Rising Sun

By Samuel Ikpe

Synopsis

Five decades after the Nigerian Civil War, an energized, well-funded and strategic neo-terror organization comprising the kin of the slain Eastern officers has arisen from the ashes of the bloody past to push a renewed, ambitious agenda. Led by a spectral character, they employ infiltration, psychological warfare and the sheer might of hybrid nukes to create rivers of blood, trails of panic, mass massacre and a spectrum of assassinations across the world to protect their sinister plan. The tension builds as the death toll spirals, the terrorists attack and make impossible demands, the Order of the Niger is in a race against time aided by two unlikely global powers on home soil – all in a bid to neutralize the terrorists, detonate the nukes, save a hostage president on the brink of assassination and stop the inevitable bloody Rising Sun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jun 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665588119

Book preview

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20 JANUARY, 1970

‘‘RED SIGNAL from the front, General.’’

‘‘Sit-rep?’’ Azubike Agha queried. The officer was clearly panicked; his leathery face struggled to mask his dread. The second in command was short, stickily-built with the demeanor of a book salesman than a soldier. Azubike at once deciphered the gory message clearer than a Tarot card broadcast before a Gyspy; it was all there, stitched between the man’s thin eyebrows, his sharp mind was deducting the expression that seemed some kind of invisible code embedded between the arches and the ridges between the frown lines. At the age of fifty-one and having been active for two weeks straight in the bunker hastily built by the 51st Infantry Division at the front, lieutenant-colonel Sam Olisa deserved to have more than the three ridges of lines he sported on his face.

‘‘Very bad, General.’’ Olisa almost stammered. His voice failed him. Agha fidgeted unconsciously. ‘‘Signal reports from the front suggest that our forces have been beaten back by the Federals. The 43rd Mechanized and the 31st Infantry Division is right now in hasty retreat, obviously in disorder.’’ Olisa submitted.

The effect around him was akin to that of a rodent pack that had heard the approach of a family of feral cats. Azubike instantly processed the reaction from the men in the bunker. The men that manned the communication instruments in the Delta bunker, former Federal signals officers briefly disengaged from their instruments, their scared gazes fixed on the senior officer dressed in olive green uniform. The insignia of the Eastern Republic, a shield depicting the rising sun flanked by two leopards was crested over the medals and military insignia on the front. The officer’s ranks and decorations were also boldly on his lapel and epaulet, even though he was dressed in field jungle fatigues. His uniform resembled that of the federal troops closely, a result of their having less than two weeks to regroup and re-kit since they were deployed to the east. A few of the men in the bunker were enlisted non-coms of eastern extraction that had heard of the widespread recruitment on the VOBI radio station broadcasting on 12.28 MHz at 9 p.m. Eastern Heartland time. They had jumped at the prospect of being war heroes, beacons in the story of the birth of a sovereign republic that would be independent, autonomous, and with its own constitution and government-independent of the cancer called Nigeria. The term ‘secession’ had not occurred to most of them when they signed up - obviously.

‘‘How far out are they?’’ he managed to keep the panic in his voice low. That was needed to avoid last-minute barratry. In the last one week, they had taken huge hits from the federal forces, and the prevailing troop morale was below sea-level. They had currently resorted to pitiful tactics; they were sending to foreign news stations and correspondence pictures of the dead and dying, and the widespread devastation caused by federal raids. ‘Witness the Genocide’, the media office had tagged the pictures.

A sterner glance from the CO hastily returned the non-coms to their workstations but even at that, Azubike Agha could feel their apprehension, their ears primed for snippets of the conversation like hunting coyotes on a stretch of pampas that had picked up a strong weasel scent.

‘‘Our troops are less than two clicks from our position in a hasty retreat, obviously with the enemy in pursuit.’’

