Calvin nodded and drove off to take up his position.
Beneath an overcast sky, it was already twilight. Off to the east, the blazing towers of the Renaissance Center glowed orange against a black horizon.
Despite the cold, deepening as the sky darkened, Bob Calvin waited outside his police car. So far he hadn’t had much to do beyond waving off those few idiotic motorists who somehow hadn’t heard the news.
To Calvin that seemed almost impossible. He’d been listening to the radio transmissions describing the disaster overtaking Detroit’s city center for more than an hour.
Someone, nobody seemed exactly sure who, had firebombed two of the Center’s towers, trapping hundreds of workers inside. The arsonists hadn’t fled when the fire department arrived on scene. Instead, they’d begun sniping at the firemen and rescue workers, forcing them to fall back until a police SWAT team showed up.
But then, in turn, the SWAT team was driven back by a new wave of angry, young black men pouring out of the rundown row houses only a few blocks from the Renaissance Center. Word of the arson and looting attracted many who seemed determined to burn the soaring towers to the ground, along with anyone, black or white, still inside. More police units were fed in to regain control.
For the first few minutes, despite the increasing furor, Detroit’s law enforcement units had seemed to have the upper hand over the rioters. To Calvin’s trained ear, the reports of arrests, disturbances, and requests for ambulances had been rushed and excited but indicated that the officers were still in control.
Then, almost as soon as true darkness began falling, the radio transmissions changed. Now there was real trouble.
Calvin heard someone, a sergeant he knew only by voice, suddenly transmit, “Jesus, Tactical! We’ve got more bad guys swarming us! Too many! We need immediate assistance!”
There were sporadic gunshots audible over the radio now.
“Say again! Shit! Tactical, we’re getting fucking overrun ”
And that was it. Nothing more.
Calvin listened to the static hiss for a moment more before scrambling back inside his patrol cruiser. He reversed away from the barrier he’d been manning and headed east toward the Renaissance Center. He considered calling the CP to ask for permission-to leave his post and then scratched the idea. There wasn’t enough time. His buddies on the police line needed him now.
He skidded to a stop at a line of black and yellow traffic barriers blocking off the wide, divided boulevard that ran past the Renaissance Center.
The Center’s landscaped grounds were filled with a tangled mass of people, overturned cars, and burning emergency vehicles. Flickering light from the flames and from spotlights showed him a huge crowd, more than a thousand strong, on the rampage. Shots rang out from time to time, but it was impossible to tell who was firing at whom.
The mob had a small group of police and firemen at bay more than a block away from the Center itself. Officers were loading and firing tear-gas canisters into the crowds, most of whom now seemed intent on rolling and torching a couple of fire trucks.
There were bodies littering the ground behind the police line, some motionless, others writhing in pain. They were being rushed into ambulances as the riot police fell back, giving ground slowly to win time for the medics to load up and escape. It was clear that the police had not only lost control of the Renaissance Center Plaza, they were actually fighting for bare survival.
Calvin abandoned his vehicle and sprinted toward the retreating police line. He was careful to hug the sides of buildings and duck behind cars or any other available cover whenever possible. Right now the mob was an aimless, angry animal, searching for prey. He did not want to draw its attention.
He spotted a figure behind the line issuing orders and hurried over. There was enough light to see that it was Lieutenant Haskins. Blood ran down the lieutenant’s face from a cut on his forehead, and he had one arm hanging limply at his side splinted with a riot baton.
Haskins didn’t bother asking why he’d abandoned his position. Instead, he yelled, “Get on the radio and pull in the rest of the cordon! They’re about all the help we’re going to get!”
That would only give them about ten more officers to reinforce the line. Stunned, Calvin exclaimed, “Isn’t the department going to send anyone else?”
Haskins shook his head, then winced at the motion. “The department’s got other problems besides us. The whole god damned city’s going up tonight!”
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…