massing with the main group. The bulk of the police were re-forming on the far side of the mob, which was retreating back into the dark recess of the tunnel toward the stairway, screeching and throwing rocks. The only way out was to flank the mob, driving them up to the next level in the process.
“Follow me!” she yelled. “Drive them toward the exit!” She led the officers toward the right flank of the mob, dodging rocks and bottles as she ran. The homeless surged back into the tunnel and Hayward fired over their heads, breaking their ranks. The rain of debris slowed as the mob began to run out of projectiles. The screaming and cursing continued fitfully, but their morale seemed to be broken, and Hayward watched with relief as the mob scrabbled back in disorder.
She took a moment to catch her breath and size up the situation. Two cops were lying on the filthy floor of the tunnel, one cradling his head, the other apparently knocked senseless. “Carlin!” she called, nodding at the wounded men.
Suddenly, there was a loud commotion in the retreating ranks of the mob. Hayward held the flare high, craning her neck for the source of the disturbance. There was Miller, marooned on the far side of the large group of moles. He must have fled back down the tunnel during the first attack, and been caught by the second ambush.
Hayward heard a pop, saw a cloud of smoke, sickly green in the fitful glow of the flare. Miller, panicked, must have gone for the tear gas.
Miller ducked out of the cloud, looking like an alien apparition in his mask. “Gas them!” came his muffled yell.
“No!” Hayward began to protest. “Not here! We’ve got two men down!”
She stepped forward as Miller, ignoring her, grabbed a canister from the belt of a nearby officer, popped the pin, and threw it toward the mob. Hayward watched one or two other canisters fly as the panicked men followed Miller’s example. There were more dull popping sounds, and the crowd of moles disappeared into the roiling clouds of smoke. Hayward could hear Miller directing other officers to drop their canisters down the boreholes that dotted the floor of the tunnel. “Smoke the bastards out,” Miller was saying. “If any more are hiding below, we’ll flush them with these.”
Carlin looked up from the prone body of the policeman. “Stop, goddammit!” he roared.
The clouds of gas were rising slowly now, spreading their vapor throughout the tunnel. All around, cops were kneeling, dropping canisters down the boreholes. Hayward could see the homeless streaming up the staircase, trying to get away from the gas. “Time’s up!” Miller yelled, his high-pitched voice breaking. “We’ve gotta get out of here!” Most of the policemen needed no more encouragement, and vanished into the clouds of gas.
Hayward fought her way back toward Carlin, once again bending over the prone figure with McMahon. The other casualty was sitting up now, holding his gut and retching. The gas was creeping toward them.
“Let’s back them up a bit,” Hayward said. “We can’t put a mask on this guy while he’s puking.” The conscious cop stood up slowly, swaying and holding his head. She led the officer away while Carlin and McMahon carried the unconscious man to a safer spot in the tunnel.
“Wake up, buddy,” Carlin said, patting his cheek, bending forward to examine the nasty gash across the man’s forehead. The roiling green wall of tear gas was coming closer.
The man’s eyes fluttered open.
“You okay?”
“Shit,” the man said, trying to sit up.
“Can you think straight?” Carlin asked. “What’s your name?”
“Beal,” came the muffled reply.
The gas was almost on them. Carlin reached down and unstrapped the mask from the man’s service belt. “I’m gonna put this on you now, okay?”
The man named Beal nodded vacantly. Carlin strapped on the mask and turned the D-valve. Then he helped him carefully to his feet.
“I can’t walk,” Beal said through the mask.
“Lean on us,” Carlin said. “We’ll get you out of here.” The cloud had now enveloped them, a strange greenish fog lit by the flickering of the dying flares. They moved forward slowly, half-dragging the man along, until they reached Hayward, who was adjusting the gas mask around the head of the other wounded policeman. “Let’s go,” she said.
They moved carefully through the tear gas. The surrounding area was deserted; the homeless had fled the gas and Miller, leading the group of officers, had followed behind them. Hayward tried her radio, but she was unable to raise anybody through the dense static. In the far distance, they could hear coughs and curses as the stragglers hiding in the warren of tunnels below were forced to the surface by the gas. Now she could make out the staircase. The airflow was slowly spreading the tear gas through the tunnels and up to the next level, filling their escape route. But Hayward also knew it would drive the rest of the moles to the surface. She sure as hell didn’t want to be around when they came out.
As they reached the stairs, Beal suddenly doubled up, retching into the mask. Turning quickly from the other man, Hayward tore Beal’s mask off. The officer’s head sagged forward, then whipped back as the gas hit him. His limbs stiffened and he thrashed about, tearing himself from their grasp and collapsing to the ground, clutching at his face.
“We gotta move, now!” McMahon cried.
“You go,” said Hayward. “I’m not gonna leave this man here.”
McMahon stood there indecisively. Carlin glared at him. Finally, McMahon scowled. “Okay, I’m with you.”
With McMahon’s help, Hayward lifted the gasping Beal to his feet. She nuzzled her mask close to the man’s ear. “Either you walk,” she said quietly, “or we all drown. It’s as simple as that, good buddy.”
