"Sir, we got an RQ from the Glover." Alfred Konwitz, a twenty-year-old
Oklahoman with a thirty-eight-inch waist and known to the evening radio
shift affectionately as Big Al, lifted off his headphones and reached
for his coffee, extra cream and sugar, which he kept in a special
Thermos cup.
The United States has two bases on the southern Mediterranean island of
Crete, strategically close to Libya and the Middle East in general.
They are the naval and air base at Souda Bay, which is large enough to
accommodate the entire Mediterranean Sixth Fleet, and the
communications base at Gournes, in the southern outskirts of Iraklion,
Crete's capital city.
He and Staff Sergeant Jack Mulhoney were at Gournes, on the fourth
floor of the faceless gray building that housed operations for the
massive battery of antennas. They both knew the Glover was a Garcia-
class frigate, technically part of the Sixth Fleet, on a routine but
classified intelligence-gathering assignment a hundred kilometers
northwest of Souda Bay.
"They've got an Israeli chopper Mayday," Konwitz continued. "They need
a verify. See if it's a scheduled op or what."
Jack Mulhoney was busy with paperwork--more damned forms every day--and
did not really want to be bothered. He got off at midnight, and the
staff officer had ordered it completed and on his desk, by God, by 0800
tomorrow. Or else.
'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 deg.20' and longitude
25 deg. 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?"
"I copy but I don't buy it. Proceed with caution. Configure for a bogey
unless you can get a good visual."
"Roger. But can you get through to Israeli Control? There's a hell of a
storm coming down out here right now, and visuals don't really cut it."
"I copy you, Glover. Hang on and we'll try to get something for you."
He flipped off the headset and revolved in his chair, concern seeping
into his ruddy features. "Al, see if the people downstairs can get
through on their hot line to Israeli Air Control. Military. Ask them if
they know anything about a chopper in the vicinity of the Glover. Tell
them we need a response now. Priority. Could be we've got a bogey
closing on one of ours, maybe using a phony IFF. I want them to clear
it."
"Aye, aye, sir," he said crisply, then reached for the phone again. He
spoke quickly, then waited, drumming his fingers on the vinyl desk. . .
.