Transcriber's Note
This etext was produced from Amazing Stories May 1959. There is noevidence 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, butnone have been able to achieve it. If oneman did have that power, could mankindafford to pay the price?
At the crest of the ridge,Benson stopped for an instant,glancing first at his wrist-watchand then back over hisshoulder. It was 0539; the barragewas due in eleven minutes,at the spot where he was nowstanding. Behind, on the longnortheast slope, he could see thecolumns of black oil smoke risingfrom what had been thePan-Soviet advance supply dump.There was a great deal of firinggoing on, back there; he wonderedif the Commies had managedto corner a few of his men,after the patrol had accomplishedits mission and scattered, orif a couple of Communist unitswere shooting each other up inmutual mistaken identity. Theresult would be about the samein either case—reserve unitswould be disorganized, and somemen would have been pulled backfrom the front line. His dozen-oddUN regulars and Turkishpartisans had done their best tosimulate a paratroop attack inforce. At least, his job wasdone; now to execute that classicinfantry maneuver describedas, "Let's get the hell outa here."This was his last patrol beforerotation home. He didn't wantanything unfortunate to happen.
There was a little ravine tothe left; the stream which hadcut it in the steep southern slopeof the ridge would be dry at thistime of year, and he could makebetter time, and find protectionin it from any chance shotswhen the interdictory barragestarted. He hurried toward itand followed it down to the valleythat would lead toward thefront—the thinly-held section ofthe Communist lines, and theUN lines beyond, where freshtroops were waiting to jumpfrom their holes and begin theattack.
There was something wrongabout this ravine, though. Atfirst, it was only a vague presentiment,growing stronger ashe followed the dry gully downto the valley below. Somethinghe had smelled, or heard, orseen, without conscious recognition.Then, in the dry sand wherethe ravine debouched into thevalley, he saw faint tank-tracks—onlyone pair. There wassomething wrong about the vinesthat mantled one side of theravine, too....
An instant later, he was divingto the right, breaking hisfall with the butt of his auto-carbine,rolling rapidly towardthe cover of a rock, and as hedid so, the thinking part of hismind recognized what waswrong. The tank-tracks had endedagainst the vine-grown sideof the ravine, what he hadsmelled had been lubricating oiland petrol, and the leaves onsome of the vines hung upsidedown.
Almost at once, from behindthe vines, a tank's machine gunssnarled at him, clipping theplace where he had been standing,then shifting to rage againstthe sheltering rock. With a suddenmotor-roar, the muzzle ofa long tank-gun pushed outthrough the vines, and then thelow body of a tank with a redstar on the turret came rumblingout of the camouflaged bay. Themachine guns kept him pinnedbehind the rock; the tank swervedever so slightly so that itswide left tread was aimed directlyat him, then picked upspeed. Aren't even going towaste a shell on me, he thought.
Futilely, he let go a clip fromhis carbine, trying to hit one ofthe vision-slits; then rolled toone side, dropped out the clip,sla