U.S. Army Tank-Automotive and Armaments Command (TACOM)
Sierra Army Depot, Herlong CA
“They’re gonna run out of gas.”
Colonel Kumar turned to his ops lead. “Sorry?”
The captain pointed to the zoomed-out map of California. It had briefly started receiving link-16 data from units all over California, but then the feed had abruptly stopped. However, the local system had recorded the position of over two hundred different units all around California during that time. “We have aircraft spread out all over the place. These tiny airports don’t have massive tank farms, they will run out almost instantly. We need to move fuel down there.”
Kumar studied the map. “What’s this symbol here off the coast?”
“That indicates a strike against a civilian oil tanker.”
Kumar nodded. “We should assume the refineries in SoCal will be out of raw materials shortly, if they’re still running at all.”
“We need to move fuel south. Quickly.”
Kumar turned to his fuels team leader. “How many tankers are in rolling condition right now?”
The sergeant didn’t look down at the notes he was holding. “Seventy five M970s and plenty of HETs.”
“Get them rolling.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kinder Morgan Sparks Terminal
Sparks, Nevada
The line of seventy five of the massive Oshkosh Heavy Equipment Transporter (HET) 6×6 trucks pulling M970 refueling trailers surprised even the experienced fuel loaders at the Sparks Terminal. Little known, the SFPP pipeline provided all types of fuel to Nevada from refineries located in the Bay Area. Specifically in this case, the Chevron Richmond plant which had a massive capacity for refining aviation fuels including JetA.
Two hummers full of MPs had arrived only ten minutes before and instructed the operations manager to clear all the loading docks. The senior sergeant in the convoy stepped down from the lead truck which was parked in one of the four fueling bays. “Who’s the boss here, gents?”
Both of the loaders pointed to an older man who was wearing a “Kinder Morgan” ballcap and a grimy pair of overalls. “You gents the ones who called?”
The sergeant laughed. “Unless you are expecting ANOTHER army convoy of seventy five trucks.”
“That’s three seventy five, ya?”
“That’s right.” Seventy five tankers, five thousand gallons each was a staggering 375,000 gallons. “And we’ll be back in a few days for more.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
The Kinder Morgan loading manager turned to his assistant. “Bill, call Chevron Richmond, let them know we need to dedicate line one to JetA tomorrow.”
The sergeant just stared at him. “Richmond?”
“Ya, dude. Where do you think all this gas comes from? There ain’t no refineries in Nevada which can make JetA. Hell, our gasoline comes from California too. What is it that you think we do here?”
The sergeant hadn’t really thought about it. His normal job was making sure that transporters like the HET were stored properly and ready to go at a moment’s notice all over the world. This would be his first time moving fuel around. After a moment, he began to wonder if the officers in his chain of command realized how critical the oil refineries in California had just become. “So, if California goes dry, so does Nevada.”
“Ya man, that’s what I’m saying. Vegas comes from LA, Reno from the Bay Area.”
“You mean, Vegas USED to come from LA. In case you haven’t heard, the port of LA is closed, but good.”
The loading manager took off his grimy hat and scratched his head. “That’s gonna suck.”
“You said it brother, you said it.”
944th Fighter Wing, 52nd Squadron, Air Combat Command
Apple Valley Airport (APV), San Bernardino County, CA
“What do you mean there is no gas?”
“Colonel, I mean that March is dry as a fucking bone. Hell, they asked ME if I would sell them some.” Larry, the FBO operator, had quickly revered to his former enlisted rank and was almost considered a part of the wing at this point.
“Who is the supplier?”
“It don’t matter none. All the AvGas and JetA comes via pipeline. All the suppliers use the same pipeline.”
“And where does the fuel come from?”
“San Pedro.”
“Shit.”
“That’s what I said, Colonel.”
San Pedro, along with most of the port of LA had gone completely dark a few days ago. Nguen knew that tanker shipments of crude oil had stopped due to the ongoing Chinese naval activity off the coast, but he had assumed that there were sufficient reserves to provide fuel for weeks if not for a full month. Of course, it didn’t matter at all if there was fuel sitting in the refineries in LA if they couldn’t get it here.
“Can you contact your supplier directly? Get trucks to ship it out?”
“Nobody in the LA office is answering the phone. Either they got hit or they’re just spooked and they ran for the hills.”
“Goddammit.”
After a rough start, Lt. Colonel Nguen had finally started to get the air battle over California under control. While it would be wildly optimistic to say they were winning, at least they were not losing so badly. They were maintaining a constant Barrier Combat Air Patrol (BARCAP) over LA county and most of San Bernadino County. They were not providing the air support to the troops in contact that he would like but at least there weren’t Chinese aircraft overhead. Well, most of the time. But all that activity was burning fuel at a prodigious rate. He was getting weapons flown in from the east coast, he didn’t ask where they were coming from. If he had two squadrons of F-22s or even two more F-35 squadrons, he could control the air all the way to the Mexican border.
But not without fuel.
“We need that fuel. We will take it if we have to.”
“From who?”
“From anyone who has it.”
Larry shuffled his feet. He knew who would be stealing the JetA and it wouldn’t be the Colonel. “Colonel, I…” Abruptly, he stopped talking, his jaw hanging open.
“Larry, what is it?”
Larry just pointed mutely at the vehicle entrance to the airport. Nguen turned to see what had Larry so shocked. Then his mouth opened in shock also. Twenty HET 6×6 trucks with US Army markings were coming onto the airport. As the lead vehicle stopped, an Army Sergeant stepped down and saluted. “Colonel Kumar sends his compliments, sir. There’s a rumor there may be some thirsty birds down here.”
An F-35 holds about 2,500 gallons of fuel (although aircraft fuel is always measured by weight, not volume). Those twenty tankers could fully refuel the fourteen F-35A’s in his squadron almost three times.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes sergeant. I don’t care what anyone else says, you army boys are all right with me.”