I’m no expert on riots, but I’ve seen a few. I once watched a bunch of Somali provocateurs trying to get a rise out of some American peacekeepers. That was a taunting kind of riot, not really meant to harm the peacekeepers; in fact intended to achieve the opposite: to get the peacekeepers so riled up they’d do something harmful to the crowd and end up looking like bad guys. The idea was to provoke an atrocity.

And as someone who lived through the Vietnam era, I witnessed my share of antiwar riots. Those “riots” were actually more like big frat parties with lots of kids showing up for the free dope and to get laid. Those kinds of riots, everybody walks on eggshells, and they do it in a real fretful way, because both sides are praying the other doesn’t do anything stupid. Atrocities are the last thing anybody wants.

The mob bearing down on us looked to be the third kind of riot: the bad kind of riot. The folks in this crowd had menace in their eyes and mayhem on their minds. Their faces were snarled with anger and hatred, and a lot of them were carrying bats, or Molotov cocktails, or throwing big stones. By the guardshack, two MPs were down, and several Koreans were gathered around kicking and beating them like they were snare drums.

Corporal Vasquez, the driver, jammed down hard on the brakes. He rubbernecked around to face us. “Hey, Captain, what do ya want me to do?”

Wilson craned forward and peered through the windshield. He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully and studied the situation, and looked more thoughtful. His prolonged thoughtfulness made me nervous.

“Gun it!” I yelled.

“Huh?” Vasquez asked.

“Go!” I yelled.