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road.  There was no traffic, and so his mind wandered a bit, thinking how odd it was that a small group of men with enough schooling to run a country and enough armaments to blow one up were crouching in a hole near a deserted road. 
    What few people realized was that "special forces" wasn’t just a euphemism for a bunch of killers.  Special forces meant a highly trained thinking machine.  Right now Vogel was getting out a small pad and paper, ready to jot down notes on anyone or anything that traveled the road: direction, appearance, any cargo, passengers.  Any and all.  The information would be radioed back to Intelligence, where it would meet thousands of other bits of information, all waiting to be sorted and sensed. 
    They didn’t have long to wait before the first travelers came along.  It was a small band of Bedouins, their cloaks wrapped around them loosely, looking like dark phantoms moving heavily through the early morning light.
    "Bedouins," murmured John.
    "How many?" asked Vogel.
    "Six." 
    "Armed?"
    "Cloaked, so could be, but nothing apparent."
    Vogel radioed the information in on the SATCOM radio they carried.
    "They’re nuts," said John to himself.  It had to be over a hundred degrees out there, yet the heavily-wrapped men showed no sign of noticing the dry, dusty heat.
    "All roads lead to madness," intoned Camp.  It was a favorite saying of his, and Camp delivered the statement in the somber tone that told everyone he thought he was being deep and inscrutable.  John thought about telling him it would have been better if he’d said "All roads lead to nutness," but thought better of it.  For once.
    He squinted into the periscope, looking closely at something disturbing.  "They’re driving sheep," he said, and looked at Vogel in time to see the CO whiten slightly.  Shepherds usually stuck to well-traveled roads.  CentCom had said the road would be deserted, and the only traffic would be military companies.
    CentCom was wrong.  Within an hour, throngs of people coursed along the roadway, a living river of men, women, and children that showed no sign of drying up as the desert sun rose higher in the sky.  John ceased describing each and every one - it would have been impossible - and just watched for military vehicles.  There were none.
    Still, the men in the hole twitched nervously.  With that many people, some were bound to wander off the road.  And if one came close enough, then no amount of training in the world could guarantee their hiding spot or their survival.
    Ten minutes later, it happened.  Two little girls followed a small brown sheep that wandered off from their family’s tiny herd.  The animal was bleating piteously, as though it worried that it might be dinner at the end of this particular trip, and suddenly bolted off the road, heading right at the squad's hiding place.  The little girls did not wait to be told what to do, but ran after the sheep, calling after it as the rest of the group laughed and continued walking, trusting the children to bring the sheep back.  John pulled back the periscope, waiting for them to corral the animal and go, praying that they wouldn’t walk over the top of the dugout.
    Tiny footsteps fell on the ground nearby, then one of the little girl’s feet fell heavily against the roof.  Thunk.  It made a hollow sound, and the footsteps stopped.
    Camp cursed under his breath.
    The footsteps hurried away, and John waited for five minutes, then pushed up the periscope.
    He stared straight into the face of one of the little girls, who was obviously staring at the tiny scope.
    "Dammit," he whispered.  "We’re found."
    "Who?" asked Vogel.
    "Little girl."
    As one, the other four men grabbed their weapons.  Three of them had children, but they were willing to kill the little girl if necessary.  John hoped it wouldn’t be, and didn’t know what he would do if so ordered.  He knew that some in the unit were detached to the point of machines: