Fenek Solère: Rising

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Fenek Solère Rising
Бесплатно
  • Название:
    Rising
  • Автор:
  • Издательство:
    Counter-Currents Publishing
  • Жанр:
    Социально-психологическая фантастика / на английском языке
  • Год:
    2017
  • Город:
    San Francisco
  • Язык:
    Английский
  • ISBN:
    978-1-940933-29-0
  • Рейтинг книги:
    3 / 5
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Rising: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

Предлагаем к чтению аннотацию, описание, краткое содержание или предисловие (зависит от того, что написал сам автор книги «Rising»). Если вы не нашли необходимую информацию о книге — напишите в комментариях, мы постараемся отыскать её.

Rising Dr. Tom Hunter, an English professor with nationalist sympathies, arrives in St. Petersburg to address a conference of nationalists from across the white world. Russia’s globalist masters, however, will stop at nothing to smother every spark of Russian pride and self-determination. Hunter’s theories and comfortable life in the West prove scarce preparation for a plunge into an utterly alien world in which criminals, terrorists, ideologues, religious fanatics, and self-sacrificing patriots battle ferociously for the future of a nation. Is Hunter just a dilettante and revolutionary tourist, or does he have the strength and commitment to join forces with the rising Russian nation? Based on years of experience in the underworld of the Russian far Right, Fenek Solère’s is a vivid and intoxicating novel of revolutionary ideas and world-shaking action.

Fenek Solère: другие книги автора


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Rising — читать онлайн бесплатно полную книгу (весь текст) целиком

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Tom had long harboured the suspicion that because the Slavs had escaped most of the corrosive influence of political correctness, they would act as a catalyst for a White revolution. For years following the murder of a Russian boy whilst defending his girlfriend from molestation by immigrants in the Moscow district of Biryulovo, thousands of marchers had come out on the streets, carrying Romanov flags on National Unity Day, screaming ‘Rossiia est sviataia Rus!’ The war in Donbass and the clarion call to Muslims in Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, Abkhazia, Kazakhstan, and Dagestan to join their brothers in a jihad had polarised communities from Novgorod to Tomsk. There was a real threat to internal stability now that the Russian army had been pushed back over the Terek River in Chechnya, and both the European Union and the United Nations were set to recognise the Free Republic of Ichkeria.

Radical forces, predominantly made up of disgruntled and poorly-educated Balkars, Abkhaz, North Caucasians, Tartars, Bashkias, and fundamentalist Turks were being joined by Arabs and Africans fighting under the banners of the Al-Nusra Front, Hizb-ut-Tahrir, Akromiya, Gulen, Tovba, Azerbaijani Jamaat, and Al Shabaab. The bazaars of Argun, Ashgabat, Baku, and Osh were filled with military hardware supplied by the oil-rich Gulf states. Armies of young Muslims in camouflage jackets, fired up by hysterical rhetoric about killing the kuffar, were being trained in the Ferghana and Rasht valleys.

Already there were gun battles between groups of Jeyshulla, Soldiers of Allah, and local security forces on the streets of Armavir in Krasnodar Krai, Mumbai-style attacks on hotels in Sochi, and Dagestani militants laying siege to the Ossetian capital of Vladikavkaz. Schoolchildren had been burnt alive in Buynaksk. Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Iraq were acting as base camps for sedition. Salafist money paying for the new madrasah schools opening in Perm, Samara, and Nadym. The whole frontier across Chechnya, Ingushetia, Kabardino-Balkaria, and North Ossetia-Alania was aflame.

Within Russia itself, self-segregation, suspicion, and open hostility was breaking out in previously peaceful communities. The bitter memory of the bombings on the Nevsky Express and Moscow Metro were still fresh in people’s minds, as were those in Kizlar, Stavropol, Domodedovo, and Volgograd. Now there was the slaughter of Russian families in Nazran, the torching of Orthodox churches in Kazan, and acid attacks on blonde women in Ekaterinburg. The rantings of Al Qaeda leaders declaring that ‘anyone who prays and fasts but advocates parliamentary democracy are apostates’ had been painted on the walls of churches in Noril’sk. Mosques were filled to the brim. Guns, ammunition, and heroin passed from hand to hand under the cover of darkness.

