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yelled Jack. He and the dismounts began jogging toward the Sergeant Major.
    “The TOC (Tactical Operations Center) is in here for now, until the rest of the trailers get towed in.”
    “I need the colonel.  Have you seen him?” said Jack.
    “He went on a leaders’ recon with the battalion commanders and a small security element about an hour ago to get a better look at … well, whatever the fuck that thing above the city is.” 
    Colonel Patrick McColgan had taken command of the 1 st Brigade about four months prior.  He was combat-tested; he actually knew what it was like to get in a firefight, to lead soldiers.  He had been involved, in some capacity, in every U.S. conflict since Dessert Storm.  He was pragmatic, though occasionally more hands-on than some liked. But most of his men recognized that having a leader who was too hands-on was infinitely better than having one with no experience and who didn’t care.  Jack’s only issue with Colonel McColgan stemmed from the New York/Boston sports rivalry.  The colonel, much to Jack’s dismay, loved the Red Sox and the Patriots. He and Jack gave each other shit about it on a daily basis. 
    “Sergeant Major, Where should the 2 shop set up?”
    “Park over there by the main artillery battery. About thirty meters to the right of those 105s. Coordinate with the Fire Direction Officer to make sure you’re not all up in his shit.”
    “You got it.”  Jack turned to the two dismounts. “Guys, go back to the truck and get them over here and show them where to park and where the TOC is.  After that, start unpacking our shit.  Obviously this isn’t a drill.”
    “Roger, sir.”  But the two dismounted soldiers didn’t move.  They just stood there, staring at the object over the city.
    “Guys, get the truck.  I’ll find everything out and let you know what I learn when you start setting up.  I have a feeling this is going to be a little different than Iraq and Afghanistan,” said Jack.
    “OK,” said one of the dismounts.  They turned and made their way back along the column of military vehicles.
    Jack walked back to the Sergeant Major and gave him a nod and a laugh.
    “I guess it can never be easy, sir,” Earle said jokingly.
    “Yeah, I guess not.  Is the S3 around?”
    The Brigade S3, a lieutenant colonel, was responsible for planning and coordinating all the brigade’s operations.  He was third in command behind the colonel, whom Jack greatly respected, and the executive officer (XO), who he did not always see eye to eye with.  The S3, Todd Fry, was in his mid-forties and had spent almost twenty years in the Army.  Jack had first deployed with Fry when Jack was a platoon leader, during his three years in the infantry prior to switching to military intelligence. 
    “Lieutenant Colonel Fry is over by the communications guys.  He’s checking on the few things that aren’t broken at this point,” said Sergeant Major Earle.  I think we’re going to have to run this TOC old school for a while, till we can figure out why there’s no power grid, internet, or GPS.”
    “Radios are good to go, right?  I can hear everyone just fine on my truck radio and my personal MBITR,” said Jack.
    “Sir, you are talking to the wrong man about that.” Sergeant Major Earle spit out the buildup of saliva from the large pocket of Copenhagen smokeless tobacco in his lower lip.  “All I know is that the radios are only working if they are on frequency hop, cypher text, and on the correct time setting.  Standard settings are jammed, for lack of a better term.”
    “Yeah no shit, put the radios on the right settings.  So we only have point-to-point comms and nothing that relies on centrally located infrastructure … What about the birds?  Can they fly?” Jack was referring to the helicopters from the aviation battalion.
    “They’ll fly, but they’re doing it blind. Without GPS.  Let’s hope these retarded pilots still know how to read a