russian help.
In 2004, Russia had offered India the decommissioned Gorshkov, a carrier with only seven years of service. The offer seemed generous:
"Since you've been a loyal buyer of our weapons for years, we'll gift you this carrier. How about that?"
India, dreaming of becoming a major power and believing an aircraft carrier task force was the quickest path to global recognition, eagerly agreed.
However, after India accepted, Russia added conditions:
"This carrier isn't ready to use. Its propulsion system is almost dead, and you lack the facilities to repair it. You'll need us to refurbish it for you, which will cost a mere $900 million."
India, thinking it was still getting a bargain, agreed. After all, spending $900 million to refurbish a medium-sized carrier seemed like a steal.
But India soon learned a harsh lesson: the most expensive things in life are often "free."
Over the years, the Gorshkov project spiraled into a money pit, with costs ballooning to several billion dollars. Even the carrier's aircraft had to be purchased from Russia, as Moscow claimed:
"This carrier was designed for our planes. If you use your own or buy from others, we can't guarantee safety."
Reluctantly, India poured money into the project, hoping it would eventually pay off.
To add insult to injury, during this time, India's northern neighbor purchased Su-30MKK fighters from Russia. These weren't just complete jets; they came with a license for local production. Furious, India demanded similar treatment.
Russia, aware of India's incompetence in manufacturing aircraft—highlighted by HAL's disastrous handling of the MiG-21—denied India's request for a production license. Instead, Russia offered a customized Su-30MKI, tailored for India.
India accepted, only to discover that Russia had essentially delivered upgraded Su-27s rather than true Su-30s. Feeling betrayed, India grew increasingly wary of Russia's intentions.
These bitter experiences with Russia deterred India from seeking their help in acquiring Castle's technology.
Yet India lacked the courage to act alone. Who else could they turn to?
Suddenly, India remembered another potential ally: Dassault, the French company that had sold them Mirage 2000 fighters. Perhaps the French could help?
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