- Oct 3, 2018
- 3,357
Time: 03:52 AM
Location: 4th Mechanized Battalion Staging Ground outside of Ankara
The yard behind the depot was filled with gravel and cracked asphalt. Oil drums lined the wall. The air was still as the evening shifted to dawn In the distance, the eastern sky bled the faintest shade of indigo. The stars above hadn’t yet faded as the clock ticked closer to the morning.
The men of 4th Mechanized Battalion stood in a rough arc around a weather-beaten ACV-15 infantry fighting vehicle, engines humming, hatches ajar. Their faces were shadowed, some helmeted, others bare-headed. Some wore body armor. Others only in their camouflage shirts, collars open as they sat huddled around each other.
The silence was fractured by the voice of Major Tolga Yıldırım, their commanding officer, tall, grey around the temples, and dry-voiced.
He stepped onto the vehicle's rear ramp, boots scraping metal, and looked them over.
“I know what some of you are thinking. That this feels wrong. That we’re turning on our own. That this isn’t what you signed up for.”
He paused, letting it settle.
“You’re right to feel that way. It should feel wrong. Because when the republic has been captured by its own government, and the flag is used like a curtain to cover theft, fear, and fanaticism, then the only people left to restore it are men like you. This country, our country, has been strangled. Our courts poisoned. Our generals purged. Our teachers arrested. Our sisters made to inform. Our people lied to, beaten, turned against one another by a red-slicked ideology that has nothing Turkish in its bones.
Tonight we give this country medicine. Like a doctor, we must take drastic measures to save the life of this country. We must do this because we are not saviors. Neither are we saints. But because we were the last ones who can. We march not to rule. We march to reset the balance. To tear the cancer from the bone before it kills the body. This, this is the oath you took. Not to a party. Not to a man. But to the Republic. So when you look at your rifles, don’t see rebellion. See honor. Remember the legacy of Atatürk we have been asked to uphold. Hold the future of a just Türkiye that we have inherited close to your hearts for the sake of your kin. Saber your weapon in the fighting spirits of your grandfathers who sent the Greeks, British, and French scurrying away.”
A long silence followed. The sound of crickets felt like a deafening cry to the soldiers assembled. One young soldier raised his hand.
“And if… if we fail, Sir?”
Yıldırım’s eyes met the young soldier’s gaze. “Then we fail as guardians of this republic. And die as the sons of Atatürk. We die as martyrs.”
Murmurs passed between the ranks. Some muttered prayers. Others loaded final magazines, checked straps, and slammed hatches closed. Yıldırım checked his watch one last time as the clock edged closer to zero hour.
Then, one by one, the engines flared. The IFVs and trucks began to pull out of the yard, headlights dimmed, rolling west.
As the convoy crested the highway hilltop, one sergeant stuck his head out the hatch, eyes upward. And there, cutting across the stars, came the Black Hawks. Six, then nine, then more. Door gunners perched on the side rails, rotors slicing the still night. Their lights blinked briefly in unison, then disappeared over the ridgeline.
“Commandos are on schedule,” another officer whispered as he checked his timemap. They’d be in Ankara in forty minutes. “I hope they can hold the city in time.”
Major Yıldırım lit a cigarette from the front of the lead vehicle. He didn’t smile.
“God help those bastards in the Palace.”
The soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant murmur of the city were the only sounds that filled the narrow apartment. Curtains swayed gently in the cool winter breeze drifting in through a half-open window. Eda lay curled beneath a thin cotton sheet, her breathing shallow and slow, lost somewhere between a troubled sleep and the remnants of a fading dream.
Then came the noise.
At first, it was faint, almost a vibration in the bones. A low, rhythmic thump-thump-thump, distant but unmistakable. Her brows knitted unconsciously, and her hand stirred from the mattress. But the sound grew, rising from a background murmur to something thunderous and urgent. The tremble of rotor blades swept across the building like a pressure wave.
Her eyes opened.
She blinked at the ceiling, bleary and disoriented. For a second, she thought it might be construction. Then the window panes began to rattle, and the thin walls of the apartment groaned from the downdraft.
The bedroom door burst open.
“Hanımefendi, kalkın! Şimdi!” Sariaslan Toraman, her personal protection officer shouted. His silhouette filled the doorway, backlit by the hallway’s red emergency lighting. In his left hand was a sidearm. His right hand was already reaching for her.
“What, what’s happening?” Eda rasped, the grogginess still clinging to her voice.
“No time. You need to move now.” Sariaslan shouted.
Eda barely had time to pull on a robe over her nightclothes before she was yanked to her feet.
Eda stumbled barefoot into the corridor, her breath catching in her throat. The apartment shook again as a gust of rotor wash slammed into it. From outside came a deafening roar, an engine hovering just above, powerful, heavy, predatory.
As they reached the stairwell, gunfire erupted.
It started in short bursts, then grew into a sustained volley. Muzzle flashes lit up the walls like lightning through shattered windows. Another GMT officer opened the building’s back entrance and was immediately cut down. The doorframe exploded in splinters, bullets cracking past. His blood splattered across the walls as Eda could only watch.
“In the car! Move!” Gem barked. Pushing the disoriented officers and Eda through the door.
They burst out into the alley behind the apartment. A black SUV sat idling, doors open. Just ahead, across the narrow lane, descending from a hovering silhouette shrouded in moonlight and dust, were men on ropes, figures in military fatigues with rifles braced to their chests.
It hit her all at once; it wasn't the police. They were Soldiers. It was the Army.
As she was shoved into the back seat, Eda turned and caught the full image, an ATAK helicopter, its sleek, angular nose pointed toward them like a spear. It hovered above the neighboring building, the rotor blades howling, side doors open as commandos fired in unison.
Her GMT officers slammed the door shut just as another round tore through the glass. One of her men fell, screaming, as rounds peppered the concrete around them.
The driver floored the accelerator. The SUV lurched forward, tires screaming against the broken asphalt. One of the rappelling soldiers misjudged his landing and came down directly in their path. The vehicle struck him with a sickening crunch, throwing his body violently aside. The others fired after them, but the convoy’s rear car responded with suppressive bursts from an MPT-76, chattering rounds up into the air, forcing the helicopter to rise momentarily.
Eda sat frozen in the back seat, her arms wrapped around her chest, her breath shallow and her heartbeat thunderous. Her phone, purse, documents, everything was gone.
The SUV tore down a narrow service road, headlights extinguished, its tires shrieking with every tight turn. A helicopter shadow passed overhead, then another. Then several more. The night sky, streaked with the faintest blush of coming dawn, was swarmed by machines. Dozens of them. ATAK helicopters in loose formation, some headed toward Çankaya, others banking in from Etimesgut, casting long, strobing shadows over neighborhoods still unaware what was going on.
Eda stared upward through the windshield, mute and frozen, her hand clutching the headrest in front of her. She said nothing at first. Her throat was dry. The air in the car stank of adrenaline and gunpowder. Then, as the sixth helicopter passed by, low and slow, she finally spoke.
“Tanrım. It’s happening. It’s really happening.” Her voice cracked. “Give me your phone,” she snapped, her voice rising. “Now. I need to call the Presidency. They need to lock down the National Palace. We… ”
“No,” replied Sariaslan in the passenger seat without turning. “Comms are black. Our secure lines are jammed. And if they’ve compromised MIT’s frequencies, yours will light us up like a beacon. They’ll be on our position within seconds.”
“Then hardline the gendarmerie. Patch through someone…” She said almost in defeat as her voice lost strength.
“There’s nothing to patch through to!” he barked, his composure fraying. “We don’t know who is giving orders right now. The palace may already be under siege. For all we know, you are the last political figure still free.”
The words hung in the air like smoke. They turned sharply onto a feeder road approaching Atatürk Boulevard. Up ahead, an intersection glowed faint red under sodium lights, and with it, a checkpoint. Military vehicles blocked both directions, dark humvees with machine guns trained outward. Soldiers, regular infantry by their fatigues, were pulling drivers from vehicles, inspecting trunks, shouting orders as they seemed to be arresting some of the people around the boulevard and ushering others away..
Isa, the driver, cursed under his breath and reversed hard, the transmission groaning. He spun the wheel and turned down a commercial access route, into the old industrial quarter, hoping to loop back through Bahçelievler.
“Where are we going?” Eda demanded, voice rising. “We need to regroup. If we don’t act now, the military will claim every base and ministry left standing. We have to organize!”
“We don’t even know what’s left to organize,” Sariaslan replied grimly. “Ma’am, you need to survive the night. That’s our job.”
A sharp crack-crack-crack of automatic fire echoed nearby. Somewhere to their left, a gun battle raged in the shadows of low apartment blocks. A helicopter’s searchlight lanced through the night. Tracers lit up the night sky as the sound of screams followed them. Then silence. The erie silence that sent fear shivering down Eda’s spine.
Eda pressed her forehead to the cold window, breath fogging the glass. The distant skyline of ministries and assembly halls was now dotted with black smoke, sporadic muzzle flashes, and the skeletal shapes of helicopters descending like vultures.
“This can’t be…” she murmured.
“It is,” Isa said grimly.
She turned, voice breaking. “We can’t just run. We have to find a loyal base, a unit, anyone not part of this madness. The longer we wait, the more ground we lose. If we don’t counter them now, tonight, it’s over.”
“I understand,” Sariaslan said calmly, finally turning to face her. “But you’re not a general. You’re a civilian leader and right now, you’re being hunted. We don’t even know who’s with us. No confirmed sitrep. No chain of command. The Air Force base may already be compromised.”
They saw police vehicles with lights flaring speeding towards the direction of the helicopters, but it was clear they were no match for the army. “And we have no clue who flipped, who’s gone to their side.”
Eda clenched her jaw, her hands trembling.
A dull, distant boom sounded over the rooftops, the unmistakable thud of a bomb ripped through the quiet city, awakening everyone. The sound came from the Turkish Grand National Assembly. The cityscape glowed briefly. Then came the sirens.
She turned her face away from the window, breath shallow, and whispered:
“This was the last thing I thought would happen in our country… soldiers firing on their own flag. We should’ve killed them when we had the chance.” Eda let out as she sobbed.
The officer beside her said nothing.
The car raced into the shadows of an underpass. Behind them, another burst of gunfire lit the road like lightning, brief, terrible, and followed by a deeper silence still.
The bedroom was still cloaked in darkness, save for the blue ambient glow of a digital clock reading 04:18. The silence was deep, broken only by the occasional groan of the building’s ventilation system. President Ayşa Arslan slept uneasily, her body turned toward the window, the weight of days past settling into her shoulders even in slumber.
Then the room shook. It was not dramatic, just enough for a glass on her nightstand to rattle, for the light fixture to sway above. She stirred, blinking. A second later, the thwup-thwup-thwup of helicopters filled the pre-dawn silence like a war drum. A blast of air slammed against the glass panes. Then the shouting began.
Her door burst open.
“Comrade President! On your feet! We have to go now!” Commander Berke shouted, his voice taut, nearly cracking as the sound of glass shattering and helicopter rotors overwhelmed Ayşa’s senses.
Ayşa sat up groggily, confused. “What, what’s happening?”
“Helos inbound. They’re not ours. MOVE!”
Before she could fully grasp the situation, two guards seized her by the arms, not roughly, but with urgency, and guided her from the bed. The hallway outside was a flurry of movement: guards shouting orders into radios, others sprinting with rifles in hand. Someone pulled a Kevlar vest over Ayşa chest and handed her a helmet that barely fit over her hastily tied hair.
The air suddenly erupted with the sound of automatic fire. Windows shattered. Somewhere below, screams. They descended into the lower levels, three floors in under thirty seconds. The tremor of gunfire vibrated through the marble underfoot. As they reached the central stairwell, a blast shook the building, likely an RPG hitting the perimeter wall.
One of her security officers keyed his radio. “This is Bravo-1. Koba en route to PEOC Bunker. We are under active assault, multiple enemy helos, and fast-roping.”
There was static as Ayşa looked around in a dazed confusion as another officer grabbed her wrist, guiding her to a tunnel entrance. As they entered the tunnel junction toward the subterranean command center, the hallway behind them briefly lit with tracer rounds from a window high above.