Azubike was a soldier, not a suicide commander. The operations base belonging to the 51stnear the southern railway town of Umuahia was one of the five strongholds of the Eastern Forces. If the dependable and tough mechanized divisions, had broken to Federal artillery and aerial attacks and were in flight, then it stood to reason-

‘‘Strip the bunker, stow away the equipment. Load the ammo and supplies on the trucks. Make for an orderly retreat to Umuahia.’’ The air in the bunker changed as men began to scramble, some of them bumping into one another as they tried some semblance of order. ‘‘Everyone act on the double, now!’’ Azubike bellowed.

‘‘The lights are off, sir!’’ a private screamed as he pushed open the door that connected the strategy room to the outer room which also acted as a brief area. He burst into the room, stark terror etched like an Aztec mosaic on his face. He was panting heavily, the nameplate on his uniform Uche Nwafor heaving as his chest did. The leather ripped, his bush hat fell off to the floor behind him. He held his rifle, an AK-47 issue in his left hand, the safety off.

‘‘They are here!’’

The Soviet-made Ilyushin bomber aircraft that roared overhead was one piece of flying metal that could be identified at sight by every native of the troubled region living south-east of the Niger. It was a II-30 series swept bomber aircraft nicknamed ‘Bob.’ However, in eastern and south-eastern Nigeria, the name had been mischievously changed to ‘Genocide.’ Flown by two Egyptian pilots for the then under-staffed Federals, it dropped bombs without discretion: it recognized no innocents. A week earlier, there had been jubilations around the belt town of the south-east when it was reported that it had been taken out of action by ground anti-aircraft MK-II fire at Isi, but that joy was short-lived as Genocide had returned to action days later, creating craters wide enough to swallow the full moon. Either the craft had nine lives, or the anti-aircraft fire had hit nothing. The nights of celebration and burning tires to herald a major kill, a notable dent in the federal air power had evaporated like morning mist before a sunrise.

Even as the private yelled and dashed outside to back up the two men operating the roof-mounted Mk-III AAW, six a hundred and twenty kilograms of bombs escaped the hatch of the dual Lyulka TR-3 turbojet powered airframe and descended rapidly through the hot, rarefied air of the town, the combined payload billed to drop on the roof of the bunker that stood below at fifteen thousand feet.

‘‘Abandon post! Everybody out -‘’

Colonel Olisa’s rather loud command voice was abruptly drowned in the gory and earth-shaking explosion that rocked the bunker. Though the structure was well hidden and covered with bushes and anti-massacre camouflage to mask it from aerial reconnaissance, the glint from the mounted anti-aircraft guns on the concrete roof had given it away. The Federals had flown a recon mission forty-eight hours earlier, and attached to the small plane that was used for the recon mission was a tiny but sensitive electromagnetic sensor. The surrounding environment had shown almost-zero readings on the screen, suddenly there had been an anomalous peak that indicated a high magnetic susceptibility. Though the bunker had been sturdily built, with a fourteen-inch thick flat roof that was block concrete, it offered little succor for the screaming hail that rained down from above. The whole rectangular structure seemed to lift from its earthed foundations, caved in and the inside filled with shards of concrete, mortar and choking dust. A searing wave of indescribable heat washed over the men in the bunker, instantly frying the electronics and the radio equipment.

General Azubike was jerked violently and thrown backwards into a greyness that appeared suddenly as though Conjured by Ranthi the Grey - then as suddenly as it appeared, it had become blackness. Not knowing where he was or what was happening to him; he desperately and determinedly clung on the edge of the suffocating darkness, stubbornly willing himself not to give in. The fallen roof had miraculously remained intact as a single heavy slab, and was now three inches above the men on the floor, having crushed every single thing in the bunker on its way down, using its immeasurable weight as effectively as any mechanical crusher.

‘‘Somebody sound off if you are not dead…’’ a voice within the collapsed bunker trailed weakly, deathly.

Trapped in the rubble, inhaling dust, fumes and concrete, his body matted with several liters of sweat from the insane heat and dying slowly from the loss of blood from his side, Azubike knew he had come to the end of his part in the war. The emancipation struggle of the marginalized south-east would continue without him, and as he prayed in the last moments before he died like every other man that saw obvious death coming, he wished with all his might that the Eastern Republic would be a reality someday. He tried to return from the edge of the blackness, but he found the surface too steep, slippery and an impossible climb upwards while lying supine. Instead, the lower part of the black chasm seemed inviting-there were hundreds of eager hands that reached upwards to him, bloodied and withered, clawing at his uniform…one of them grabbed his insignia and ripped it off, shrieking like a crazed demon of a haunted coastland.

