Hunter Patrol

Patrol, by Henry Beam Piper and
John J. McGuire

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Title: Hunter Patrol
Author: Henry Beam Piper and John J. McGuire
Release Date: June 21, 2006 [EBook #18641]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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PATROL ***

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Transcriber's Note
This etext was produced from Amazing Stories May 1959. There is no
evidence that the copyright on this publication was renewed.

HUNTER PATROL
By H. BEAM PIPER and JOHN J. McGUIRE
+Many men have dreamed of world peace, but none have been able to
achieve it. If one man did have that power, could mankind afford to pay
the price?+
At the crest of the ridge, Benson stopped for an instant, glancing first at
his wrist-watch and then back over his shoulder. It was 0539; the
barrage was due in eleven minutes, at the spot where he was now
standing. Behind, on the long northeast slope, he could see the columns
of black oil smoke rising from what had been the Pan-Soviet advance
supply dump. There was a great deal of firing going on, back there; he
wondered if the Commies had managed to corner a few of his men,
after the patrol had accomplished its mission and scattered, or if a
couple of Communist units were shooting each other up in mutual
mistaken identity. The result would be about the same in either
case--reserve units would be disorganized, and some men would have
been pulled back from the front line. His dozen-odd UN regulars and
Turkish partisans had done their best to simulate a paratroop attack in
force. At least, his job was done; now to execute that classic infantry
maneuver described as, "Let's get the hell outa here." This was his last
patrol before rotation home. He didn't want anything unfortunate to
happen.
There was a little ravine to the left; the stream which had cut it in the
steep southern slope of the ridge would be dry at this time of year, and
he could make better time, and find protection in it from any chance
shots when the interdictory barrage started. He hurried toward it and
followed it down to the valley that would lead toward the front--the
thinly-held section of the Communist lines, and the UN lines beyond,
where fresh troops were waiting to jump from their holes and begin the
attack.
There was something wrong about this ravine, though. At first, it was

only a vague presentiment, growing stronger as he followed the dry
gully down to the valley below. Something he had smelled, or heard, or
seen, without conscious recognition. Then, in the dry sand where the
ravine debouched into the valley, he saw faint tank-tracks--only one
pair. There was something wrong about the vines that mantled one side
of the ravine, too....
An instant later, he was diving to the right, breaking his fall with the
butt of his auto-carbine, rolling rapidly toward the cover of a rock, and
as he did so, the thinking part of his mind recognized what was wrong.
The tank-tracks had ended against the vine-grown side of the ravine,
what he had smelled had been lubricating oil and petrol, and the leaves
on some of the vines hung upside down.
Almost at once, from behind the vines, a tank's machine guns snarled at
him, clipping the place where he had been standing, then shifting to
rage against the sheltering rock. With a sudden motor-roar, the muzzle
of a long tank-gun pushed out through the vines, and then the low body
of a tank with a red star on the turret came rumbling out of the
camouflaged bay. The machine guns kept him pinned behind the rock;
the tank swerved ever so slightly so that its wide left tread was aimed
directly at him, then picked up speed. Aren't even going to waste a shell
on me, he thought.
Futilely, he let go a clip from his carbine, trying to hit one of the
vision-slits; then rolled to one side, dropped out the clip, slapped in
another. There was a shimmering blue mist around him. If he only
hadn't used his last grenade, back there at the supply-dump....
The strange blue mist became a flickering radiance that ran through all
the colors of the spectrum and became an utter, impenetrable
blackness....
* * * * *
There were voices in the blackness,