“Who are they?!” Ayşa gasped, stumbling.
“No clue, ma’am. Could be elements of the 2nd Army. This is happening all across the city. The GMT and PSS are engaging on the north lawn.” Above ground, chaos reigned as fighting erupted on the palace grounds.
Army colored helicopters hovered low, engines screaming. From their open doors, commandos rappelled in threes and fours, landing hard in ornamental gardens and terraces. Presidential Security Service snipers fired from the roof, taking some down mid-air, but more kept coming. Two helicopters circled, their gunners spraying the south façade with machine gun fire to suppress defenders.
GMT security vehicles were burned at the front entrance. Guards fired back with rifles and mounted guns, their muzzle flashes illuminating the columns of the palace in flickering arcs. Bodies fell while the air filled with shouts, orders, and the percussion of close-quarter combat.
Inside, the presidential corridor was lit only by red emergency lamps. “We don’t have full control of the palace anymore,” Tatar muttered. “They’re inside. We’re sealing bulkheads behind us. PEOC Bunker can hold them out.”
Another explosion, a shaped charge, by the sound of it. Likely used to breach an interior door as the commandos broke through one of the main doors of the building.
Ayşa’s knees buckled, but one of her guards caught her. She was still breathing heavily, eyes wide, the helmet crooked on her brow.
“Is this a coup?” she whispered.
No one answered.
They reached the blast doors of the PEOC Bunker. An officer keyed in the security override. As the vault-like doors began to close behind them, a burst of gunfire echoed through the corridor they’d just passed, closer this time. The sound of boots was muffled by shouting in Turkish. A volley of suppressive fire from the guards bought them seconds as Ayşa was dragged through a firestorm of bullets. The door slammed shut with a heavy metallic clang, locking the President into the reinforced womb of the state.
Ayşa leaned back against the cold wall, gasping, her legs shaking. The bunker lights came on. A secure table screen flickered to life. No signal. No live feeds. Total blackout. She saw several dead bodies inside the bunker. She started coughing as her stomach tried to force whatever food she had eaten out.
The lights in the bunker were white and sterile, buzzing faintly above steel walls layered in blast shielding. Monitors lined the far wall, though many remained black, frozen, or cycling through a NO SIGNAL screen in gray block letters. The communications officer slammed his fist against one of them, to no effect.
Berke had the bodies dragged away as he hovered over one to study it. “Its ours alright.” He said in defeat as Ayşa wiped her lips and tried to stand up.
“What do you mean?” She asked weakly.
“It's the 82nd Airborne.” He pulled out a patch that the soldier had removed and hid in the lining of his pockets. “They came from the south. How did we not see them coming?” He looked at the eighteen security officers he had left as the sound of bullets outside intensified.
Ayşa stood at the center of the bunker command table, breathing slowly, staring at the digital projection map flickering before her. It showed little more than concentric perimeter alarms and GPS failouts. The air inside the room was stifling, too many bodies, too little airflow, the tension choking.
One of the GMT liaison officers stepped forward, headset clamped tight over his ears.
“We have confirmation,” he said quietly, jaw clenched. “This was coordinated. Simultaneous operations nationwide. The Prime Minister is unaccounted for. Several Ministers were taken by surprise, and others were unaccounted for.”
A low hum of disbelief moved through the room.
“They’ve taken the Bosphorus and Fatih Sultan Mehmet bridges. Istanbul’s crossings are locked down. 2nd Armored appears to have deployed tanks at key roadways. Troop transports are being used to round up local party leaders. Comms traffic suggests…” He paused, hesitating. “...that many of them have already been detained. Some were forcibly removed from their homes at the dead of night.”
Another aide cut in, her voice shaking. “Reports from Ankara International say helicopters have been flying in by the hour.”
“They’re reinforcing the capital?” Ayşa asked, her voice quiet.
“Yes, Madam President. It’s likely that what we’re seeing is only Phase One. The airborne forces overwhelmed our forces and will likely be trying to set up defensive positions to repel any counterattacks we arrange. ”
The reinforced door groaned slightly under some pressure above, distant, faint. The rhythmic thud of boots and muffled shouts echoed in the steel ventilation. They were overhead. Closer.
One of the younger Presidential Guards moved to the side panel and drew his weapon tighter to his chest. “They’ve taken the building,” he muttered.
“But they can’t breach this bunker,” another officer affirmed. “Not without satchel charges and drilling equipment. They’ll need time. And permission.”
Ayşa slowly sat down at the war table, her hands clenched. Her heart pounded in her ribs; she felt it…a sense of fear…almost eclipsed by her feeling of disbelief as the People’s Republic was being throttled in the dark.
She turned sharply to the communications officer. “Try again. Defense staff. MIT HQ. The Prime Minister. Anyone.”
He nodded. “Already on looped attempts. No contact from the Prime Minister. No signal from the Interior Ministry. GMT central is dark…likely compromised. Revolutionary Guard Corps officers are either off-grid or under arrest.”
“And the military?” she asked. “Anyone from the General Staff?”
He hesitated.
Then shook his head. “No response from the Chief. The Army Defense Staff secure line is active, but not answering. We believe the Defense Staff building was overrun around 04:10. Internal feeds showed gunfire in the lower atrium before blacking out.”
The room was silent for a beat. Ayşa’s knuckles whitened against the table.
“They took the Staff Building,” she repeated. “This is a full military coup. Not just a battalion or rogue officers. FUCK.” She screamed.
An intelligence liaison stepped forward. His uniform was rumpled, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, but his voice was steady.
“There’s one more thing, Madam President. We’ve intercepted field chatter that an armored convoy is en route to Ankara. Full mechanized column. Originating from Polatlı base, likely from the 58th Mechanized Infantry Brigade. ETA is under ninety minutes, depending on resistance.”
“If they break the ring, even a counterassault on the Palace is meaningless,” the GMT officer added. “We could clear the paratroopers, but we’ll be overrun by armor.”
The bunker fell silent again, now colder.
Ayşa leaned forward, eyes locked on the fading flickers of the broken screen. She swallowed hard, then asked, “Is there anyone left who is still fighting for this republic?”
Silence. Then, finally, a single voice, low and uncertain, from the corner of the room: “We don’t know yet, ma’am.”
Another rumble shook the walls. Dust trickled from the concrete seams as the firing dround out and an erie silence took over.
The night air was cool and touched by the salty breath of the Bosphorus. It was one of those quiet, sleepless Istanbul mornings when the city belonged neither to yesterday nor tomorrow. Some tourists wandered along Istiklal Avenue, couples returning from late-night cafés, students laughing as they leaned against shuttered storefronts. In the distance, the muezzin’s call to prayer had not yet risen.
Then the ground began to tremble. At first, it was subtle. A low hum in the pavement. Glasses rattled faintly on café tables. Conversations stalled as people took to the streets to investigate, as others ignored it to continue on with their daily lives.
Then the source emerged. Out from the shadows of the Galata overpass and winding side streets came the unmistakable growl of diesel engines. The square lit with moving headlights, no sirens, no announcements. Just the sudden, surreal appearance of armored columns under the city’s famed neon glow. Leopard 2A6 tanks rolled forward at a steady, deliberate pace, turrets sweeping from side to side. Behind them followed APCs, Kirpi MRAPs, and ACV-15s, loaded with infantry, their silhouettes barely visible behind tinted ballistic glass.
At first, onlookers froze. A Western tourist raised his phone. “Must be an exercise,” he murmured aloud, capturing footage with a half-smile. “Only in Turkey, right?”
A young Turkish man chuckled uncertainly, “Bayram parade, maybe?” But as the vehicles fanned out across the square, blocking avenues and tram lines with mechanical precision, the mood shifted. Then, a lone polis memuru, a uniformed officer stationed near the metro entrance, stepped into the tank’s path.
He shouted, hand raised. “Dur! Kimden emir alıyorsunuz?!”
The tank did not stop. As the officer reached for his sidearm, half a dozen infantrymen leapt from the nearest APC and tackled him violently to the ground. Civilians gasped and scattered. The soldiers dragged the officer aside, disarming him. Then they took up firing positions, kneeling beside bollards, fanning into alleys, weapons raised at potential rooftops.
A soldier, now standing atop the Leopard’s turret, keyed his comms headset and spoke through a loudspeaker mounted to the hull. “Dikkat! Türkiye Cumhuriyeti Ordusu tarafından sıkıyönetim ilan edilmiştir. Herkes derhal evlerine dönsün. Dışarıda bulunanlar gözaltına alınacaktır.
Bu bir güvenlik önlemidir. Lütfen itaat edin.”
Another voice came out in English “Attention! Martial law has been declared by the Armed Forces of the Republic of Türkiye. All civilians must return to their homes immediately. Anyone remaining outside will be detained. This is for your safety. Obey all military instructions.”
Gasps and confusion rippled through the square. Storefront lights flickered off. A woman screamed as a man threw a rock at the soldiers before he was tackled and detained. Then silence, broken only by the metallic clatter of soldiers repositioning. Overhead, the scream of jet engines split the sky. A lone F-16 streaked across the Bosphorus, low and fast. A second followed behind, banking hard over the bridge. The roar sent pigeons scattering from the domes of the nearby mosques.
Inside the Istanbul control tower at Sabiha Gökçen International Airport, emergency alerts flashed red on the consoles.
Pilots inbound from across the world would be shocked by the unexpected decision as hundreds of aircraft circled above Turkish Airspace frantically trying to reroute to other countries’ airports. Dozens of airliners were now circling, desperately awaiting re-routing instructions. Confused passengers stirred from slumber in their cabins as others patiently waiting to land were told that they were diverting course.
Several F-16s took off after a letter of support from the Chief of the Air Defense Staff came through. They joined the coup plotters as they secured the airspace around Türkiye. As the Presidential Palace desperately called for help, the flight of F-16s offered some relief to the surrounded leadership. However, their hope would quickly fade as the F-16s joined in a patrol over the airspace to dissuade any foreign actors from intervening.
Back in Istanbul, the streets now emptied as people ran for shelter. Throughout the night, army vehicles rumbled through the streets of Istanbul, putting the city that never sleeps to bed. The occasional crackle of bullets could be heard throughout the city. Nobody knew what it was, only that hundreds of tanks and armored vehicles roamed the streets with the same message on repeat. Scared travellers would be helped by soldiers, taken to the nearest hotel, and told to wait there. Some Turks would come out and get into heated arguments with the soldiers who tried their best to defuse the situation. As the situation deteriorated with regime supporters coming out into the streets, the soldiers were forced to arrest hundreds, while others dispersed.
The early morning news program mostly focused on foreign events. At the top of TRT’s coverage was the current political crisis in London.
Nazik Genc sat behind the sleek TRT World desk in her navy blue suit as a graphics read: “UK Prime Minister Under Fire from £1.2 Billion Contract Scandal” underneath her.
Nazik turned to the camera and started speaking from the teleprompter.
“Good morning, you’re watching TRT World. It’s just past 4 a.m. here in Istanbul, and we begin with breaking news from the United Kingdom.”
“British Prime Minister Lawrence Adams is facing mounting political pressure this morning following a BBC investigation that has uncovered serious concerns over a £1.2 billion government contract. The contract was awarded to a relatively unknown company, Hawthorn Dynamics, which reportedly has personal and financial ties to figures close to the Prime Minister’s family and the Conservative Party.”
“Documents seen by the BBC suggest that standard procurement procedures may have been bypassed or significantly relaxed. Internal government memos, which have since been leaked, show that concerns were raised by civil servants over the company’s limited experience and potential conflicts of interest. However, the deal appears to have gone ahead allegedly with the direct involvement of Downing Street.”
“Hawthorn Dynamics, despite its limited track record in public infrastructure projects, was awarded the deal as part of a flagship national programme. Among the individuals linked to the company are close associates of the Prime Minister’s wife and known party donors.”
“No official statement has yet been issued from Downing Street, but opposition leaders are already calling for a formal inquiry. Protests are reportedly being planned outside Parliament later today.”
