The Enemy Within

Still shocked, Calvin found the nearest intact police car and relayed the lieutenant’s orders. As he headed back, another shot cracked out from the mob. He saw a cop fall, clutching his leg. Another of fleer fired back.

Calvin hoped the man had a clear target.

He ran toward the injured policeman, but two paramedics beat him there. They dropped to the ground beside the groaning man, feverishly stripping off his riot gear as they tried to treat his wound.

Calvin knelt close by, putting the riot cop’s helmet, gas mask, and bulletproof vest on as fast as they came off. He snatched up the fallen officer’s baton and clear Plexiglas shield, and took his place in the shrinking police line.

He could see the crowd more clearly now. They were only a hundred yards away close enough to make out individuals. Somehow, though, the rioters all looked the same. Young men in dark clothing ran, shouted, and taunted the police. All were black or Hispanic. Bottles and other missiles flew out of the darkness toward the police line. Most fell short. A few clattered off their upraised shields.

Calvin slid into position and immediately felt a little more secure, although he knew that was illusory. He was part of a disciplined line of trained men, but the chaos they were facing made him feel like an island of sand facing the raging ocean.

He stiffened, readying himself, as a band of screaming young toughs suddenly shoved their way forward out of the crowd. Some were waving baseball bats or tire irons.

THUMMP. A tear-gas canister sailed over his head and landed in the middle of the advancing teens. They scattered.

A ball of flame blossomed skyward in the middle of the plaza. Calvin guessed that was a car’s fuel tank cooking off.

The command came for them to step back, and he backed up in line with the others.

Now Calvin could hear a bullhorn blaring somewhere out in front. Somewhere out in the middle of the mob. He couldn’t hear the words, but he could hear their rhythm and pitch. Did this beast have a brain? The thought frightened him, and only his training steadied him. They stepped back again.

The crowd actually drew away from him and the other riot police, and for a moment he hoped they had grown bored or were more interested in easier prey. Then he saw that they were clustering around the bonfire the burning car. The voice shouting through the bullhorn was still indistinct, but he could hear cheers and answering shouts from the throng.

Suddenly, almost as one, they turned to face the police, and Calvin knew what the man with the bullhorn had been saying. The cops are the enemy. Kill them. Take their weapons. Simple, brutal instructions commands the crowd was ready to obey.

The mass started to move forward, and he fought down a feeling that the whole thing was headed straight at him. He tried to pick out individuals at the edge and saw that while they were eager to shout, they were reluctant to challenge the police line physically. Pushed from behind, though, they did advance, first walking and then running.

Calvin heard more feet slamming onto the pavement behind him, and knew that the line was being extended as every ablebodied officer joined them. Would it be enough? If they were outflanked…

Haskin’s voice bellowed, “Guard!”

He brought his baton up, ready to take the shock and defend himself. The mob seemed as big as the ocean, and the tide was coming in.

“Advance!”

Calvin blinked. The tactical manuals said the best defense was a good offence, but who ever heard of a shoreline advancing to meet the waves? Nevertheless, he took one step in unison with the officers on either side, paused a moment, and then went forward again, falling into the well-drilled rhythm designed to cow an unruly crowd.

More tear-gas canisters landed right in front of them. The yelling people nearest to the grey haze recoiled for a second and then were pushed forward by the vast throng behind them. Some fell, retching, and were swallowed up.

With a heart-stopping, guttural roar, the mob slammed into the advancing police line.

A short, skinny teenager rushed Calvin first, trying to grab his baton. The policeman easily dodged his outstretched hands and brought the baton around in a slashing blow. The boy screamed and ducked back, clutching a broken wrist.

Another man, older and much larger, tried to tear the shield out of Calvin’s grip. Pain shot up his forearm as he slammed the baton down across the attacker’s arm and then again across the man’s head. The rioter went down in a boneless heap.

After that, the struggle disintegrated into a flurry of halfseen, half-felt, and half-remembered blows and counterblows, strike and counter strike. His earlier fears submerged by the primal urge to survive, Calvin fought calmly and effectively. But no matter how many rioters he knocked down or drove off, there was a seemingly endless supply of others still surging forward in an effort to tear him apart.