Tarmac Reconnaissance

Stepped through the propped heavy steel exit door and hit the rough asphalt alleyway. Fresh midday air, smells like hot engine oil and damp masonry. Right beside the building's exterior drainpipe sat a spent silver spark plug, cold porcelain ribbed with steel threads. A field operative never advances without a perimeter marker. I planted my boots in the gritty tarmac gravel, locked my hands around the steel hex base, and hoisted the deadweight clear off the dirt. Lugged it two paces forward and jammed the threaded electrode deep into a seam in the curb. Solid steel stake planted. Ground-level operations are officially underway.