“We will continue to follow this developing story and bring you updates, analysis, and international reaction throughout the day. For more, stay with us as we cover the story after the weather.”
The screen then flickered as TRT's signature red and white logo slowly gave way to a split-screen broadcast: one side showing Nazik and the other filled with shaky live footage of tanks moving through a dusky intersection in Izmir. Scrolling beneath the anchor was a banner in bold crimson:
"BREAKING NEWS: UNCERTAINTY GRIPS NATION AS ARMY DECLARES MARTIAL LAW - MILITARY VEHICLES IN STREETS ACROSS TÜRKİYE"
Nazik’s voice, composed yet visibly strained, returned quicker than viewers may have been expecting.
"Good morning. We interrupt our regular programming to discuss the current situation in Turkiye. The time is 5:46 AM in Ankara, and over the past hour, we have received reports that the Turkish Armed Forces have deployed military vehicles in multiple major cities, including Ankara, Istanbul, Izmir, Konya, and Gaziantep."
"Tanks and armored personnel carriers have been spotted moving through city centers, blocking major intersections and bridges. We can confirm, through our regional correspondents, that soldiers have taken up positions around government buildings, media outlets, and key infrastructure."
"At this time, there is no official statement from the Presidency or the Prime Minister’s Office. Communications with several ministries appear to have been severed as the army now controls central government offices and dozens of major cities. TRT has not received clarification from the Ministry of Defense regarding the situation."
The broadcast cut for a moment, glitching as the signal faltered. Then it resumed. A second anchor now appeared in-studio, whispering to producers as footage shifted again this time to Istanbul Airport.
Passengers were shown pushing through the terminal in panic. A woman clutched her child as soldiers with rifles ordered people to the floor. PA systems blared in Turkish and English, repeating: "All flights have been suspended. Remain calm. Do not exit the terminal. Turkish airspace is closed."
Back in the studio, the anchor continued now with a rising tremble in her voice.
“TRT has now confirmed that gunfire has been exchanged at the Presidential Complex in Ankara. There are unconfirmed reports of helicopters firing on the perimeter. TRT crews spotted uniformed soldiers surrounding the Presidential Palace as smoke bellowed from inside the building. And just moments ago…” Suddenly, an ear-splitting BOOM shattered the air behind her.
The entire studio jolted as the feed wobbled. Cameras shook. In the background, through a high window of the Ankara bureau, a column of flame burst into the night sky from across the city. Then, a second or two later, a massive fireball consumed the horizon, casting an orange glow that turned the skyline into shadow.
The anchor turned, eyes wide. Then the overhead sound came, a scream of jet engines.
“We are… we are hearing what appears to be a large explosion outside. Our team believes that it was the People's Revolutionary Guard Corps facility near Batıkent. TRT cameras are attempting to get confirmation but…yes…yes, we now see what appears to be a fighter aircraft, a Turkish Air Force F-16, flying low over the city.”
The live camera panned upward, through a rooftop lens just in time to catch the sleek shape of the aircraft banking hard against the early morning light. Flares dispensed behind it in a brilliant cascade of heat trails, a defensive countermeasure against surface-to-air missiles that never came.
Below, civilians ran through the streets in every direction. Car alarms screamed. Some threw themselves to the ground. Others filmed with shaking hands, not yet comprehending what they were witnessing.
In the studio, the anchor pressed her earpiece tightly and lowered her voice.
“This… appears to be a coordinated military action. The full extent remains unknown, but we advise all citizens to return to their homes immediately. Do not engage military personnel. Do not spread unverified information. We will remain on air… for as long as we are able.”
In the lower corner of the screen, TRT’s emergency crawl is now updated:
“SITUATION DEVELOPING – GUNFIRE AND EXPLOSIONS REPORTED NATIONWIDE, AIRSPACE CLOSED, NO OFFICIAL STATEMENT FROM GOVERNMENT”
Then, faintly, behind the anchor, the emergency sirens began to wail. Nazik sat alone at the anchor desk, her notes disheveled as the team sifted through hundreds of reports on the internet. Behind her, a live feed of central Ankara shows smoke drifting over empty boulevards and tanks positioned at key intersections. Her PD gave her a countdown, and at one, Nazik looked directly into the camera.
“If you are just joining us, it is now six o'clock in the morning here in Ankara. We are continuing our rolling coverage of what appears to be a coordinated and unprecedented military action across Türkiye.”
“In the last hour, the Turkish Armed Forces have moved into several major cities, including Istanbul, Izmir, Gaziantep, and the capital. TRT has confirmed that soldiers have taken up positions at government facilities, transport hubs, and telecommunication buildings.
“At this time, there is still no official response from the Presidency or the Prime Minister’s Office. However, based on ongoing reports, the Armed Forces appear to have established effective control over central Ankara, including the Presidential Complex, the Parliament building, and strategic infrastructure such as airports and broadcast stations.”
“The military has declared martial law. Civilians are being ordered to remain indoors. We now bring you a live recording from central Istanbul, where military personnel are broadcasting directives from loudspeakers attached to army vehicles.”
The feed cut to grainy, night-vision-style footage from a residential block in Istanbul. An olive-drab military truck slowly rolls down the street. A large loudspeaker mounted on its roof projects a deep, distorted voice in Turkish, then in English.
Back in the studio, Nazik continued.
“We urge all viewers to remain calm and stay indoors. Do not attempt to travel unless absolutely necessary. We will continue to provide verified information as we receive it.”
The screen cuts to a live map of Türkiye, red markers blinking over key cities with a military presence. A new alert flashed at the bottom as updates were verified by the PD team.
From behind the glass wall of the control booth, warning lights flickered as one of the studio doors rattled violently. Muffled shouting echoed down the hallway. Outside, Turkish soldiers detained TRT’s private security officers and entered the building.
The camera was still rolling as Nazik shifted in her seat, trying to maintain composure. But the panic had crept into her voice.
“We are…we are hearing movement outside the studio. TRT has not yet been contacted by authorities. We…”
The side doors were kicked down. As six soldiers in full combat kit stormed into the room, rifles up, sweeping in formation. Gasps were heard off-camera with floor producers raising their hands, one of them crying out, “Don’t shoot! We’re Live. We’re Live.” The man pleaded.
Nazik froze for a moment. She was still on the air. A soldier asked the producers to go off the air temporarily to discuss something. Unable to see what was going on inside, Nizak kept her cool and improvised.
“It is now six-thirty in the morning here in Ankara. TRT facilities here have been secured by members of the Turkish Armed Forces. We will continue to provide information as we are able. Please remain calm and indoors.”
Back in the control room, the argument continued. “We are TRT,” Cem, a PD, stammered, backing away. “We are a public institution. This is illegal. You can’t be here. You have no legal authority to be in here.”
Lt. Colonel Demir turned calmly toward him. “That’s no longer accurate, sir. The country is currently under martial law ,and the armed forces have the authority to censor this facility.”
Cem raised his voice, “What you’re doing is illegal. You can’t use our platform to justify this to the nation.”
Demir stepped closer to Cem and spoke low and firm. “This isn’t about justification. It’s about order. The Republic is under threat. You will continue broadcasting, under military supervision. This is not a negotiation sir.”
“You mean propaganda,” Cem said bitterly.
Demir looked at Cem, the two men face to face. “I mean stability. Your job is to keep the broadcast running. Do that, and no one here needs to be removed.”
Cem glanced past Demir to where Nazik is quietly setting her papers back in order.
“She’s a journalist, not a mouthpiece,” Cem said.
“She is a citizen of the Republic, and so are you. What we ask is temporary. The Armed Forces will restore democratic order when the threat is neutralized.” Demir responded.
“And until then, you expect us to lie to forty million people?” Cem asked.
Demir shook his head. “No. We expect you to speak with discipline. There’s a difference.”
There was a pause as Cem didn’t answer. He looked at the soldiers posted by the door, then down at the floor.
Demir broke the silence his softer voice. “Help us do this cleanly, sir. No panic. No martyrs. The people will remember who kept them calm. We will remember who helped us.”
Cem nodded as he entered the room to speak with Nazik. Nazik sat on the edge of the chair, clutching the printed communiqué in her hands. The room was quiet except for distant footsteps echoing down the hall. Cem stood near the doorway, arms crossed, his face tight with frustration.
“They want you to read a statement,” Cem said quietly.
Nazik didn’t look up. “I figured.”
Cem stepped forward, lowering his voice. “We don’t have to do it. I can stall the feed and say there’s a technical fault. Blame it on the switchover. Buy some time.”
She shook her head slowly. “For what? So someone else gets dragged up here and forced to say it with a gun pointed at their head?”
Cem’s jaw tightened. “I’m not asking you to lie for them. I’m saying we don’t have to become the mouthpiece of a military regime.”
Nazik’s eyes flicked to the paper again, her voice bitter. “We already are. They’re not asking. They’re here.”
She held up the statement. “Do you think I want to tell people their government is dissolved? That the generals are in charge now?”
Cem was quiet. “Then don’t.”
Her voice choked for a second. “If I do, what happens to my family? My sister’s in Mamak. My mother’s in Kayseri. If this coup fails, they’ll be targets because of me.”
Cem swallowed hard. “If it fails?”
She didn’t answer. The silence weighed between them.
“If it fails,” she said finally, voice low, “maybe I can say I was forced. Maybe I disappear quietly.”
Cem sank onto a nearby chair, his shoulders heavy. “You shouldn’t have to choose.”
Nazik straightened the paper on her lap. Her hands trembled, but her eyes hardened. “I’ll do it. They won’t leave until I do so.”
Cem nodded slowly. “That’s something.”
Behind them, the military had the building emptied as the military’s communications team manned the facilities to maintain coverage. She took a sip of water before starting.
“Good morning, citizens of Türkiye. And those watching from abroad. I am speaking to you from the TRT studios in Ankara, which moments ago was seized by members of the Turkish Armed Forces. I’ve been asked to read this statement.
Earlier today, a faction within the Turkish Armed Forces, known as the Young Turks, seized control of key government institutions and declared martial law across the country.
This faction has voiced deep concern over the current state of our nation, describing it as autocratic, anti-democratic, and increasingly subservient to foreign ideologies that threaten our sovereignty and the founding principles of the Republic.
For months, the Armed Forces have observed the democratic order, hoping it would correct these issues internally. That hope has not been fulfilled.
Therefore, the military has intervened, asserting control over the legislative, executive, and judiciary branches to preserve the Kemalist order entrusted to them by history and the people of Türkiye.
Martial law is now in effect. The safety and rights of all Turkish citizens remain a priority. The Armed Forces have pledged a swift return to democratic governance and the protection of all freedoms guaranteed by our Constitution.
We urge all citizens to remain calm, stay indoors, and avoid any confrontation with military personnel. Your cooperation is essential during this transitional period.
Further announcements will be made by military officers shortly. TRT will cease its current broadcast to comply with orders from the armed forces. Please. Do not spread fake news and panick. Tonight above all else remember your duty as Turks.”
Nazik paused, the words felt heavy as she signed off the message, as Cem nodded to her that they were off the air.
The armored convoy rolled through the gates of the Defense Staff building, headlights cutting through the misty dawn. The once white façade of the Ministry compound was now stained smoke-blackened in places, windows cracked from earlier blasts. Above, an ATAK helicopter hovered in a wide circle, casting flickering shadows across the entry plaza where spent casings and a pair of burned-out sedans lay smoldering.
Three vehicles pulled to a stop near the reinforced rear access. From the first stepped, General Veysel Kurt, beside him, General Arda Yılmaz, calm as General Levent Ergün, followed him out.
The three men entered the command compound through the basement access tunnel, flanked by Special Forces units in full tactical gear. Inside, the scent of blood and cordite clung to the air.
Bodies had been moved, but not the blood which stained the ground.
Dark smears stained the marble floor of the outer corridor. In a side room, two officers sat handcuffed, flanked by riflemen. Another soldier with a bandaged shoulder lay against the wall, grimacing.
Veysel stopped abruptly. “What the hell happened here. This facility was supposed to be secured easily. This was supposed to be bloodless.”
Major General Ertan Kılıç saluted the generals as he was attending to one of his wounded soldiers who suffered a leg and arm wound.
