The Warfighter, the Storm, and the Moon

Chapter 49: Sixteen

'Sixteen'

22-Nov-2030, 1915U

Probatio Stuart "Joker" Jones II, Descendant of Pietas

Legio XII Fulminata, Joint Operation with Task Force 101

Oakland, California, USA

"Wait, wait, wait... you did what now?"

"We stole literally two-thirds of it."

"Over the course of the past week?"

"When we weren't doing tactical training... you know, Tyson and his Torrent Troopers can be pretty fuckin'sneaky when they want to. How else do you think they were able to acquire so many vehicles and weapons from US Army armories and bases? Plus, it helps that we don't really need to sleep... y'know, with us bein' gods and all."

"And how many gallons do we have in total?"

"I... don't actually know, man."

This was the conversation as Dux Alexios—who also called himself the "Supreme Commander of the Argo II..." whatever the hell that meant—explained just how exactly they were fueling the vehicles of Task Force 101. We were inside the One-Oh-One's massive staging area, the dark cool night lit up by the massive tripod-mounted lights and miscellaneous lanterns. The valley was chock-full of activity as the legion readied for war alongside our allies from Camp Half-Blood, nature, the sea, and fucking Olympus. I was standing just away from the god and cadre commander, waiting for the "others" to arrive.

For the past two nights, we had been training long and hard from dusk to dawn, with the legion working on integrating with the warriors of TF 101—with reservists and recalled veterans of the legions, along with a shitload of nature spirits, handling security of the valley in the daytime. Not only did we help TF 101 familiarize themselves with the valley and surrounding mountains for the sake of defense, but they (mainly the cyclopes) were teaching us about the modern-looking equipment they brought with them: trucks that looked like rolling shoeboxes, fucking tanks (sorry, "infantry fighting vehicles"), and guns... so many fucking guns.

I had to admit, I could certainly see the appeal: why stab a motherfucker or nail him with a sling/bow when you could just put a bullet in him from 800 yards away? And when you threw modern artillery into the mix, you could remove the motherfucker and his entire house from the land with just one decently-placed shot.

But at morning muster, Evocatus Jackson dropped by Cohort V's formation to tell me to get my ass over to meet him after breakfast (er, dinner?). And so, there I was, standing and waiting on some "others" to arrive... and all the while, listening to the crazy tale from Alexios, the crazy motherfucker who allegedly died and came back to life.

"So, a third of the fuel was acquired in a legit fashion. Hazel provided the precious metals—and before you ask, she can now actually control whether or not they're cursed—and Annabeth did the rest. She liquidated that shit, set up some shell companies practically overnight, and made several purchases from ExxonMobil, Chevron, Shell, etcetera. Diesel, aviation turbine fuel, it's all bought and paid for," Alexios explained.

"Okay... but the stealing?" Jackson asked.

"To quote Tyson: you mean the 'strategic transfer of equipment to alternate locations...'" And at that moment, the god's face morphed into an evil expression, like the Grinch preparing to steal Christmas. "Oh, buddy... this is where the fun begins. So Jason and Frank's team got about a sixth of the fuel supply. They ended up stealing a lot from the Canadian government."