It was better if he descended to join them. That, as his priest had said many times at final mass for a member of the parish that was dying, was the Final Admonition; The Last Communion. It was not surprising what came to his mind as a last thought knowing that he had less than a minute to live. Any other thing would have been an exception, a startling one at that.

He thought of his wife, heavy with his child. The first two children were twelve and nine when they had died; he had lost them both to polio. After nearly three years living in the trauma with him, she had moved back to her native Russia seven months ago; they still exchanged phone calls every day. She had bet on a girl, while he had wanted a boy. Now, the twist in the tale meant he will never hold the child in his arms -

‘‘I’m sorry, Martha.’’

1

EVEN WITH the health ministry declaring the Volga as a death well, in the rapidly setting dusk several fishermen were seen standing close to the river shore standing in water that reached a little above their knees, eagerly pulling in their nets to haul in the evening catch. The observing man could not pick out anything - they all were chatting excitedly in rapid Russian. They all wore ashy fez and brownish-orange aprons with large pouches at the front. Gazing out across the river from behind the shrubbery where he observed, he could not help but evaluate the amount of damage that had been inflicted on the natural ecosystem in this region.

He looked up at the February sky which was darkening gradually, without recourse or knowledge about the river that was obviously mourning its state. No matter what industrialization had done, they could not touch the vast expanse of blue that hung above everyone.

‘‘Love the drab?’’ a voice sounded behind him. He had not even heard the speaker approach. The ex-Spetznaz operative had seemingly appeared in his blind spot. His visitor was in his early fifties with silver hair which he kept well-groomed He wore a black overcoat and gloves to keep out the freezing cold.

‘‘Anything around here not grey? The Rhine or Danube should be better with sights.’’ The man that had been waiting replied. He blew, and his breath came out in a thick white puff that fanned out and got absorbed in the air.

The Russian pulled up beside him and joined him in looking out the river. Both men did not look upwards – there could be a drone passing directly overhead.

‘‘When we finally do what we set out to do, it will be at the first of our four-city Bucket List.’’ For the first time, he was coaxed to turn and look directly at the half-breed as he preferred to call Thomas. He caught himself and looked straight ahead again to where the fishermen were now pulling their floater-decorated nets to the shore, hauling in their catch for the evening.

‘‘You’re ready to go. Four of the purest ever Haman bombs, well-enriched, once armed, can only be defused by heavily guarded 24-digit Mordecai Codes known only to Ivan.’’ Then he breathed out long and hard. ‘Ivan needs his balance. He asked me to tell you that in very clear terms.’’ In very clear terms? He wondered if that had an alternate meaning like a chainsaw through his shins, or a hockey stick smashing repeatedly on his neck. With Red League Soviets, nothing was ever taken for granted.

‘‘Tell him to check his Luxembourg account in twenty-four hours.’’ Is that clear enough? He asked in his mind. ‘‘Anything else?’’ the Russian ignored the question and blew some cold smog that spiraled upward like the bow of a Viking ship. ‘‘Maybe we can have a drink together at the Baltic Maiden before you board your flight home?’’

Well, that is clear enough, he reasoned.

‘‘Isn’t the Crypto the joint to get the girls nowadays? Last I heard, the Baltic Maiden was recruiting brownies to dance in glass cages.’’ His gaze also left the river and settled on the agent beside him.

‘‘Crypto?’’ he sighed. ‘‘It’s spy city. The RSS, the Ukrainians, Estonians, and the Uzbeks go there to roost." He cupped his gloved palms and blew into them. Then he dipped his hands into his pockets and took out some black chocolate. He ripped the packet and pulled out the black bar. ‘‘Want some?’’