“Sir. GMT personnel refused to surrender when given the option and chose to open fire. We sustained several casualties on our side, more than a dozen on theirs. Two Revolutionary Guard Corps officers attempted to blow up the data servers, but we neutralized them before they could finish. Partial damage was done to the data serves, unfortunately.” He pointed behind them. “Several PRGC formations tried to make a counter-attack on the building, hence the need for helicopters. They are beginning to launch localized counterattacks, but the 10th has secured the outskirts of the city. They will be unable to reorganize outside of the city.”
“Any civilians?” General Kurt asked.
“One secretary, non-fatal injury. Most were already complying when we arrived. Several resisted but were noted to us in the briefings.”
Veysel cursed under his breath. Yılmaz remained silent, but his jaw clenched.
“And now?” General Kurt asked.
“Minimal resistance remains in Ankara, sir. Scattered GMT units are attempting to organize for a counter-attack but lack coordination. PRGC remnants are in hiding or were driven off by our initial assault on the city. Our command teams have full control of the building. We had to request an airstrike on a PRGC base after we observed them gathering in armored vehicles.”
“My God,” Veysel said as he covered his mouth. This had not been what he wanted.
“Communications?” General Yılmaz said, stepping in.
“Secured Sir. We’ve turned off the civilian communication system and have had all military channels sanitized for our broadcasting. Civilian internet access have been turned off, and TRT and several other broadcasts are now under our control. We issued the statement you asked us to do.”
General Yılmaz nodded. “Take us inside.”
The generals ascended the secured staircase to the war command level. The lights were dim, emergency red strips guiding the way. Inside the central briefing room, the large electronic map of Türkiye blinked with green-coded territories and several yellow hot zones. A colonel waited by the digital operations table, ready.
The generals ascended the stairwell to the strategic command level. Emergency red strips guided their path. Inside the central operations room, an illuminated digital map of Türkiye blinked with green-controlled zones and a few flickering yellow hotspots.
At the table, Colonel Ergün stood at the digital operations table. He saluted the Generals as they walked in.
Veysel removed his gloves and stepped toward the map. “Full situational report. Let’s hear it.”
Colonel Ergün began. “The Prime Minister escaped capture during the initial strike. Army Commandos lost contact with her after a brief engagement at her residence. She is presumed in flight, likely with loyalist protection and will try to regroup with whatever forces she can muster. We’re on the hunt for her.”
Yılmaz exhaled sharply. “She’s got a lot of contact with the security forces. But she won’t last without a command center. We need to make sure we control every artery in this country and deprive her of that.”
The colonel nodded. “Ankara is under control. Roads are sealed in and out of the city. The Parliament building is secured, but a GMT officer detonated several large explosives inside. The TİP and PKK Party headquarters are under lockdown, and their party organizershave been arrested.”
“Istanbul?” General Kurt asked.
“Fully secured sir. Local command elements stood aside as you anticipated. Taksim and bridges are under our protection. No reported resistance minus several police encounters. We have a lot of scared tourists sir and our military units are having difficulty housing them.”
General Ergün nodded. “I’d advise we get them inside whatever hotels are in the area and disperse them as much as possible. The worst thing right now is a foreign government sending military forces to evacuate their civilians.”
The others nodded as Veysel continued to ask about other cities. “Izmir?”
“The city quickly joined us to be frank.” The colonel said. “Local civil authorities supported us in making 800 arrests of TİP officials and dozens of PRGC officers.”
“Diyarbakır?” General Yılmaz asked.
“It is complicated there sir. Sporadic fighting continues between the Army and PKK-linked militias. We don’t have control of the entire city. However, the PKK lacks central militant coordination, but tribal-scale resistance is mounting. We’re conducting limited aerial suppression to support our efforts to bring the city under control. We will need to mobilize the Gendarmire to assist us in bringing the population under control.”
Veysel murmured, “We will need to bring the MİT and Gendarmerie chiefs here as soon as possible. We need to gain control of the other security services, including the police as soon as possible. What is the situation with the air force and the navy?”
“Airspace remains restricted. No hostile air activity has been reported. Several F-16s are flying overhead as we speak and have joined us. Ground crews have secured fuel depots and arsenals, and 18 pilots have been detained who were still loyal to the regime.”
Yılmaz glanced toward the map’s western edge. “The Navy?”
“No confirmed contact since midnight. The Thai fleet reported in harbor off Çeşme has disappeared. It appears they made a break for it and returned home a while ago.”
General Ergün finally spoke. “Ensure naval ports are sealed. We don’t want shipments to arrive to support the PRGC or a French maritime invasion.
The Colonel nodded as he turned to the grey sites on the map
“Detention operations are ongoing in all major cities. GMT and Party leadership have been detained, and we are conducting raids on other party facilities. We have the Ministers of Interior, Defense, Foreign Affairs, Health, and Treasury all in custody. The Justice Minister remains unaccounted for, but we have at least managed to capture the main PKK warlords who joined the regime.”
Veysel asked the burning question on everyone’s mind. “And the President?”
“Confirmed alive in the PEOC Bunker. No communications. No outside contact. No viable extraction. She is cornered in there sir and my men are working to break inside.”
The room fell still.
For a moment, the three generals stood not as victors, but as men aware they had stepped beyond the veil. What began as a mission of principle now bore the ugly outlines of political rupture.
General Veysel Kurt broke the silence first. His voice was calm, deliberate. “If she concedes, we avoid a long fight. If she acknowledges the coup it’ll give us a pathway to legitimacy. To stability. More importantly. It’ll allow us to end this already bloody situation. ”
Across from him, General Levent Ergün leaned back in his chair, eyes hard. “What you’re suggesting is theater. You want her to play the final act of the old regime and then bow off stage with dignity. That doesn’t work. Not with Communists. She must be detained without any compromise and dragged out of that bunker.”
Kurt frowned, fingers steepled. “You still blame her don’t you?”
Ergün’s lip twitched, but his voice remained flat.
“I pleaded with her to take action against those terrorists, and she just sat there. Sat there as I showed her the bodies of our compatriots. Sat there taking the talking points of those PKK rats. She just sat there and watched while Eda dismantled the last pieces of the Republic. She may not have built the regime, but she endorsed every brick Eda laid. She is not innocent.”
Yıldız, who had been silent until now, adjusted his posture.
“Letting her speak, under any circumstances, risks igniting whatever resistance remains dormant. In the east. Among the universities. Even abroad. All it takes is for her to go off message, and suddenly we’re the tyrants. She becomes the last ‘legitimate’ voice.”
Kurt met his gaze.
“I don’t want to give her a platform. I want to give her an off-ramp. An agreement. She concedes and asks the people to comply. In return, she keeps her people alive and walks out in daylight. That’s the only way we walk into the daylight,t too.”
Ergün scoffed.
“You’re dreaming of a peaceful revolution. That window closed the moment our helicopters touched down. It closed the moment we went on this journey”
Kurt stood and walked toward the window slit, watching the sun rise faintly over the city.
“Eda was the problem. Yes, others were enablers, but If we drag the President out in cuffs or worse, we harden opposition and invite international condemnation. Every holdout sees us as occupiers, not reformers. We need to be shown as restoring the rights of the Turkish people.”
Yıldız folded his arms. “She was just as complicit as the others.”
Yıldız then turned toward Ergün. “I don’t like it. And I don’t trust her. But you’re right, if she speaks, it undermines everything. There’s no version of this where she gets to address the country.”
He looked back at Kurt. “Offer her the ability to stop this bloodshed. To acknowledge the National Security Council’s authority to govern in the interim. If she does that, we publicly commit to due process. She and every one of her cabinet officials will get a trial, a fair trial, not a purge. If she refuses, we cut power, disable ventilation, and smoke her out by force.”
Ergün didn’t object. But his face said he didn’t believe in the offer, nor in mercy.
Kurt straightened. “Then that’s the offer. We can close the chapter without turning the last page into a graveyard.”
Yıldız gave a hard, narrow smile. “She might. Not out of loyalty, but out of fear. She knows what happened to presidents in worse coups. If she thinks she can save her people, maybe she’ll do it.”
Ergün scoffed. “You’re assuming she’ll play along.”
Kurt looked at Ergün. We can’t run the country with bayonets forever.”
They said nothing more before Colonel Erdoğan walked in to tell them the Chiefs of the Defense Staff were here. Kurt had Major General Ünal carry a letter from them and instructed him to negotiate with President Arslan to bring this siege to an end.
Major General Ünal saluted and left the room as Colonel Erdoğan brought them to a room with polished command tables, maps of Türkiye projected across multiple displays. Inside, seated were the heads of the Turkish Armed Forces’ branches.
Across from them stood the coup’s senior leaders. General Veysel Kurt, General Arda Yılmaz, and General Levent Ergün. Their men flanked the walls, weapons slung casually, helmets still on.
Veysel spoke first. “Sirs. As of this morning, we control Ankara, Istanbul, and Izmir. The Prime Minister is in hiding. The President is entombed in her bunker. Several Ministries have been seized with their ministers under arrest. The GMT is broken, and the PRGC is scattered across the country. We ask for no oaths today. Only the commitments you made to us.
He turned his eyes towards the Chief of the Defense Staff. “All of you have already agreed to issue the declaration supporting the Restoration. You know this is bigger than any of us.”
General Güler exhaled deeply, not speaking. Admiral Özbal gave the slightest nod.
Veysel turned again, this time more directly. “Chief. You haven’t signed.”
The Chief of the Defense Staff said nothing. His fingers tightened, faintly. Yılmaz stepped forward as he continued. “We received word from MİT. After you were taken for ‘questioning’ at headquarters, you attempted to defect back to the regime. You reached out to GMT holdouts and requested air cover.”
There was a silence as the other chiefs turned to the Chief of the Defense Staff, almost aghast.
Musa’s eyes flicked to the younger officers, then to the portraits of Atatürk still hanging above the command dais. He finally spoke. “You’ve hijacked the Republic. This is not restoration. This is a seizure. Say what you will about this regime,e but look around you. Look at the blood that has been spilled. Turkish blood. “You think the people will forget? You think the officers out there, our soldiers, our pilots, our seamen, will forgive this?”
Veysel didn’t say anything for a moment, but before he could, Levent stepped in. “They won’t have to. They’ll understand. After the dust settles. After the Party is buried. They’ll see what we did. They’ll see the sacrifice we all made to end the purges. To end the people’s suffering. To uphold the oath we took to Atatürk and his promise to the Turkish people.”
Levent’s voice became sharp as he pressed Musa. “We’re not asking you to fight for us. Just don’t stand in the way. Say your piece, then disappear. Retire with your pension. Walk away when this is done.”
There was a long pause. Musa stared at the order sheet in front of him. On it, the words:
Joint Statement of the Turkish General Staff: Declaration of Military Restoration
Musa’s signature line was the only one left blank. He looked at it for several long seconds. And then he signed. Not out of loyalty. Not out of agreement. But because he understood what it meant to lose.
Arda quickly took the statement and handed it to a junior officer who would fax it to all division commands and to air and naval commanders.
The message went out over secure military bands, repeated every four minutes on loop.
Across the country, several uncommitted divisions and their subformations received the message and began the process to seek authentication. After confirming it, several battalion level formations stopped mobilizing and their divisional commanders began speaking with their army group commanders to get a sense of the situation.
The streets around the Konak pier were unusually quiet. Gone were the taxis, the late-night vendors, the drinkers humming old songs near the promenade. Instead, a line of Kirpi armored vehicles rolled silently through a boulevard that had been empty of its usual hustle and bustle. One by one, they halted at key intersections, releasing detachments of soldiers onto the wet cobblestones.
Onlookers which would have been watching had already ran away for the safety of their homes as news began to spread of the situation around the country. Inside the TİP’s Regional Headquarters, the night staff were still working. The building was filled with party slogans on faded red banners, the smell of old books and Turkish coffee lingering in the air.