Tom was mildly irritated that his arrival did not warrant vocal opposition from the Left, but he quickly dismissed such feelings as petty vanity as he stood waiting patiently for his ride. Beaten-up Volga saloons with hanging doors and dangling wing mirrors drew up next to sleek limousines. No class distinction here, he laughed silently to himself. The new models purred like warm panthers on the prowl. The older vehicles’ ball bearings grated like knives on stone. Drivers stood out in the rain, smoking, joking, and staring at the slim-rimmed girls as they passed, pushing luggage in screech-wheeled trolleys, ignoring the wolf whistles, refraining from making eye contact with the lecherous loiterers. Tom saw two blue trails of beer breath punctuate the night air. He was looking for someone looking for him. Then he saw the red tip of a cigarette’s glow, rising on the intake and fading on the exhale, disappearing slowly into the headlight’s gloaming.

Roman had picked him out and peeled away from his gaggle of leather-jacketed Jacobins and their tiresome conversation about the price of BMW spares. He flicked his cigarette, a fire-fly fizz of light in a sheen of petroleum. Taking Professor Hunter’s suitcase in his firm grip, he clumsily shook hands with the other.

‘Good evening’, Roman said in strained English. ‘Please, my car.’ Tom noticed the Gromoviti Znaci thunder flash badge on Roman’s collar as he slid into the passenger seat. He realised almost immediately that the slack on the safety belt rendered the harness useless. Officious policemen walked past in big hats and stretched uniforms. They were Russian Gary Coopers, sauntering self-importantly, scratched leather holsters riding high on their hips. The new arrival wondered if they would use their VUL pistols or run at the first sight of an Avar with a scimitar. Roman slammed the trunk closed, jumped in behind the wheel, and fired up the engine. ‘No belt!’ he said, shaking his head. He pulled out onto the near-side lane of Pulkovskoe Shosse, edging into traffic back towards Moskovskiy Prospekt.

The road was a tan leather whiplash. Wheels sprayed mud, and cancerous trees stood like skin-scratching sentinels, marking the car’s progress. Tom noticed how the lethargic march of white birch was sometimes interrupted by electricity pylons, metallic stalagmites set stark against the blanched skyline. Roman aimed straight ahead, following a clear path under the overhang of dying branches and dripping cables. His cigarette rolled back and forth along the narrow crack between his clamped lips. Yevgeny Nikitin blared out the speakers, a crescendo of guitars and the singer’s conservatoire-trained voice spliced by the sporadic sweep of squeaking wipers. The headlights of oncoming cars washed over hoardings, adverts for mobile phones, and high-tech gadgetry. Occasionally, a back ripple of exhausted light would catch on the chipped edges of the miniature icons decorating Roman’s dashboard, setting off a glint of gold, torpid yellow washing over the two fixed expressions staring back at them from the dark windscreen.

Tom was going through his pockets, checking the authorisation on his entry visa, recalling the surly face at passport control. He had recoiled at the inky thud of the stamp, still picturing the pretty young girl in the small cubicle behind the screen, tight green uniform, yellow braid and pure white complexion. She had those judgemental eyes that ran like a scalpel through your scrotal sack. ‘No secrets, absolutely no secrets here’, they seemed to whisper. ‘We have rules and you will abide by them!’ That click of the authoritarian heel was still resonating as the car swept by a statue of Lenin. The dictator’s stiff arm pointed forward to a bright proletarian future. A brave new world without kulaks. Professor Hunter surveyed the cold bronze figure, deliberately set back off the road in order to intimidate, standing amid the colonnades of the old party headquarters. Arrogant and haughty, Comrade Vladimir Iliyich’s slanted eyes, bald head, and goatee glistened under a crescent arc of light. There was no doubting his tribal lineage.

‘How far to city?’ he asked.

Nyet?’ came back the reply.

‘Hotel?’ Tom supplemented the word with Esperanto gestures signifying the cutting of food and sleeping on a pillow. Roman’s unshaven jaw broke into a grill-toothed smile.

Da!’ He lit another cigarette, offered the ragged end of the pack to Tom, who declined with a tentative ‘Nyet’ of his own. The driver laughed loudly.

Gorad!’ he pointed. Tom shook his head. ‘English?’ he continued. ‘London, Big Ben, the Beatles.’ This time it was Tom’s turn to laugh.

Da, Leningrad, Peterhof, Putin!’

Da, da, da!’ Well, it was communication of a sort, the Professor convinced himself, even if it was a touch primitive. As they drove further, the post-war office blocks and shabby Khrushchovka apartments lining the avenues began to thin out, and the crumbling teeth of nineteenth-century mansions and onion-domed churches stood out against the sparkle of silver starlight. Blue- and ochre-fronted streets sat astride hump-backed bridges. Their nocturnal journey led them further towards the centre, penetrating deeper and deeper into a cobweb of fading baroque stonework and moonlit canals.

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