The man had every reason to be wary in this country. He knew the mafia or whoever this man was representing could kill him through chocolate. Well, he had to play it smart now for he had crossed the Rubicon. He was already neck-deep in the business. ‘‘No, thanks,’’ he declined politely. On the bank, an old Soviet made bus sporting round headlights waited motionless for them to finish and pack the boxes inside. They seemed to be done for the evening. They quickly packed their boxes and nets inside and boarded the bus. A minute later, the engine kicked to life painfully, the sound carrying well over the river plain to both men.

‘‘Okay, the drink, and after that I am on a flight heading towards Glory.’’

‘’As you like it, my friend.’’ The rogue agent stuck his hands inside the pockets of his coats and turned away. ‘‘One final frivolity before glory, live a little.’’ He followed him away from the grassland, turning one last time to look at the fast disappearing bus in the dark.

IT WAS a sad and depressing sight. Snake Island penitentiary off the coast of Lagos was a hurriedly built detention facility conceived by the junta in the seventies as an extreme, somewhat brutal gulag. Designed and built by a firm owned by a then serving general in the regime, Atlas Construction had created a drab three-floor round bastion of concrete that from the outside, resembled a complete Flavian amphitheater that played host to blood gushing gladiatorial scenes for a bloodthirsty vampire, or on a lighter note, it could be described as a velodrome that was to be used for high-speed cycling instead of a prison.

The facility had a hundred and twenty-three cells, of which ten were solitary. It also had four semi-underground ‘gulags’ that measured a meter by another meter, with a height of six feet. Aluminum spikes and barbs eight inches long protruded inwards from the walls. On the four corners of the outer grey concrete walls of the compound are located four watchtowers with sloping peaked tin roofs. In the prison’s active days, sand bags were placed around the edges while a single marksman armed with an automatic rifle kept watch. In the heydays of the prison, four sharpshooters kept watch from the guard towers. The connecting walkways and passages were lined with high concrete and topped with several coils of sharp komodo-teeth concertina. The belly of the prison called the Nucleus had a common chamber where inmates gathered during social time. There were six-inch diameter pipes protruding directly downwards from overhead, the ends open to discharge tear gas in event of an inmate uprising.

The island can only be accessed by boat or chopper. There is no connecting bridge from the Lagos mainland through the Apapa Quay. The security consultant, in a bid to make the prison escape - proof had released baby crocodiles into the surrounding marsh and approach waters which were calmed by thick vegetation around the shores of the island, effectively forming arroyos. Several years later, the surrounding waters and multiple creeks were infested with clans of the man-eating reptiles, and several of them usually came on land with the high tide that splashed thousands of gallons of sea water into the outer cells through the wall-length cell bars that were eight inches’ thick pipes. On such occasions, man-eating crocodiles could be seen desperately scraping their teeth against the narrow space between the bars, beseechingly seeking a way into the cell to feed on some fresh meat dressed in sleeveless prison uniform standing in freezing sea water that was clavicle-high.

With the restoration of democracy, the government had closed down the prison after a federal review. The workers had been reassigned to more humane facilities inland, and the inmates were transferred to the Kirikiri extension. Snake Island became a distant edifice only viewed with binoculars by boat riders on pleasure cruises to the Takwa Bay. The latest project to salvage the island - NigerHull was a private ship-building facility stationed on the island.

A black rigid hulled inflatable boat powered by single 150-hp engine, carefully skirted the south-eastern sector of the island. The vessel had originated from a mother vessel somewhere high on the Atlantic Ocean - originating from the mainland would have meant magically skirting the water police and navy patrols. The six men on board had no intention of going into a fight with Shaldag MK-II Interceptor craft, with stabilized Typhoon heavy machine guns, or lighter fast-attack craft with mounted N-40 and 70 guns at the bow and stern. Passing the straits near the Tin Can Island was doubly risky, since there was a heavy presence of Customs and police anti-smuggling patrol. For the six, their mission tonight on the island that measured fourteen kilometers by one and a half kilometers was strictly recon.

‘‘Kill the engine.’’ The man seated at the bow rasped softly. He was taking extra care not to speak above a whisper-the cold night air carried sound far.

