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    Hunter Patrol
    Hunter Patrol
    Hunter Patrol
    Ebook67 pages51 minutes

    Hunter Patrol

    By John Joseph McGuire and H. Beam Piper

    2.5/5

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 1, 2006

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    Reviews for Hunter Patrol

    2.5/5

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    • 2/5
      A bit of a mediocre "by his bootstraps" type of story. The main character was unpleasant, the plot predictable. Not Piper's best work by any means.

    Book preview

    Hunter Patrol - John Joseph McGuire

    Project Gutenberg's Hunter Patrol, by Henry Beam Piper and John J. McGuire

    This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

    almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

    re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

    with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

    Title: Hunter Patrol

    Author: Henry Beam Piper and John J. McGuire

    Release Date: June 21, 2006 [EBook #18641]

    Language: English

    *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HUNTER PATROL ***

    Produced by Greg Weeks, LN Yaddanapudi and the Online

    Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

    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

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