Gray about that, Colonel. You’ve raised some intriguing points. But I’ve spent too many years in this business to dive headfirst at the first plausible theory I hear.”
Thorn gritted his teeth, biting down an angry retort.
In the absent, he could understand the agent’s skepticism. He HAS making a lot of assumptions about the contents of that intercepted electronic mail. More important, both of Flynn’s superiors, the FBI Director and the Attorney General, had already invested a lot of their political prestige backing the notion that American neo-Nazis and radical black extremists were the driving forces behind the wave of terror. Convincing them that they had been wrong would certainly take a lot more evidence than a few indecipherable computer messages.
Appearing more curious than anything else, Flynn watched him struggle to hold his temper in check.
“So you’re not interested in pursuing this angle further unless the NSA can crack those messages?” Thorn asked finally, instantly aware of the bitterness apparent in his voice.
The FBI agent snorted and shook his head. “That is not what I said.” He smiled wryly at the surprise on Thorn’s face. “I may be a skeptic, Colonel. But I’m not an idiot. And I’ve never turned my back on a promising lead in my life.”
He nodded toward the E-mail intercepts spread out across his conference table. “We’ll check with CompuNet’s managers to see what they can tell us about this stuff.” He looked up at Thorn. “In the meantime, Colonel, I suggest you try to light a fire under those folks at the NSA. See if you can get ‘em to crank those supercomputers along a little faster.”
Flynn smiled humorlessly. “I’d feel a lot safer telling the Attorney General she’s been a Grade A idiot if I had a few more aces up my sleeve.”
Thorn felt his spirits lift. Helen had been right. He had been misjudging the head of the FBI task force. Mike Flynn was one of the good guys after all.
The telephone call Thorn had been expecting came shortly after noon.
“Any more luck on those codes, Colonel?” Flynn asked.
“Not yet, sir,” Thorn admitted. “The NSA is still stumped. They say the system used to encrypt these messages is definitely better than anything they’ve ever seen in private use. It’s more sophisticated than many of the data encryption systems used by other governments.”
“I see,” the FBI agent said quietly. “Then we may have to do this the hard way.”
“You mean, you’ll have to work in from the other end,” Thorn reasoned out loud. “Find out who these users are first before we get a read on the kind of data they’re sending and receiving.”
“Right on the money, Colonel. I talked to CompuNet’s operations director after you left this morning,” Flynn explained. “Once I put the fear of God, or more precisely, a Presidential National Security Directive, into him, he agreed to release the billing information for your mystery E-mail users. More important, he also agreed to let us trace any future calls they make to CompuNet.”
Thorn nodded to himself. By itself the billing information would have been nearly useless. Once you were signed up with one of the computer networks, you could dial in from anywhere in the world. Permission to trace their incoming calls was the key to pinpointing the people sending and receiving these messages.
The order reached the headquarters of the 12th Infantry Division shortly before midnight.
General Karim Taleghani roused slowly at his orderly’s shaking. He had been driving his division hard, retraining both it and himself according to Amir Taleh’s new directives. The old, easy patterns of garrison life had been completely disrupted. Now he and his troops were up well before dawn and asleep only when their work was done.
“Sir, please, you must wake up. We have movement orders for the division.”
The orderly’s frantic words finally penetrated the fog and Taleghani came fully awake. “Give the message to me,” he mumbled.
“Sir.” The orderly passed him the message form and reported, “Colonel Beheshti has already the staff to assemble.”
Taleghani frowned slightly but then nodded. Beheshti was an efficient officer, if sometimes a little too willing to assume authority not fully his. “Inform the colonel I will be there in five minutes.”
The orderly vanished.
Left alone, Taleghani scanned the decoded dispatch. It told him to ready his division for movement to the port of Bushehr. The schedule attached told him when to expect fuel and additional trucks, what supplies to take, and when to arrive. Significantly, the message ordered him to take his entire force. A much smaller Pasdaran brigade would take over the division’s mission of guarding Iran’s border with Afghanistan and Pakistan.
He stood up and started moving. Even as he automatically went through the motions of dressing and washing, his mind raced through the possibilities. Was this only another drill?
Taleghani had received a similar emergency alert from Tehran six months ago, and the result was an utter disaster. Only one of his battalions had been able to load on schedule, availability of vehicles was much lower than had actually been reported, and many critical jobs were found to be occupied by untrained officers and men.
In the aftermath of that fiasco he had been paid a visit by Taleh and his shadow, that young Captain Kazemi. Taleghani still shivered at the promises Iran’s new military leader had made. Stories he had heard whispered down the Army grapevine made him sure they were not idle threats.
Driven by fear and by a prideful determination not to be caught napping again, his division had done much better during a second surprise alert two months ago. Two of the 12ths three brigades had been ready to move on schedule that time.
Did the Army’s new master want to see if they could get it completely right given a third chance? Taleghani shrugged. Well, then, he would show Amir Taleh what the 12th Infantry Division could do when it was ordered into action.
By the time the extra trucks dispatched by Tehran arrived at dawn, his troops were mustered in long lines, loaded with packs and weapons. The division’s own transport was already filling up rapidly.
Taleghani stood with his staff, watching closely as a mile long column of military vehicles the first of many convoys roared out through the Zahedan Garrison’s main gate and turned onto the Kerman Highway. Brand-new, Russianmade armored personnel carriers loaded with troops, prime movers with towed artillery pieces, others with antiaircraft guns, freshly reStted tanks, Chinese multiple-rocket launchers, supply and maintenance vans all flowed by in a camouflaged, olive-drab river.
The river would flow for days. It took time to shift ten thousand men and all their gear from one place to another.
Taleghani wondered where his men and equipment would all end up. He had waited in vain for a message canceling the movement for a signal telling him that it was all an exercise. But no such order had arrived.
Perhaps this was not a drill.
As God wills, he decided.
Hamir Pahesh watched the convoy as well, from a very close viewpoint. Loaded with artillery shells, his truck’s suspension groaned as it lumbered over the poorly maintained Kerman road.
A few days ago, the Afghan had reported to his company’s dispatcher’s office for a new assignment. He’d found the place in chaos. Everyone who could drive was driving anything that would move. Along with a score of other truckers, he had been ordered to the eastern end of Iran. There was no explanation given, of course, but something big was happening. That was obvious.
From the cramped cab of his truck, Pahesh had watched with interest as the 12th Infantry Division stripped its storerooms and magazines. Now the entire division was pulling out of its garrison, headed west. He had overheard enough to know that this was not a temporary move. They were going to be replaced by another unit. What was going on? A redeployment? Not the way everyone was hurrying. This had to be it whatever “it” was.
The beauty of CompuNet’s worldwide network was that it largely ran itself. Automatic switching systems handled incoming calls. Intricately crafted software managed everything from billing to file and electronic-mail transfers. Even better from a corporate view, volunteer systems operators, or sysops, monitored the various user forums and roundtables on their own time. The sysops policed them when flame wars clanging matches erupted,