‘‘Okay, boss.’’ The helmsman pulled the lever of the engine and the soft sound died. The wake ceased emanating behind the boat. The vessel now softly bobbed in position. The bubbles it created smothered the hull.

‘‘We take the toothpicks now.’’ The first man announced again. He was a black mass of muscle with a smoothly chiseled head adorning the shoulders. The twist in his head shape was a tufty lynx-like earlobe he had on both sides of his head. He raised a NightGel thermal imaging piece to his eyes. He scanned the approaches twice, noting the landmarks. NigerHull had well-paid private security with Uzis patrolling the approaches of the island, to supplement the efforts of the marine police. On this night, and on this sector, all was clear. Only a demon would dare the quicksand and the reptiles.

The four other men grabbed paddles darkened with machine grease. The paddles made no noise as the men paddled expertly, carefully, in perfect sync; the grease allowed them to cut through the water easily. They made the mudflat in front of the rugged, wooded coastline. There was a decommissioned wrecked container vessel in the shallow water that was not going anywhere; it had been grounded by the maritime authorities, now it served as an artificial reef. When studying the panorama of the island from an overfly he had performed twenty-four hours early with a drone, Uche Ojiko, had decided that was their way in.

They hid the boat in the thick bushes of the marsh after turning it starboard, the bow facing the water in case they had to make a quick escape. Their quartermaster, a slim lean man opened the large waterproof duffel, a COMSUBIN issue. Gloved hands grabbed the silenced AR-15 assault weapons that lay at the bottom of the bag. Exchanging a flurry of hand signals, the six men disappeared silently like wraiths across the mud, into the woods. From the GPS tracker in the hands of the point man, the first wall of the prison was seventy meters ahead.

2

VINCENZO BELZONI did not consider himself to be young anymore; his birth certificate, written and filled in Italian, testified he was a man approaching his mid-forties.

Nothing that was a sign of approaching middle age showed up on his body - the dimension of time and the evolutions of the universe seemed to stand still for him. For friends and associates that knew him over the years, he seemed to have discovered the secret to the mythical Elixir of Youth. His lush hairline did not recede due to loss of vitality, there were no balding patches on his crown, the customary time-embossed frown lines and crow’s feet were absent. He looked every inch like a hot-blooded youth who could still take part in a naked mile run at college in his sophomore year.

Added to the boyish looks, as he grew older-gracefully, his natural rush for adrenalin had not abated. Agreed, he did not have the extra testosterone to burn in the loosely sorted sands of the bullring anymore as a high-billing matador in a Spanish corrida. At the peak of his career which he had excelled so much in his late twenties and through his thirties, he had been billing fifteen thousand American dollars per corrida he performed. When he retired after a successful career that spanned nearly twenty years, he had carefully dried, cleaned and displayed in glass cases his ten trajes de luces, and his prized montera. That was some distant ten years ago; his right knee had recently become dodgy like an amateur acrobat walking a tightrope through an injury he obtained from a domestic accident he had while cleaning marble tiles at his upstairs Tuscany villa.

Nowadays, at times, he wore a tight sports knee guard to keep the patella of the knee from sliding away like a turkey saucer on a thanksgiving table-sometimes, maybe once every month; the pain hurt so much he had to take doses of painkillers for relief to show up. His days as a veronica making bullfighter were over, he knew that-but he did not make much money then, and did not save much either. He took charges and teased the manoletina and the natural with scarlet flags some other way nowadays-like banking for super-rich associates and laundering huge sums of money for some faceless and unknown people, no questions asked.

His watch, a white gold Timeless with anthracite hands showed 9. 03 a.m. The warm caressing Roman sunshine confirmed that. His expensive shiny leather size twelve soles clubbed the stone walkway like a pile driver as he rounded the open air restaurant on the corner named The Piazza. Even at that time of the morning, the Piazza as he noticed was crammed with tourists. They came in all shapes and sizes, and never got tired of the sights of the Eternal City. When he relocated from Spain to his homeland, that used to be some sight to see, just like the Catholic finery at the Vatican; but now all that was getting old and he was used to them. He strode past the tourists without as much as a sideways gaze and turned perfectly like a Vienna train car on rails into the main artery of the Della Minerva, just after the halfway mark. He walked self-assuredly and confidently. He hustled through the throng of sidewalk pedestrians and passed the 1667 ‘il pulcin della Minerva’, the obelisk-elephant statue by the ace sculptor Bernini.