Portraits of General Secretary Ayşa Arslan hung on the walls alongside the posters of First Secretary Erkan Gülsoy, İzmir’s political strongman. Senior party officials were huddled in the top floor briefing room. They had been receiving fragmented reports all night with arrests in Istanbul, gunfire in Ankara, and the loss of TRT’s control room. The words “military deployment” and “martial law” came in through half-functional whatsapp threads on encrypted apps.
Still, they had not fled. Gülsoy stood by the window, arms crossed, peering through the curtain. “They wouldn’t dare turn their guns on the Republic,” he muttered as he peered out into the quiet streets.
His deputy, a thinner man with a nervous tic in his left cheek, whispered, “Sir… Ankara is lost. I have three different confirmations. TRT has gone dark. The Presidential Palace is under assault. The Defense Minister’s been detained.”
Gülsoy’s jaw tightened. “Then we need to start rallying the people. We speak from İzmir. This is a party city. The people…they will rise up and help us restore the popular revolution. They remember what the army di…”
He was cut off by the sound of a vehicle halting directly beneath their building. The air was still. Then, a metal clang followed by the thunder of boots rushing inside.
The building's front doors burst open as shouts erupted from the reception hall. “Silahlarınızı bırakın! Eller havaya!” A soldier screamed as one secretary ran for the side exit, only to be thrown against the wall by a soldier sweeping the hall with his rifle. On the third floor, the party’s internal security men, middle-aged ex-unionists with pistols tucked in their jackets, drew their weapons, but they were hopelessly outmatched. Three were disarmed within seconds as another simply threw his weapon on the ground. One was shot in the leg as he fired several shots that hit randomly into the building.
.
Gülsoy turned to his comrades. “We do not run. We do not hide. We are the Party. We face them.” He adjusted his collar, straightened his posture, and opened the door himself as the soldiers arrived on the landing.
“I am Erkan Gülsoy. First Secretary of the Communist Party of İzmir. I demand to speak to a commanding officer.”
The soldiers aimed their rifles as a lieutenant stepped forward.
“You are under arrest by order of the Armed Forces of the Republic in line with the declaration of martial law and the order to bring to justice all elements that have engaged in high crimes against the Turkish people.”
“What martial law order? Who signed it?” Erkan barked at the officer.
“The military command. You are being detained for high crimes against the state. Cooperate, or you will be removed by force.” Behind the lieutenant, two more squads arrived. Within minutes, the senior staff were disarmed, cuffed, and escorted down the stairs. One shouted, “You’ll answer for this in front of the people!” as a soldier shoved him against the wall.
Outside, dozens of civilians peered from their balconies. Some filmed silently. Others wept. The red flags of the Party still hung from the building's awning, fluttering in the dawn wind. Then came the helicopter, low and loud, its searchlight scanning the surrounding blocks.
A soldier ordered the flag removed as the red cloth was torn down, balled up, and handed to the lieutenant. He looked at it briefly, then tossed it into the back of the armored vehicle as several other TİP and PKK officers were raided and their officials detained and contents secured.
President Ayşa Arslan sat stiff-backed in a leather chair that had seen too many emergencies and not enough resolutions. Her hands rested motionless on her knees. Around her, the bunker’s inner war room was dimly lit, its walls painted in bureaucratic beige, the air too still, too dry. Aides whispered. The occasional beeping console sounded far more ominous than it should have.
On the screen, a Polish news anchor was reporting the unthinkable.
The feed cut briefly to grainy footage of tanks rolling into Taksim. Another segment showed Leopard 2s stationed on a bridge. Then clips of uniformed soldiers inside provincial governors’ offices. In one shot, a commander in fatigues stood in front of the İzmir party headquarters as party officials were led away, heads bowed.
Ayşa didn’t blink.
Beside her, General Esmail Ghaani whispered in disbelief, “It is really over isn’t it.”
“No,” said Arda, a national security adviser. “The Revolutionary Guard Corps is mobilizing. We have reports from Diyarbakır and Gaziantep. They’re organizing a counter-strike.”
Ayşa turned her head slightly. “Who is commanding it?”
There was silence. Then a muttered reply. “No one we can confirm. Local commanders. Field units. Maybe Colonel Alkan in the east.”
“Maybe?” Ayşa asked. Her voice was distant, almost tired.
General Esmail looked at Arda and shook his head. “Colonel Kadir would’ve launched a counter-attack by now. I can’t get a hold of any of my senior officers, much less junior ones.
The Polish broadcast rolled on.
Ayşa closed her eyes briefly. A chill rolled down her spine, not from fear, but recognition. “They’ve locked it down,” she said in defeat. “They’ve won.”
One of the bunker officers stepped into the room. “Comrade President, the phone lines are dead. We’ve tried satcom uplink, nothing. We’re not even getting interference anymore.”
For a long moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the gentle whir of the ventilation fans and the low, anxious breathing of those around her.
Ayşa leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her voice a whisper to no one in particular. “We knew they were unhappy. Angry even. But this?”
No one answered. “We passed reforms. We tried to stabilize the currency. We gave the provinces autonomy. We tried to heal the war wounds.”
Still silence. “Was it too fast? Too much?”
She looked up at Arda. “Was it Eda?”
He didn’t answer. She nodded to herself, slowly. “No. Eda was the sword. I gave her space to swing. I let her run too far ahead. And now we all paid the price for it.”
Someone placed a blanket over her shoulders. She didn’t notice.
Ayşa turned back to the screen of her fellow comrades being rounded up and placed into army trucks. Shivers went down her spine as she remembered the haunting images of the Bahçeli regime loading Türkiye’s minorities onto trucks. Did the people never learn she thought.
Behind her, one of the aides began to cry quietly. Another was already praying under their breath.
But Ayşa couldn’t move. She was still watching the screen. As if by staring long enough, she could rewind the last twenty-four hours. But the past was no longer available. Her head dropped in defeat.
The bunker had food, ventilation, and power, but it was cut off from the rest of the world. Her chief of the PRGC paced. One security officer stood by the reinforced steel door, fingers trembling slightly on his rifle.
They had survived the first engagement through the noise and chaos, but the silence now was worse.
Then, at 07:14, a metallic clang echoed through the corridor leading to the blast door.
A voice slightly distorted by the intercom system broke the quiet silence. “This is Colonel Ünal of the Young Turk Society. I am authorized to communicate on behalf of the National Security Council.”
Everyone froze for a moment. “Madam President. The building is secured. You are not under immediate threat. You will not be harmed provided you comply.”
Ayşa rose slowly. Her voice was calm but clipped, her eyes fixed on the steel wall before her.
“Comply with what Colonel?” There was a brief pause. Then the voice continued.
“General Veysel Kurt offers the following terms. You are to acknowledge, in writing, and then through a televised address the National Security Council’s assumption of emergency authority over the Republic of Türkiye. If you do this, the Council guarantees your safety, the safety of your staff, and due legal process. You will be placed under protective detention and escorted to secure housing. Your ministers, those in custody, will also be afforded legal representation. No summary trials with the death penalty removed as a sentence for all members of your civilian government.”
Murmurs began behind her as one of the guards shook his head slightly as sweat dripped from his brow.
“And if I refuse?” Ayşa asked, her voice sharper now.
The answer came quickly. “The Council will consider the situation unresolved. This facility will be forcibly entered, whether with tear gas or controlled demolition of the doors if necessary. You and your staff will be taken by force. You will be trialed under a military court. And it will be likely that violence will continue across the country.”
Before Ayşa could say anything, the Colonel continued. “This is a final offer.”
Then the silence returned as Ayşa looked around the room. Her staff waited for her words like a jury waits for a sentence.
Finally, she turned to them not as their leader but as a woman who had spent the night watching the world fall apart. “Eda’s plan collapsed the moment the tanks rolled out. We cannot fight from a bunker. If I resist, I become a martyr. If I comply, maybe I become a bridge. This revolution must continue one”
She closed her eyes for a moment. Thinking that she could feel the Colonel’s impatience wearing thin. When she opened them, she spoke to the door.
“Tell your generals I need an hour to think.”
There was a pause but then the soldier’s voice came back. “Then think fast, Ms. Arslan. Time is no longer a luxury. I expect an answer now.”
Ayşa stared at the empty door, thinking about what she should do. Before anyone could talk her out of it. Her head dropped as she casted the blanket aside. "Okay. Give me the paper."
General Eesmail blinked in disbelief. One of her military aides stepped forward, eyes rimmed red from fatigue. “Comrade President, the PRGC units may still...”
“No,” she interrupted. “They will not come. And if they do, it will only cost more lives.” She turned her gaze to the blast-proof door behind them. “They’ve won. Let’s end this with dignity.”
One of the guards hesitated at the door controls. She nodded to him gently. “Open it.”
The hydraulics hissed, and the heavy steel door groaned open. Cold air swept inside, followed by the sharp tap of boots on concrete. Colonel Ünal entered first, weapons lowered but unmistakably in control. Behind them came military soldiers. One of them approached her.
“President Arslan,” he said, respectfully. “You are to be escorted under protection to deliver the address from the Palace. Your staff will be taken into custody per National Security Council orders.”
Ayşa glanced over her shoulder. Her remaining ministers, exhausted, silent, pale, stood motionless. Her press secretary whispered, “You don’t deserve this.”
She touched her arm gently. “None of us did.” One by one, the officials were escorted out. Some protested softly. Others gave Ayşa a long, mournful glance, as if unsure whether they’d see her again.
A military officer stepped beside her. “Ma’am?”
She looked once more at the bunker that had served as her government’s tomb. Then she turned and walked out, her steps measured, her back straight.
The room was dim, lit only by the glow of a single camera and a cluster of studio lights. Ayşa sat upright, dressed in a simple dark suit. Her face bore the fatigue of endless nights, but her eyes remained steady as she looked at the teleprompter.
The broadcast began.
As the broadcast ended, Ayşa's composure broke for a moment. Her voice trembled slightly, and tears welled in her eyes, quickly wiped away with the back of her hand.
Behind the camera, a soldier stepped forward to escort her to the armored vehicle waiting for her. The interior of the armored vehicle was cold, sterile. Ayşa sat alone, her hands folded tightly in her lap, the coarse fabric of the uniform provided by the military feeling foreign against her skin. Outside the narrow, bulletproof windows, the gray streets of Ankara slid by, empty save for a handful of soldiers standing watch.
The hum of the engine and the thud of tires on asphalt were the only sounds.
Her mind drifted, not to the present, but to a moment now distant, yet seared into memory. When Baran challenged General Ergün. Ergün paused, his eyes locking with Baran’s. Fury and fear flickered beneath his cold exterior. Word for word she remembered it. “The last time a civilian government threatened the army, it was the army that prevailed, and it was them who found themselves dangling from lamp-posts..."
Back in the present, the faint weight of those words settled over Ayşa like a stone. It looks like Ergün was right. She hoped she had saved the millions who supported their cause from needless violence. At the same time she couldn't help wonder if this was all avoidable.
She swallowed hard. Had she been too cautious? Too trusting? Had she underestimated the depths of the army’s resolve?
Her fingers curled tighter around her knees as the vehicle slowed to a stop. She remembered that opportunity to crush the army...but the thought faded as the doors opened.
She exhaled, beneath the exhaustion, a fragile acceptance began to take root. This was not the end of her story, only the closing of a chapter. At least she hoped as she entered the dark cell.
Location: 4th Mechanized Battalion Staging Ground outside of Ankara
The yard behind the depot was filled with gravel and cracked asphalt. Oil drums lined the wall. The air was still as the evening shifted to dawn In the distance, the eastern sky bled the faintest shade of indigo. The stars above hadn’t yet faded as the clock ticked closer to the morning.
The men of 4th Mechanized Battalion stood in a rough arc around a weather-beaten ACV-15 infantry fighting vehicle, engines humming, hatches ajar. Their faces were shadowed, some helmeted, others bare-headed. Some wore body armor. Others only in their camouflage shirts, collars open as they sat huddled around each other.
The silence was fractured by the voice of Major Tolga Yıldırım, their commanding officer, tall, grey around the temples, and dry-voiced.
He stepped onto the vehicle's rear ramp, boots scraping metal, and looked them over.
“I know what some of you are thinking. That this feels wrong. That we’re turning on our own. That this isn’t what you signed up for.”
