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Spider Matrix
"Two!"
Private Kenickie surveyed the dry ground at his feet. Two here, he thought. They said one over there, and one there, to my left, so... He wiped away a bead of sweat that had trickled through his brow, a salty sting in his eye. Kenickie's face was red and slick with sweat, partly from the midday desert sun that beat down on his bare head, partly from the tense concentration he was forced to muster, half-remembering patterns from less perilous sessions of the same game he found himself playing now.
Kenickie considered the small red flags clenched in his right hand. One, two, one. Think, think, think. Taking a tentative step forward, then another, he flinched inwardly as he scuffed out a large "X" in the dust with the toe of his boot. He raised his head, looking across the impromptu playing field at his grinning sergeant, who held a pair of field glasses in one hand, and a bullhorn in the other. The sergeant turned to the cluster of men behind him, hooting and clapping in their brown and tan camo, and leaned in to confer with the one who sat on a battered metal crate, portable computer in his lap. The young man pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, squinting first at the screen, then at the man standing alone in the heat and dust, then back at his screen. He pointed, and clicked, and gave the sergeant a nod and a thumbs up.
The sergeant's smile went flat for a moment as he turned back to the nerve-wracked soldier, fifty feet across the sand, surrounded by a mad patchwork of flags and symbols etched into the ground, which became fainter and fainter as the hot wind attempted to erase them. The sergeant stood quietly for an uncomfortable second, then laughed, and relayed the other man's thumbs up to the private. Kenickie let go a short breath of relief, nodded, and slid carefully to either side of his position, planting one of his flags here, one flag there, marking what he hoped would be the correct locations of the munitions buried under the sand. He returned to where he stood previously, waiting for approval once more. The interactions between the men played out again - turn, point, click, nod - and a combination of cheers and catcalls arose from the gaggle of spectators surrounding the sergeant and his advisor. The tall man brought the bullhorn to his mouth, and squawked his message.
"Good job, Private! That's seven! Only thirteen more, and you're home free! Pick another one!"
Kenickie began to shake, and yelled back at the sergeant, cupping his hands around his mouth to overcome the distance and the wind.
"Come on, Sarge! I ain't playin'! This isn't funny any more!"
The men at the edge of the field fell silent, as the sergeant's smile faded instantly, replaced by a scowl of anger and frustration. His fist curled around the handle of his megaphone, knuckles turning white as his face began to burn red as he barked back a response.
"You think this isn't funny? Maybe you thought it was real funny when you sent that reporter home with that envelope full of snapshots, huh? You think you got the fucking funny market all tied up, is that it? Well, listen up, Private! They shipped Staff Sergeant Williams out, pending the investigation, and that means I'm in charge until someone gets around to sending in a replacement. Those pin-dicks swooped in here and took away our prisoners, and if we can't have a little harmless fun with those ragheads, well, I guess we're just gonna have to play with you! Which means, if I tell you to pick a fucking square out there, you're going to goddamn pick a fucking square! Do you understand me, Private?"
Kenickie hesitated, and the sergeant let his field glasses fall, swinging freely on the lanyard around his neck. With one smooth motion, he snapped open his sidearm's holster, drew the weapon, and fired a round into the air. The private gave a start, but was frozen to the spot; the sergeant fired a second shot skyward before Kenickie began to frantically look around for a clear area, then rushed forward to an unmarked position. The sergeant holstered his pistol, checking again - turn, point, click, nod - and raised the bullhorn to his mouth one more time.
"Three!"
Three? Shit. Kenickie's mind began to race again. So, that's those two behind me, which means that one of these squares in front of me has the last one... but which? He scanned the ground at his feet, looking for some clue in the shifting dust as to which area was safe, and which would lead to him getting a belly full of shrapnel and ball bearings. There was no hope - he'd have to guess. Kenickie thought back to the hundreds of times he'd played this same game in the safety of his office, or on the computer in the bedroom he'd shared with his brother back home. His limbs began to tremble as he considered his situation once again, not sure if he should be more worried about whether or not he'd make it through his current ordeal with all his limbs intact, or what the rest of the squad would do to him if he did somehow manage to mark all of the mines correctly. He prayed that would be the end of it - he never could get the hang of that intermediate level...
(AP) Laptop-triggered mines heading to Iraq
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