On this Roman morning, Vincenzo was multitasking in the Eternal City - catching nostalgia and hurrying to his business.

He slowed down, inhaled the sharp stray scent of a French perfume worn by a Caribbean – dressed couple. He recognized the Scent - Poison. He waited at the crossing for a couple of black cars marked ‘Polizia’ to scream past, disappearing with a purring of their engines in the direction of the Pantheon.

He ran his forefinger and thumb down the lapel of the two-button pinstriped grey blazer he wore, stopping the fingers at the first button. Vincenzo was well over six feet in height and good-looking, blessed with a lean physique, the kind of chiseled frame sportsmen crunched several hundred a day to obtain. He shifted his weight to his good leg, to compensate for the pain his left knee gave him. He transferred the black rhino skin satchel to his left hand purposefully as though giving a signal. He took advantage of a lull in the traffic and crossed the street. He kept his chin up like he always did out of habit, parallel to the surface of the road, the cobbled sidewalk, and the patio in front of the bank. He greeted the blue uniformed private security guards outside the bank. As usual, they greeted him gaily, raising their black smart caps slightly as a mark of greeting to him. Then, with an even stride, he stepped through the noiselessly revolving glass doors and into the impeccable bank hall.

He was here to perform one simple task this morning-to wire funds from his domiciliary account into another numbered account quartered in Nordic. The Banca on the Piazza Della Minerva was one he frequented; he loved the environment-seeing the Pantheon and the church with the original Michelangelo sculpture. He entered the bank with flair and as a proof of his frequency, the scarf tying dark haired receptionist acknowledged him with a patronizing smile half as wide as Sicily’s foot. He paused briefly to respond; fully aware of the nipple-hardening effect he had on her, the same effect he had on four-year old fighter bulls in the corrida some years back. He continued past the smartly dressed businessmen and their attendant personal bankers down the hall. His shoes stopped pounding - he had stopped at the funds transfer desk and descended into a leather-finished seat before it as though he owned the bank. The glass nameplate on the polished wooden table broadcast the name of the gloss-haired man seated behind the desk.

‘Signore Luciano Bennetti.’

‘‘Soccorso, per favore, signore?’’ he smiled infectiously, showing a set of evenly spaced, small teeth. His smile was infectious, Vincenzo knew that. The number of near baby mothers he had made of several Spanish sweethearts could attest to that. He was generous with the killer smile at airline ticket counters, Neapolitan ice-cream kiosks and in banking halls.

‘‘Ah, amico Signore Vincenzo!’’ Luciano smiled back as he looked up from his work. The formal look left the face and the bank worker greeted him warmly as he loomed, seated in his foreground.

‘‘Buongiorno, Signor Calitri.’’ The tone was that reserved for very important customers; those who could afford not to bank for some months, but anytime they came around, several millions of euros changed hands in bouncy wires around several clearing houses in Europe. There was always a chunk of ‘commission’ to go with that. Vincenzo Belzoni was one of such customers.

‘‘Altrettanto’’. He eased in the seat, dropping the satchel on the floor.

‘‘Dare qualcosa a qualcuno.’’ He began as soon as the man looked up from what he was doing. ‘‘I am moving five million from my domiciliary to a numbered account in Oslo, Norway.’’ He went straight to the point. His thoughts fleeted to Carla, the receptionist from earlier. He immediately squashed that. Across the slim polished table from him, Luciano nodded. Over the last seven months, the suave banker had made a little over eighty thousand euros in the form of commissions from Vincenzo. He had stashed the money in eleven different accounts, all of them offshore. The banker son of the Bologna shoemaker