He paused, letting it settle.
“You’re right to feel that way. It should feel wrong. Because when the republic has been captured by its own government, and the flag is used like a curtain to cover theft, fear, and fanaticism, then the only people left to restore it are men like you. This country, our country, has been strangled. Our courts poisoned. Our generals purged. Our teachers arrested. Our sisters made to inform. Our people lied to, beaten, turned against one another by a red-slicked ideology that has nothing Turkish in its bones.
Tonight we give this country medicine. Like a doctor, we must take drastic measures to save the life of this country. We must do this because we are not saviors. Neither are we saints. But because we were the last ones who can. We march not to rule. We march to reset the balance. To tear the cancer from the bone before it kills the body. This, this is the oath you took. Not to a party. Not to a man. But to the Republic. So when you look at your rifles, don’t see rebellion. See honor. Remember the legacy of Atatürk we have been asked to uphold. Hold the future of a just Türkiye that we have inherited close to your hearts for the sake of your kin. Saber your weapon in the fighting spirits of your grandfathers who sent the Greeks, British, and French scurrying away.”
A long silence followed. The sound of crickets felt like a deafening cry to the soldiers assembled. One young soldier raised his hand.
“And if… if we fail, Sir?”
Yıldırım’s eyes met the young soldier’s gaze. “Then we fail as guardians of this republic. And die as the sons of Atatürk. We die as martyrs.”
Murmurs passed between the ranks. Some muttered prayers. Others loaded final magazines, checked straps, and slammed hatches closed. Yıldırım checked his watch one last time as the clock edged closer to zero hour.
Then, one by one, the engines flared. The IFVs and trucks began to pull out of the yard, headlights dimmed, rolling west.
As the convoy crested the highway hilltop, one sergeant stuck his head out the hatch, eyes upward. And there, cutting across the stars, came the Black Hawks. Six, then nine, then more. Door gunners perched on the side rails, rotors slicing the still night. Their lights blinked briefly in unison, then disappeared over the ridgeline.
“Commandos are on schedule,” another officer whispered as he checked his timemap. They’d be in Ankara in forty minutes. “I hope they can hold the city in time.”
Major Yıldırım lit a cigarette from the front of the lead vehicle. He didn’t smile.
“God help those bastards in the Palace.”
The soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant murmur of the city were the only sounds that filled the narrow apartment. Curtains swayed gently in the cool winter breeze drifting in through a half-open window. Eda lay curled beneath a thin cotton sheet, her breathing shallow and slow, lost somewhere between a troubled sleep and the remnants of a fading dream.
Then came the noise.
At first, it was faint, almost a vibration in the bones. A low, rhythmic thump-thump-thump, distant but unmistakable. Her brows knitted unconsciously, and her hand stirred from the mattress. But the sound grew, rising from a background murmur to something thunderous and urgent. The tremble of rotor blades swept across the building like a pressure wave.
Her eyes opened.
She blinked at the ceiling, bleary and disoriented. For a second, she thought it might be construction. Then the window panes began to rattle, and the thin walls of the apartment groaned from the downdraft.
The bedroom door burst open.
“Hanımefendi, kalkın! Şimdi!” Sariaslan Toraman, her personal protection officer shouted. His silhouette filled the doorway, backlit by the hallway’s red emergency lighting. In his left hand was a sidearm. His right hand was already reaching for her.
“What, what’s happening?” Eda rasped, the grogginess still clinging to her voice.
“No time. You need to move now.” Sariaslan shouted.
Eda barely had time to pull on a robe over her nightclothes before she was yanked to her feet.
Eda stumbled barefoot into the corridor, her breath catching in her throat. The apartment shook again as a gust of rotor wash slammed into it. From outside came a deafening roar, an engine hovering just above, powerful, heavy, predatory.
As they reached the stairwell, gunfire erupted.
It started in short bursts, then grew into a sustained volley. Muzzle flashes lit up the walls like lightning through shattered windows. Another GMT officer opened the building’s back entrance and was immediately cut down. The doorframe exploded in splinters, bullets cracking past. His blood splattered across the walls as Eda could only watch.
“In the car! Move!” Gem barked. Pushing the disoriented officers and Eda through the door.
They burst out into the alley behind the apartment. A black SUV sat idling, doors open. Just ahead, across the narrow lane, descending from a hovering silhouette shrouded in moonlight and dust, were men on ropes, figures in military fatigues with rifles braced to their chests.
It hit her all at once; it wasn't the police. They were Soldiers. It was the Army.
As she was shoved into the back seat, Eda turned and caught the full image, an ATAK helicopter, its sleek, angular nose pointed toward them like a spear. It hovered above the neighboring building, the rotor blades howling, side doors open as commandos fired in unison.
Her GMT officers slammed the door shut just as another round tore through the glass. One of her men fell, screaming, as rounds peppered the concrete around them.
The driver floored the accelerator. The SUV lurched forward, tires screaming against the broken asphalt. One of the rappelling soldiers misjudged his landing and came down directly in their path. The vehicle struck him with a sickening crunch, throwing his body violently aside. The others fired after them, but the convoy’s rear car responded with suppressive bursts from an MPT-76, chattering rounds up into the air, forcing the helicopter to rise momentarily.
Eda sat frozen in the back seat, her arms wrapped around her chest, her breath shallow and her heartbeat thunderous. Her phone, purse, documents, everything was gone.
The SUV tore down a narrow service road, headlights extinguished, its tires shrieking with every tight turn. A helicopter shadow passed overhead, then another. Then several more. The night sky, streaked with the faintest blush of coming dawn, was swarmed by machines. Dozens of them. ATAK helicopters in loose formation, some headed toward Çankaya, others banking in from Etimesgut, casting long, strobing shadows over neighborhoods still unaware what was going on.
Eda stared upward through the windshield, mute and frozen, her hand clutching the headrest in front of her. She said nothing at first. Her throat was dry. The air in the car stank of adrenaline and gunpowder. Then, as the sixth helicopter passed by, low and slow, she finally spoke.
“Tanrım. It’s happening. It’s really happening.” Her voice cracked. “Give me your phone,” she snapped, her voice rising. “Now. I need to call the Presidency. They need to lock down the National Palace. We… ”
“No,” replied Sariaslan in the passenger seat without turning. “Comms are black. Our secure lines are jammed. And if they’ve compromised MIT’s frequencies, yours will light us up like a beacon. They’ll be on our position within seconds.”
“Then hardline the gendarmerie. Patch through someone…” She said almost in defeat as her voice lost strength.
“There’s nothing to patch through to!” he barked, his composure fraying. “We don’t know who is giving orders right now. The palace may already be under siege. For all we know, you are the last political figure still free.”
The words hung in the air like smoke. They turned sharply onto a feeder road approaching Atatürk Boulevard. Up ahead, an intersection glowed faint red under sodium lights, and with it, a checkpoint. Military vehicles blocked both directions, dark humvees with machine guns trained outward. Soldiers, regular infantry by their fatigues, were pulling drivers from vehicles, inspecting trunks, shouting orders as they seemed to be arresting some of the people around the boulevard and ushering others away..
Isa, the driver, cursed under his breath and reversed hard, the transmission groaning. He spun the wheel and turned down a commercial access route, into the old industrial quarter, hoping to loop back through Bahçelievler.
“Where are we going?” Eda demanded, voice rising. “We need to regroup. If we don’t act now, the military will claim every base and ministry left standing. We have to organize!”
“We don’t even know what’s left to organize,” Sariaslan replied grimly. “Ma’am, you need to survive the night. That’s our job.”
A sharp crack-crack-crack of automatic fire echoed nearby. Somewhere to their left, a gun battle raged in the shadows of low apartment blocks. A helicopter’s searchlight lanced through the night. Tracers lit up the night sky as the sound of screams followed them. Then silence. The erie silence that sent fear shivering down Eda’s spine.
Eda pressed her forehead to the cold window, breath fogging the glass. The distant skyline of ministries and assembly halls was now dotted with black smoke, sporadic muzzle flashes, and the skeletal shapes of helicopters descending like vultures.
“This can’t be…” she murmured.
“It is,” Isa said grimly.
She turned, voice breaking. “We can’t just run. We have to find a loyal base, a unit, anyone not part of this madness. The longer we wait, the more ground we lose. If we don’t counter them now, tonight, it’s over.”
“I understand,” Sariaslan said calmly, finally turning to face her. “But you’re not a general. You’re a civilian leader and right now, you’re being hunted. We don’t even know who’s with us. No confirmed sitrep. No chain of command. The Air Force base may already be compromised.”
They saw police vehicles with lights flaring speeding towards the direction of the helicopters, but it was clear they were no match for the army. “And we have no clue who flipped, who’s gone to their side.”
Eda clenched her jaw, her hands trembling.
A dull, distant boom sounded over the rooftops, the unmistakable thud of a bomb ripped through the quiet city, awakening everyone. The sound came from the Turkish Grand National Assembly. The cityscape glowed briefly. Then came the sirens.
She turned her face away from the window, breath shallow, and whispered:
“This was the last thing I thought would happen in our country… soldiers firing on their own flag. We should’ve killed them when we had the chance.” Eda let out as she sobbed.
The officer beside her said nothing.
The car raced into the shadows of an underpass. Behind them, another burst of gunfire lit the road like lightning, brief, terrible, and followed by a deeper silence still.
The bedroom was still cloaked in darkness, save for the blue ambient glow of a digital clock reading 04:18. The silence was deep, broken only by the occasional groan of the building’s ventilation system. President Ayşa Arslan slept uneasily, her body turned toward the window, the weight of days past settling into her shoulders even in slumber.
Then the room shook. It was not dramatic, just enough for a glass on her nightstand to rattle, for the light fixture to sway above. She stirred, blinking. A second later, the thwup-thwup-thwup of helicopters filled the pre-dawn silence like a war drum. A blast of air slammed against the glass panes. Then the shouting began.
Her door burst open.
“Comrade President! On your feet! We have to go now!” Commander Berke shouted, his voice taut, nearly cracking as the sound of glass shattering and helicopter rotors overwhelmed Ayşa’s senses.
Ayşa sat up groggily, confused. “What, what’s happening?”
“Helos inbound. They’re not ours. MOVE!”
Before she could fully grasp the situation, two guards seized her by the arms, not roughly, but with urgency, and guided her from the bed. The hallway outside was a flurry of movement: guards shouting orders into radios, others sprinting with rifles in hand. Someone pulled a Kevlar vest over Ayşa chest and handed her a helmet that barely fit over her hastily tied hair.
The air suddenly erupted with the sound of automatic fire. Windows shattered. Somewhere below, screams. They descended into the lower levels, three floors in under thirty seconds. The tremor of gunfire vibrated through the marble underfoot. As they reached the central stairwell, a blast shook the building, likely an RPG hitting the perimeter wall.
One of her security officers keyed his radio. “This is Bravo-1. Koba en route to PEOC Bunker. We are under active assault, multiple enemy helos, and fast-roping.”
There was static as Ayşa looked around in a dazed confusion as another officer grabbed her wrist, guiding her to a tunnel entrance. As they entered the tunnel junction toward the subterranean command center, the hallway behind them briefly lit with tracer rounds from a window high above.
“Who are they?!” Ayşa gasped, stumbling.
“No clue, ma’am. Could be elements of the 2nd Army. This is happening all across the city. The GMT and PSS are engaging on the north lawn.” Above ground, chaos reigned as fighting erupted on the palace grounds.
Army colored helicopters hovered low, engines screaming. From their open doors, commandos rappelled in threes and fours, landing hard in ornamental gardens and terraces. Presidential Security Service snipers fired from the roof, taking some down mid-air, but more kept coming. Two helicopters circled, their gunners spraying the south façade with machine gun fire to suppress defenders.
GMT security vehicles were burned at the front entrance. Guards fired back with rifles and mounted guns, their muzzle flashes illuminating the columns of the palace in flickering arcs. Bodies fell while the air filled with shouts, orders, and the percussion of close-quarter combat.
