'Then run it by Traffic," he said without looking up. Forms. "Maybe it's some exercise. You could call down to the Mole and see if it's on his schedule."
The Mole was Charlie Molinsky, who ran the Traffic Section on the second floor. If the Israeli chopper was on a regular op, he would have it in the computer.
"Roger." Konwitz punched in the number and asked Molinsky to check it out. As he waited, he found himself wishing he were back in Oklahoma, hunting white-tail deer on his uncle's ranch. They were as thick as jackrabbits.
He only had six months more to go, and he could not wait to get out. He had joined at age seventeen to get a crack at electronics, and—true to its word—the Navy came through. When he got out, he was going to open his own shop and get rich fixing VCRs. Hell, everybody who had one was always saying how they broke down all the time and how much they cost to fix. Who said the Japs didn't create jobs in America. . . .
Suddenly he came alive. "He's got a negative, sir. He's asking if we could get Glover to reconfirm."
"Christ, switch me on." Mulhoney shoved aside the pile of paper and reached for his headset. "Glover, this is Gournes. Do you copy? Over."
He listened a second, then continued. "Roger. We have no ID on that bogey. Repeat, negative ID. Can you reconfirm?"
While he was waiting, he punched up a computer screen and studied it. The Glover had reported a position at latitude 36°20' and longitude 25° 10' at 1800 hours. And their bearing was last reported to be two-five-zero. Nothing else was in the vicinity.
Damn. He didn't like the feel of this one. His instincts were telling him something was wrong.
Then his headphones crackled. "Verified IFF. Definitely Israeli code. Do you copy?"