The Story of the Attempted Military Coup in Turkey on July 15, 2016

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The story of the attempted coup became an international incident of interest because of the lingering evidence of foreign government agencies involved in the operation.At first, what seemed like the amateurish operation of some renegade generals, intent on removing Erdogan from office, eventually appeared to be an operation instigated by Fethullah Gülen, the fugitive opposition leader in the United States.

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The Gulenist Parallel Structure (FETO) was not without aid; eavesdropping evidence from cyberspace quickly established discreet involvement of the CIA in the planning for the dramatic upheaval.

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The objective became Regime Change, an American policy often practiced in the region – from the establishment of the Shah of Iran, to the toppling of Saddam Hussein and the decapitation of Iraq, the destruction of Muammar Gaddafi in Libya, and most recently the open policy for removal of Syrian President Bashar Assad.

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Turkey, as a member of NATO, should have been immune from such a fate.

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In a stunning reversal, the Turkish population in all its multi-ethnic societies and opposition political parties all stood up as one nation to defend the legitimacy of a democratically elected government. They refused to have history repeat itself once more with a military dictatorship, supported by foreign paymasters, taking over control of their nation.

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Erdogan might not have the entire nation behind him in the ballot box, but his leadership has become an inspiration to the Moslem world. Turkey was like Syria before Erdogan; It has become like Spain after Erdogan, He displayed great courage and wisdom during the perilous crisis.

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In a world where news has become fake and facts have alternatives, where nothing is as it appears and plot and counter-plot rage, the Turkish people and their leader became the real heroes of this drama.

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About the Author

M.I. Quandour (Kandour) became a full-time writer in 1990 after the successful publication of his first historical trilogy “Kafkas”, and has since written over 30 novels, all meticulously researched. He is a historian (Ph.D.), but like his mentor, James Michener, he chose the story format to narrate the histories of his subjects. His books are translated into several languages and enjoys a wide circulation, especially in the digital media. A full listing of his latest works are found in Barns & Noble bookstores (USA) and Amazon and other book depositories and internet web-links worldwide.

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Film director/producer and author/screenwriter, a veteran award winning filmmaker with over 30 years of film works in Hollywood and in Europe. He cut his teeth in the film industry starting with advertising films and documentaries at MPO studios in New York. Then moved to Hollywood in the early seventies and he was best known for his Hollywood television work on such classics as Mannix and Bonanza. His recent films are “Cherkess” (2010), “The Prisoner” (2012) and “Facebook Romance” (2013).

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On 31 May, 2005 Quandour was awarded the medal and prize of the Golden Cross in Moscow for his contributions to the "Culture of the Fatherland". He was also awarded the title of "Author of the people (Narodni Pesatle) in the Russian Federation on April 5th, 2008.

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Quandour is an American of Circassian origins who lives with his wife and two children in Berkshire, England but travels extensively to do research for his historical novels. He partners with his wife Luba Balagova in their company Sindika Productions based in Windsor, Berkshire.

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Excerpt from Night of the Generals

Ayla arrived at the airport and walked through the double doors at exactly three minutes before ten o’clock. The taxi driver had been courteous enough to be silent for the duration of the journey and for that at least she was thankful. Dressed in comfortable navy stretchy pants that flared over running shoes and her matching navy zip up hoodie, she had a strange feeling that she was going to the gym rather than the airport. The terminal was cavernous and near empty in most parts as she entered, just a few clusters of people away in the distance at the check-in counters, most of which were dark and closed. Shivering a little with the onset of the air conditioning after the balmy July night outside, she walked until she came to a sign board and worked her way down until she saw the flight from Dubai.

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On time.

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She looked up at around for the arrivals gates. There were none, of course.

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I’m in departures.

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She had never travelled well, and these days she depended on Orhan to read the signs when they went on the occasional break from the city.

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When was the last time we were even in the airport?

She struggled to remember as she came to an escalator and was about to step on, but the sign next to the handrail with the knife and fork gave her pause.

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That’s the dining hall.

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She walked on. The clusters of passengers waiting to get through the departure gates at the far end of the hall were larger in this part of the terminal, but she was still some distance away. There was an escalator leading to arrivals somewhere nearby she knew. An electronic twenty-four-hour clock hanging down from the ceiling said ten o’clock precisely. She came by another escalator, this one coming down from the dining hall above and reasoned that the next staircase would lead her up to arrivals. Working out how long it would take her to reach arrivals, she barely moved her head as people began shouting near the departures gate to her right. Two more steps and the roof seemed to light and crack above her, a thunderbolt right there in the terminal. She dropped to her knees. The shouting was more urgent now, high pitched. She looked across and saw men with guns. The thunderbolts were gunshots. Men in uniform were firing back at other men in black jackets and backpacks. She pushed herself up and made for a pillar, something to hide behind. People were running everywhere.

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Keeping low, she hunkered down behind the pillar. She trembled with every shot. There seemed to be no end to them. Looking left and right, she saw families, airport workers, all trying to make for the exits. Her body told her to get up and move, but her brain could not send the right signals to her legs. Then she was blind. Something, an article in a newspaper, told her that the percussive shock she felt was a bomb. For a second, there was a searing heat like she had stepped in front of a bellowing fire. She heard no loud bang. Instead, the sound seemed to go through her, loosening her teeth, deadening her bones. There was dust in the air. A smell like petrol. Everything sounded like it was underwater. Without any effort, she rose and ran, first to her right and then somehow, preposterously, correcting herself so that she turned and ran back the way she had come.

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There were still others doing the same, but she fixed her eyes on the automatic doors she had come through away in the distance. She was not brave enough to look over at the departures gates again. Fear was in her stomach, like a horrible indigestible meal. She knew she was deafened because the air did not rush past her ears as it usually did when she ran. She saw a person with a blackened face and burned clothes who looked like they had fallen into a fire. Then the doors. The warm air that was fresh in her nose. Her chest lightened.

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“Get out! Get out! There’s been a bomb!”

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Taxi drivers were herding people out through the doors and looking anxiously into the entrance for any sign of attackers, while others were waving people newly arrived at the doors away, telling them that they needed to get back and out to the carparks. Ayla walked into the center of a large group of people, standing in the middle of the parkway outside the airport doors. She began to breathe. Something half remembered from her meditation classes told her to look at her feet so as to feel grounded, but she could not do that. She looked around at the faces of the people near her, the red flashing lights of the sirens, the ambulances approaching in the distance. People at the entrance were crying out, trying to go back inside, saying that their loved ones were still in there, but they were blocked by those around the doors who would not let anyone pass. She needed to leave, to get away. She started to walk. On her first step, as if she had triggered some cosmic switch, the night time sky turned into white and everything was lit up.

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People fell to the ground next to her. A huge ball of flame was in the sky behind over the line of parked cars, the ones nearest the explosion incinerated. Another bomb.

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