Inside, the presidential corridor was lit only by red emergency lamps. “We don’t have full control of the palace anymore,” Tatar muttered. “They’re inside. We’re sealing bulkheads behind us. PEOC Bunker can hold them out.”
Another explosion, a shaped charge, by the sound of it. Likely used to breach an interior door as the commandos broke through one of the main doors of the building.
Ayşa’s knees buckled, but one of her guards caught her. She was still breathing heavily, eyes wide, the helmet crooked on her brow.
“Is this a coup?” she whispered.
No one answered.
They reached the blast doors of the PEOC Bunker. An officer keyed in the security override. As the vault-like doors began to close behind them, a burst of gunfire echoed through the corridor they’d just passed, closer this time. The sound of boots was muffled by shouting in Turkish. A volley of suppressive fire from the guards bought them seconds as Ayşa was dragged through a firestorm of bullets. The door slammed shut with a heavy metallic clang, locking the President into the reinforced womb of the state.
Ayşa leaned back against the cold wall, gasping, her legs shaking. The bunker lights came on. A secure table screen flickered to life. No signal. No live feeds. Total blackout. She saw several dead bodies inside the bunker. She started coughing as her stomach tried to force whatever food she had eaten out.
The lights in the bunker were white and sterile, buzzing faintly above steel walls layered in blast shielding. Monitors lined the far wall, though many remained black, frozen, or cycling through a NO SIGNAL screen in gray block letters. The communications officer slammed his fist against one of them, to no effect.
Berke had the bodies dragged away as he hovered over one to study it. “Its ours alright.” He said in defeat as Ayşa wiped her lips and tried to stand up.
“What do you mean?” She asked weakly.
“It's the 82nd Airborne.” He pulled out a patch that the soldier had removed and hid in the lining of his pockets. “They came from the south. How did we not see them coming?” He looked at the eighteen security officers he had left as the sound of bullets outside intensified.
Ayşa stood at the center of the bunker command table, breathing slowly, staring at the digital projection map flickering before her. It showed little more than concentric perimeter alarms and GPS failouts. The air inside the room was stifling, too many bodies, too little airflow, the tension choking.
One of the GMT liaison officers stepped forward, headset clamped tight over his ears.
“We have confirmation,” he said quietly, jaw clenched. “This was coordinated. Simultaneous operations nationwide. The Prime Minister is unaccounted for. Several Ministers were taken by surprise, and others were unaccounted for.”
A low hum of disbelief moved through the room.
“They’ve taken the Bosphorus and Fatih Sultan Mehmet bridges. Istanbul’s crossings are locked down. 2nd Armored appears to have deployed tanks at key roadways. Troop transports are being used to round up local party leaders. Comms traffic suggests…” He paused, hesitating. “...that many of them have already been detained. Some were forcibly removed from their homes at the dead of night.”
Another aide cut in, her voice shaking. “Reports from Ankara International say helicopters have been flying in by the hour.”
“They’re reinforcing the capital?” Ayşa asked, her voice quiet.
“Yes, Madam President. It’s likely that what we’re seeing is only Phase One. The airborne forces overwhelmed our forces and will likely be trying to set up defensive positions to repel any counterattacks we arrange. ”
The reinforced door groaned slightly under some pressure above, distant, faint. The rhythmic thud of boots and muffled shouts echoed in the steel ventilation. They were overhead. Closer.
One of the younger Presidential Guards moved to the side panel and drew his weapon tighter to his chest. “They’ve taken the building,” he muttered.
“But they can’t breach this bunker,” another officer affirmed. “Not without satchel charges and drilling equipment. They’ll need time. And permission.”
Ayşa slowly sat down at the war table, her hands clenched. Her heart pounded in her ribs; she felt it…a sense of fear…almost eclipsed by her feeling of disbelief as the People’s Republic was being throttled in the dark.
She turned sharply to the communications officer. “Try again. Defense staff. MIT HQ. The Prime Minister. Anyone.”
He nodded. “Already on looped attempts. No contact from the Prime Minister. No signal from the Interior Ministry. GMT central is dark…likely compromised. Revolutionary Guard Corps officers are either off-grid or under arrest.”
“And the military?” she asked. “Anyone from the General Staff?”
He hesitated.
Then shook his head. “No response from the Chief. The Army Defense Staff secure line is active, but not answering. We believe the Defense Staff building was overrun around 04:10. Internal feeds showed gunfire in the lower atrium before blacking out.”
The room was silent for a beat. Ayşa’s knuckles whitened against the table.
“They took the Staff Building,” she repeated. “This is a full military coup. Not just a battalion or rogue officers. FUCK.” She screamed.
An intelligence liaison stepped forward. His uniform was rumpled, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, but his voice was steady.
“There’s one more thing, Madam President. We’ve intercepted field chatter that an armored convoy is en route to Ankara. Full mechanized column. Originating from Polatlı base, likely from the 58th Mechanized Infantry Brigade. ETA is under ninety minutes, depending on resistance.”
“If they break the ring, even a counterassault on the Palace is meaningless,” the GMT officer added. “We could clear the paratroopers, but we’ll be overrun by armor.”
The bunker fell silent again, now colder.
Ayşa leaned forward, eyes locked on the fading flickers of the broken screen. She swallowed hard, then asked, “Is there anyone left who is still fighting for this republic?”
Silence. Then, finally, a single voice, low and uncertain, from the corner of the room: “We don’t know yet, ma’am.”
Another rumble shook the walls. Dust trickled from the concrete seams as the firing dround out and an erie silence took over.
The night air was cool and touched by the salty breath of the Bosphorus. It was one of those quiet, sleepless Istanbul mornings when the city belonged neither to yesterday nor tomorrow. Some tourists wandered along Istiklal Avenue, couples returning from late-night cafés, students laughing as they leaned against shuttered storefronts. In the distance, the muezzin’s call to prayer had not yet risen.
Then the ground began to tremble. At first, it was subtle. A low hum in the pavement. Glasses rattled faintly on café tables. Conversations stalled as people took to the streets to investigate, as others ignored it to continue on with their daily lives.
Then the source emerged. Out from the shadows of the Galata overpass and winding side streets came the unmistakable growl of diesel engines. The square lit with moving headlights, no sirens, no announcements. Just the sudden, surreal appearance of armored columns under the city’s famed neon glow. Leopard 2A6 tanks rolled forward at a steady, deliberate pace, turrets sweeping from side to side. Behind them followed APCs, Kirpi MRAPs, and ACV-15s, loaded with infantry, their silhouettes barely visible behind tinted ballistic glass.
At first, onlookers froze. A Western tourist raised his phone. “Must be an exercise,” he murmured aloud, capturing footage with a half-smile. “Only in Turkey, right?”
A young Turkish man chuckled uncertainly, “Bayram parade, maybe?” But as the vehicles fanned out across the square, blocking avenues and tram lines with mechanical precision, the mood shifted. Then, a lone polis memuru, a uniformed officer stationed near the metro entrance, stepped into the tank’s path.
He shouted, hand raised. “Dur! Kimden emir alıyorsunuz?!”
The tank did not stop. As the officer reached for his sidearm, half a dozen infantrymen leapt from the nearest APC and tackled him violently to the ground. Civilians gasped and scattered. The soldiers dragged the officer aside, disarming him. Then they took up firing positions, kneeling beside bollards, fanning into alleys, weapons raised at potential rooftops.
A soldier, now standing atop the Leopard’s turret, keyed his comms headset and spoke through a loudspeaker mounted to the hull. “Dikkat! Türkiye Cumhuriyeti Ordusu tarafından sıkıyönetim ilan edilmiştir. Herkes derhal evlerine dönsün. Dışarıda bulunanlar gözaltına alınacaktır.
Bu bir güvenlik önlemidir. Lütfen itaat edin.”
Another voice came out in English “Attention! Martial law has been declared by the Armed Forces of the Republic of Türkiye. All civilians must return to their homes immediately. Anyone remaining outside will be detained. This is for your safety. Obey all military instructions.”
Gasps and confusion rippled through the square. Storefront lights flickered off. A woman screamed as a man threw a rock at the soldiers before he was tackled and detained. Then silence, broken only by the metallic clatter of soldiers repositioning. Overhead, the scream of jet engines split the sky. A lone F-16 streaked across the Bosphorus, low and fast. A second followed behind, banking hard over the bridge. The roar sent pigeons scattering from the domes of the nearby mosques.
Inside the Istanbul control tower at Sabiha Gökçen International Airport, emergency alerts flashed red on the consoles.
Pilots inbound from across the world would be shocked by the unexpected decision as hundreds of aircraft circled above Turkish Airspace frantically trying to reroute to other countries’ airports. Dozens of airliners were now circling, desperately awaiting re-routing instructions. Confused passengers stirred from slumber in their cabins as others patiently waiting to land were told that they were diverting course.
Several F-16s took off after a letter of support from the Chief of the Air Defense Staff came through. They joined the coup plotters as they secured the airspace around Türkiye. As the Presidential Palace desperately called for help, the flight of F-16s offered some relief to the surrounded leadership. However, their hope would quickly fade as the F-16s joined in a patrol over the airspace to dissuade any foreign actors from intervening.
Back in Istanbul, the streets now emptied as people ran for shelter. Throughout the night, army vehicles rumbled through the streets of Istanbul, putting the city that never sleeps to bed. The occasional crackle of bullets could be heard throughout the city. Nobody knew what it was, only that hundreds of tanks and armored vehicles roamed the streets with the same message on repeat. Scared travellers would be helped by soldiers, taken to the nearest hotel, and told to wait there. Some Turks would come out and get into heated arguments with the soldiers who tried their best to defuse the situation. As the situation deteriorated with regime supporters coming out into the streets, the soldiers were forced to arrest hundreds, while others dispersed.
The early morning news program mostly focused on foreign events. At the top of TRT’s coverage was the current political crisis in London.
Nazik Genc sat behind the sleek TRT World desk in her navy blue suit as a graphics read: “UK Prime Minister Under Fire from £1.2 Billion Contract Scandal” underneath her.
Nazik turned to the camera and started speaking from the teleprompter.
“Good morning, you’re watching TRT World. It’s just past 4 a.m. here in Istanbul, and we begin with breaking news from the United Kingdom.”
“British Prime Minister Lawrence Adams is facing mounting political pressure this morning following a BBC investigation that has uncovered serious concerns over a £1.2 billion government contract. The contract was awarded to a relatively unknown company, Hawthorn Dynamics, which reportedly has personal and financial ties to figures close to the Prime Minister’s family and the Conservative Party.”
“Documents seen by the BBC suggest that standard procurement procedures may have been bypassed or significantly relaxed. Internal government memos, which have since been leaked, show that concerns were raised by civil servants over the company’s limited experience and potential conflicts of interest. However, the deal appears to have gone ahead allegedly with the direct involvement of Downing Street.”
“Hawthorn Dynamics, despite its limited track record in public infrastructure projects, was awarded the deal as part of a flagship national programme. Among the individuals linked to the company are close associates of the Prime Minister’s wife and known party donors.”
“No official statement has yet been issued from Downing Street, but opposition leaders are already calling for a formal inquiry. Protests are reportedly being planned outside Parliament later today.”
“We will continue to follow this developing story and bring you updates, analysis, and international reaction throughout the day. For more, stay with us as we cover the story after the weather.”
The screen then flickered as TRT's signature red and white logo slowly gave way to a split-screen broadcast: one side showing Nazik and the other filled with shaky live footage of tanks moving through a dusky intersection in Izmir. Scrolling beneath the anchor was a banner in bold crimson:
"BREAKING NEWS: UNCERTAINTY GRIPS NATION AS ARMY DECLARES MARTIAL LAW - MILITARY VEHICLES IN STREETS ACROSS TÜRKİYE"
Nazik’s voice, composed yet visibly strained, returned quicker than viewers may have been expecting.
"Good morning. We interrupt our regular programming to discuss the current situation in Turkiye. The time is 5:46 AM in Ankara, and over the past hour, we have received reports that the Turkish Armed Forces have deployed military vehicles in multiple major cities, including Ankara, Istanbul, Izmir, Konya, and Gaziantep."
