“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, and coped with newbies who couldn’t get the hang of navigating through the system on their own. Usually, the network required professional human intervention only when its software and hardware crashed.
The result was that CompuNet’s small permanent staff spent most of its shift time playing computer games.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Byron Wu, CompuNet’s senior technician on duty, swore and hit the pause key on his auxiliary system. His space fighter had been within seconds of dumping a plasma torpedo into an enemy base. It had already taken him a dozen tries to get even this far in the mission. This interruption was going to screw up his reflexes.
He spun his chair around to look at his main monitor. Beneath the glowing schematic that showed the network in operation, a small red flag pulsed: USER 1589077 CONNECTED.
“So who the hell cares?” Wu muttered irritably. He tapped a function key, calling up management’s reasons for layering this alert into the system. His eyes widened as he read the first line aloud. “Emergency network tap authorised by Federal Bureau of Investigation…”
Below the scrolling, boldfaced memo, the red warning flag changed: TRACE COMPLETED. CONNECT NUMBER IS 703-555-3842.
“You’ve got an address here in northern Virginia?” Thorn asked into the phone again, scarcely able to believe that some of the information they were seeking had come in so quickly. He checked his watch. It was just after 10:00 P.M. It was too easy to lose track of time under the Pentagon basement’s fluorescent lights.
“Yeah,” Flynn said. “One of the Magi group users logged onto CompuNet less than an hour ago. We traced the number they gave us to an address in Arlington.”
“Oustanding.”