A state of disobedience

Las Cruces, New Mexico

"Hurt 'em," insisted the white-uniformed, riot-armored leader of the Surgeon General's special police. "That's the only thing these people will understand: physical pain. We'll probably be needed somewhere else soon enough. That pain will stick in their minds and keep them from blocking this road any more."

Grimly, the men and women around the speaker nodded their agreement. They didn't salute; that was for the military types. But they went back to their units with an approximately military determination to accomplish their mission, to inflict all the pain these demonstrators could handle.

A whistle blew. The first company of police began marching south down the highway towards the mass of wide-eyed, apparently very frightened people who awaited them. In time with half-stamped left feet came the steady thwap-thwap-thwap of riot batons striking the faces of polycarbonate riot shields. The growing sound added to the growing fright of the people in the crowd as they looked north at the mass descending on them.

At a distance of a few hundred meters, the leader of that first company began to speak into a microphone. His message was not directed towards the demonstrators, but to his own police officers. "Form skirmish line." With clocklike precision the SGRCP began fanning out at the double, forming a line that faced south as it stretched east and west across the north-south highway.

A uniformed Marine reservist, sitting dejectedly atop a pile of ammunition crates next to a large olive drab painted van, was astonished at the clockwork precision of the SGRCP as they formed a double line of club-and shield-bearing skirmishers, in front, rifle-carrying men and women behind.

"Motherfuckers must train all the time," he muttered.

From his pile of wooden crates, the reservist saw a recognized face emerge from the civilian crowd, Trooper Peters.

Peters, too, had a PA set. Without having been addressed he announced his name and informed the SGRCP that, "These people have a lawful permit to assemble. They are here at the behest of the Government of New Mexico. They have a right to be here and the New Mexico State Police will defend that right."

On line with Peters, and between the SGRCP and the crowd, a dozen troopers, about half and half armed with pistols and shotguns, began to form their own line.

This time the leader of the RCP did address somebody other than his own people. "I have instructions from the highest levels on dealing with unlawful interference by local authorities. I direct the New Mexico State Police, and any other agencies of the New Mexico State Government, likewise to disperse . . . or you will be fired upon."

The leader turned around, ordering, "Front rank; kneel. Rear rank; take aim."

Peters, and the troopers with him, merely stood grasping their own puny weapons the more tightly. He, really none of them, could quite believe that the SGRCP was serious. This was America, for Christ's sake; police didn't fire on police.

"Fire!"

Without any obvious hesitation, the second rank of the foremost SGRCP company scythed down Peters and all those men with him. Some of their bullets went past the troopers into the crowd. Men and women screamed, children shrieked, as red blood began to flow onto the black-topped highway before running off to soak into the New Mexico sand.

"At the double time . . . forward." The RCP began to wade into the crowd, adding to the flowing blood.

Nearby, a lone, uniformed and highly shocked Marine reservist simply said, "Motherfuckers . . ."

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