The sergeant shook his head slowly.
“Good. Get the men ready. I want masks on and live rounds in every chamber.” He paused, knowing his words could be heard by every man in the platoon. “But no one, and I mean no one, will open fire without a direct order from me! Clear?”
“Clear.” The sergeant spat it out, sounding as though he wanted to say a lot more.
Guyon spun on his heel without waiting to find out what that might be and headed for the two armored cars. He wanted to make sure their crews were ready to follow his troopers into the flame-lit streets in front of them. Having their steel-sided bulk and heavy firepower on tap would be vital if the rioters tried to fight back.
When he returned, his platoon stood at attention in ranks — nightstick-armed men in front, and those with shotguns and assault rifles in the back. Their uniforms, gas masks, and helmets robbed them of all individuality.
The lieutenant stepped out in front of the formation. He left his own mask dangling around his neck. The bulky rubber masks kept you safe from tear gas, but they also left you nearly blind — especially at night. And he would need to see what was going on around them as long as possible.
Almost time. Guyon licked lips that suddenly felt cracked and bone-dry. He stared at the street straight ahead. Smoke from dozens of burning apartment houses and automobiles drifted across the square, growing thicker now that the wind had died down. Shapes moved inside the smoke, rioters carrying away stolen television sets, stereos, and furniture or simply prowling for new victims. Several corpses littered the street. Two more dangled from lampposts.
He bit his lower lip. This
His walkie-talkie crackled. “All units will advance.”
Christ. Guyon swallowed hard. He snapped open the flap on his holster and drew his pistol. “Right. This is it. Platoon, follow me!”
He went forward at a slow walk, hoping his measured pace showed determination and not fear.
No one followed him.
The lieutenant turned around in disbelief. His troops still stood along the edge of the square. Not a man had moved.
“Damn it! You heard me! I’m ordering you to advance. Now!”
Silence. In the sudden stillness, Guyon could hear agonized screams rising from the slums behind him. Oh, Jesus. He could feel the hand holding his pistol starting to shake.
“Sergeant Pasant!”
The sour-faced sergeant stepped forward smartly and came to attention. “Sir!”
Guyon lowered his voice. “All right. Just what the hell are you idiots playing at?”
“The boys won’t go in there… sir,” Pasant growled, nodding toward the immigrant quarter. “Not to save black-asses and ragheads.”
A low murmur swept through the platoon as each man muttered his agreement with what their sergeant had just said.
Guyon tried an appeal to reason. “Look, I don’t like this any better than you lads do, but refusing orders is a criminal offense. This is a very serious situation, Sergeant.”
“So’s dying… Lieutenant.”
Guyon leaned closer and dropped his own voice to a soft, barely audible murmur. “You know, Pasant, I could make you obey my orders.” He thumbed his pistol’s safety catch to the off position.
The sergeant stared back, unblinking. “Maybe.” He shrugged. “But then maybe you should think about how dangerous a city fight can be. You never know where that next bullet could come from… Lieutenant.”
Guyon’s blood ran cold. The sergeant’s soft-spoken threat was crystal-clear. He might be able to force his men into action against the mob, but he probably wouldn’t come out of it alive. His hands shook harder.
Hell. Nothing in his training had prepared him for this. Not for the prospect of being murdered by his own men. And for what? A bunch of useless foreigners. For stinking Arabs and Africans. He shook his head. Risk his life for them? Not him. Not now. Not ever.
The lieutenant reset his pistol’s safety catch and sighed. “Very well. I’ll call the command post and report our inability to go forward… under the present circumstances.” He looked angrily into his sergeant’s expressionless eyes. “Satisfied?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then redeploy the men for a perimeter defense.” Guyon holstered his weapon. “If we can’t put an end to this madness, we can at least make sure it doesn’t spread any further!”
Pasant saluted and strode back to the waiting security troops. They broke ranks, spreading out across the square in response to his shouted commands.
Guyon watched them for a moment, swore to himself again, and lifted the walkie-talkie to his cheek. He hesitated, reluctant to make a report that would undoubtedly end his police career. The force didn’t need officers who couldn’t control their own men. His thumb hovered over the transmit button and then stopped. There were other voices already crowding the circuit.
“I say again, Bravo Two, you are ordered to advance! Get moving!”
“Unable to comply, Echo Foxtrot. My men won’t budge. I request reinforcements.”
Another voice crackled over the radio. “Echo Foxtrot, this is Bravo Four. We can’t go any further south. The fires in this sector are out of control. I’m establishing a police line and firebreak at the church here…”
Guyon kept listening in growing shock as more and more of his counterparts called in with similar stories. His platoon wasn’t the only unit on the edge of mutiny. Others inside the CRS were just as willing to let the riot run its wild, bloody course.
Satellites and powerful ground transmitters spread the BBC’s evening broadcast around the world.
“Good evening. Here is the news.
“In Paris, French police and fire crews continued their rescue efforts in the aftermath of last night’s disastrous rioting. Officials at the Ministry of the Interior put the death toll at more than two hundred, with hundreds more injured and in hospital. Doctors at area hospitals report that almost all the dead and wounded appear to be Algerian or other North African immigrants.
“Thousands more have been left homeless by fires that have leveled fifteen square blocks of the city. For the moment, they are being housed in nearby schools and vacant warehouses. Unconfirmed but authoritative speculation suggests they may soon be moved to what are being labeled ‘refugee holding camps’ outside Paris.
“In related developments, a statement issued by the presidential palace blames, quote, ‘hooligan and criminal elements’ for what it terms ‘this regrettable incident.’ One high-ranking official went further, arguing that the violence pointed out once again the importance of ridding France of what he called ‘troublesome alien enclaves.’ Meanwhile, French government sources continued to deny persistent reports that police units refused orders to end the rioting. The delays observed by onlookers are said to have been caused by unspecified tactical considerations.”
The BBC’s newsreader paused, shifting from the broadcast’s lead story to the next. “In other European developments, a neo-Nazi rally in the eastern German city of Dresden drew an estimated seven thousand participants. Several policemen monitoring the demonstration were severely beaten when they tried to stop swastika banners from being unfurled…”
The first signs of trouble were electronic.
Video screens showing arriving and departing flights began flickering and then went blank. Passengers hurrying through the airport’s gleaming, ultramodern terminal buildings gathered in small dismayed groups around the darkened monitors. Most were sure it was only another minor power failure or cutback — a product of the continuing agitation for higher wages by the nation’s technical workers’ unions.
They were wrong.
