Hustled from the bus dragging duffle bags, broken names stenciled on khaki bloated with newly-issued gear, we stood at attention, facing a depressing landscape of wooden buildings peeling light-green paint. Most of us were reservists with civilian careers: a stock broker, several lawyers, and an advertising executive who had just learned to walk without shoes.

After basic training, I was ordered further north. It was winter when I arrived. My spit-shined boots dove into puddles of mud and soot-stained snow, as I breathed in deeply molecules of coal-oil coated with sea salt

But here they were, strung across/the featureless terrain, surveying/nothing.
Mapping the arctic circle, reservists/in olive green fatigues; a sergeant/
in winter warfare uniform, jagged zebra-patterns/of taiga in snow.

While inside my pale dome, I scanned a dove-gray sky for a new genre of man-made landmark, born of the establishment of government-sponsored settlements and defense radar stations, invading the North American Arctic. Illuminated radio masts, community lights, radar towers, and large oil storage tanks are now incorporated into the network of landmarks that define an answer to this leaden question: Who is the enemy at Ground Zero?