"Tanks and armored personnel carriers have been spotted moving through city centers, blocking major intersections and bridges. We can confirm, through our regional correspondents, that soldiers have taken up positions around government buildings, media outlets, and key infrastructure."
"At this time, there is no official statement from the Presidency or the Prime Minister’s Office. Communications with several ministries appear to have been severed as the army now controls central government offices and dozens of major cities. TRT has not received clarification from the Ministry of Defense regarding the situation."
The broadcast cut for a moment, glitching as the signal faltered. Then it resumed. A second anchor now appeared in-studio, whispering to producers as footage shifted again this time to Istanbul Airport.
Passengers were shown pushing through the terminal in panic. A woman clutched her child as soldiers with rifles ordered people to the floor. PA systems blared in Turkish and English, repeating: "All flights have been suspended. Remain calm. Do not exit the terminal. Turkish airspace is closed."
Back in the studio, the anchor continued now with a rising tremble in her voice.
“TRT has now confirmed that gunfire has been exchanged at the Presidential Complex in Ankara. There are unconfirmed reports of helicopters firing on the perimeter. TRT crews spotted uniformed soldiers surrounding the Presidential Palace as smoke bellowed from inside the building. And just moments ago…” Suddenly, an ear-splitting BOOM shattered the air behind her.
The entire studio jolted as the feed wobbled. Cameras shook. In the background, through a high window of the Ankara bureau, a column of flame burst into the night sky from across the city. Then, a second or two later, a massive fireball consumed the horizon, casting an orange glow that turned the skyline into shadow.
The anchor turned, eyes wide. Then the overhead sound came, a scream of jet engines.
“We are… we are hearing what appears to be a large explosion outside. Our team believes that it was the People's Revolutionary Guard Corps facility near Batıkent. TRT cameras are attempting to get confirmation but…yes…yes, we now see what appears to be a fighter aircraft, a Turkish Air Force F-16, flying low over the city.”
The live camera panned upward, through a rooftop lens just in time to catch the sleek shape of the aircraft banking hard against the early morning light. Flares dispensed behind it in a brilliant cascade of heat trails, a defensive countermeasure against surface-to-air missiles that never came.
Below, civilians ran through the streets in every direction. Car alarms screamed. Some threw themselves to the ground. Others filmed with shaking hands, not yet comprehending what they were witnessing.
In the studio, the anchor pressed her earpiece tightly and lowered her voice.
“This… appears to be a coordinated military action. The full extent remains unknown, but we advise all citizens to return to their homes immediately. Do not engage military personnel. Do not spread unverified information. We will remain on air… for as long as we are able.”
In the lower corner of the screen, TRT’s emergency crawl is now updated:
“SITUATION DEVELOPING – GUNFIRE AND EXPLOSIONS REPORTED NATIONWIDE, AIRSPACE CLOSED, NO OFFICIAL STATEMENT FROM GOVERNMENT”
Then, faintly, behind the anchor, the emergency sirens began to wail. Nazik sat alone at the anchor desk, her notes disheveled as the team sifted through hundreds of reports on the internet. Behind her, a live feed of central Ankara shows smoke drifting over empty boulevards and tanks positioned at key intersections. Her PD gave her a countdown, and at one, Nazik looked directly into the camera.
“If you are just joining us, it is now six o'clock in the morning here in Ankara. We are continuing our rolling coverage of what appears to be a coordinated and unprecedented military action across Türkiye.”
“In the last hour, the Turkish Armed Forces have moved into several major cities, including Istanbul, Izmir, Gaziantep, and the capital. TRT has confirmed that soldiers have taken up positions at government facilities, transport hubs, and telecommunication buildings.
“At this time, there is still no official response from the Presidency or the Prime Minister’s Office. However, based on ongoing reports, the Armed Forces appear to have established effective control over central Ankara, including the Presidential Complex, the Parliament building, and strategic infrastructure such as airports and broadcast stations.”
“The military has declared martial law. Civilians are being ordered to remain indoors. We now bring you a live recording from central Istanbul, where military personnel are broadcasting directives from loudspeakers attached to army vehicles.”
The feed cut to grainy, night-vision-style footage from a residential block in Istanbul. An olive-drab military truck slowly rolls down the street. A large loudspeaker mounted on its roof projects a deep, distorted voice in Turkish, then in English.
Back in the studio, Nazik continued.
“We urge all viewers to remain calm and stay indoors. Do not attempt to travel unless absolutely necessary. We will continue to provide verified information as we receive it.”
The screen cuts to a live map of Türkiye, red markers blinking over key cities with a military presence. A new alert flashed at the bottom as updates were verified by the PD team.
From behind the glass wall of the control booth, warning lights flickered as one of the studio doors rattled violently. Muffled shouting echoed down the hallway. Outside, Turkish soldiers detained TRT’s private security officers and entered the building.
The camera was still rolling as Nazik shifted in her seat, trying to maintain composure. But the panic had crept into her voice.
“We are…we are hearing movement outside the studio. TRT has not yet been contacted by authorities. We…”
The side doors were kicked down. As six soldiers in full combat kit stormed into the room, rifles up, sweeping in formation. Gasps were heard off-camera with floor producers raising their hands, one of them crying out, “Don’t shoot! We’re Live. We’re Live.” The man pleaded.
Nazik froze for a moment. She was still on the air. A soldier asked the producers to go off the air temporarily to discuss something. Unable to see what was going on inside, Nizak kept her cool and improvised.
“It is now six-thirty in the morning here in Ankara. TRT facilities here have been secured by members of the Turkish Armed Forces. We will continue to provide information as we are able. Please remain calm and indoors.”
Back in the control room, the argument continued. “We are TRT,” Cem, a PD, stammered, backing away. “We are a public institution. This is illegal. You can’t be here. You have no legal authority to be in here.”
Lt. Colonel Demir turned calmly toward him. “That’s no longer accurate, sir. The country is currently under martial law ,and the armed forces have the authority to censor this facility.”
Cem raised his voice, “What you’re doing is illegal. You can’t use our platform to justify this to the nation.”
Demir stepped closer to Cem and spoke low and firm. “This isn’t about justification. It’s about order. The Republic is under threat. You will continue broadcasting, under military supervision. This is not a negotiation sir.”
“You mean propaganda,” Cem said bitterly.
Demir looked at Cem, the two men face to face. “I mean stability. Your job is to keep the broadcast running. Do that, and no one here needs to be removed.”
Cem glanced past Demir to where Nazik is quietly setting her papers back in order.
“She’s a journalist, not a mouthpiece,” Cem said.
“She is a citizen of the Republic, and so are you. What we ask is temporary. The Armed Forces will restore democratic order when the threat is neutralized.” Demir responded.
“And until then, you expect us to lie to forty million people?” Cem asked.
Demir shook his head. “No. We expect you to speak with discipline. There’s a difference.”
There was a pause as Cem didn’t answer. He looked at the soldiers posted by the door, then down at the floor.
Demir broke the silence his softer voice. “Help us do this cleanly, sir. No panic. No martyrs. The people will remember who kept them calm. We will remember who helped us.”
Cem nodded as he entered the room to speak with Nazik. Nazik sat on the edge of the chair, clutching the printed communiqué in her hands. The room was quiet except for distant footsteps echoing down the hall. Cem stood near the doorway, arms crossed, his face tight with frustration.
“They want you to read a statement,” Cem said quietly.
Nazik didn’t look up. “I figured.”
Cem stepped forward, lowering his voice. “We don’t have to do it. I can stall the feed and say there’s a technical fault. Blame it on the switchover. Buy some time.”
She shook her head slowly. “For what? So someone else gets dragged up here and forced to say it with a gun pointed at their head?”
Cem’s jaw tightened. “I’m not asking you to lie for them. I’m saying we don’t have to become the mouthpiece of a military regime.”
Nazik’s eyes flicked to the paper again, her voice bitter. “We already are. They’re not asking. They’re here.”
She held up the statement. “Do you think I want to tell people their government is dissolved? That the generals are in charge now?”
Cem was quiet. “Then don’t.”
Her voice choked for a second. “If I do, what happens to my family? My sister’s in Mamak. My mother’s in Kayseri. If this coup fails, they’ll be targets because of me.”
Cem swallowed hard. “If it fails?”
She didn’t answer. The silence weighed between them.
“If it fails,” she said finally, voice low, “maybe I can say I was forced. Maybe I disappear quietly.”
Cem sank onto a nearby chair, his shoulders heavy. “You shouldn’t have to choose.”
Nazik straightened the paper on her lap. Her hands trembled, but her eyes hardened. “I’ll do it. They won’t leave until I do so.”
Cem nodded slowly. “That’s something.”
Behind them, the military had the building emptied as the military’s communications team manned the facilities to maintain coverage. She took a sip of water before starting.
“Good morning, citizens of Türkiye. And those watching from abroad. I am speaking to you from the TRT studios in Ankara, which moments ago was seized by members of the Turkish Armed Forces. I’ve been asked to read this statement.
Earlier today, a faction within the Turkish Armed Forces, known as the Young Turks, seized control of key government institutions and declared martial law across the country.
This faction has voiced deep concern over the current state of our nation, describing it as autocratic, anti-democratic, and increasingly subservient to foreign ideologies that threaten our sovereignty and the founding principles of the Republic.
For months, the Armed Forces have observed the democratic order, hoping it would correct these issues internally. That hope has not been fulfilled.
Therefore, the military has intervened, asserting control over the legislative, executive, and judiciary branches to preserve the Kemalist order entrusted to them by history and the people of Türkiye.
Martial law is now in effect. The safety and rights of all Turkish citizens remain a priority. The Armed Forces have pledged a swift return to democratic governance and the protection of all freedoms guaranteed by our Constitution.
We urge all citizens to remain calm, stay indoors, and avoid any confrontation with military personnel. Your cooperation is essential during this transitional period.
Further announcements will be made by military officers shortly. TRT will cease its current broadcast to comply with orders from the armed forces. Please. Do not spread fake news and panick. Tonight above all else remember your duty as Turks.”
Nazik paused, the words felt heavy as she signed off the message, as Cem nodded to her that they were off the air.
The armored convoy rolled through the gates of the Defense Staff building, headlights cutting through the misty dawn. The once white façade of the Ministry compound was now stained smoke-blackened in places, windows cracked from earlier blasts. Above, an ATAK helicopter hovered in a wide circle, casting flickering shadows across the entry plaza where spent casings and a pair of burned-out sedans lay smoldering.
Three vehicles pulled to a stop near the reinforced rear access. From the first stepped, General Veysel Kurt, beside him, General Arda Yılmaz, calm as General Levent Ergün, followed him out.
The three men entered the command compound through the basement access tunnel, flanked by Special Forces units in full tactical gear. Inside, the scent of blood and cordite clung to the air.
Bodies had been moved, but not the blood which stained the ground.
Dark smears stained the marble floor of the outer corridor. In a side room, two officers sat handcuffed, flanked by riflemen. Another soldier with a bandaged shoulder lay against the wall, grimacing.
Veysel stopped abruptly. “What the hell happened here. This facility was supposed to be secured easily. This was supposed to be bloodless.”
Major General Ertan Kılıç saluted the generals as he was attending to one of his wounded soldiers who suffered a leg and arm wound.
“Sir. GMT personnel refused to surrender when given the option and chose to open fire. We sustained several casualties on our side, more than a dozen on theirs. Two Revolutionary Guard Corps officers attempted to blow up the data servers, but we neutralized them before they could finish. Partial damage was done to the data serves, unfortunately.” He pointed behind them. “Several PRGC formations tried to make a counter-attack on the building, hence the need for helicopters. They are beginning to launch localized counterattacks, but the 10th has secured the outskirts of the city. They will be unable to reorganize outside of the city.”
“Any civilians?” General Kurt asked.
“One secretary, non-fatal injury. Most were already complying when we arrived. Several resisted but were noted to us in the briefings.”
Veysel cursed under his breath. Yılmaz remained silent, but his jaw clenched.
“And now?” General Kurt asked.
“Minimal resistance remains in Ankara, sir. Scattered GMT units are attempting to organize for a counter-attack but lack coordination. PRGC remnants are in hiding or were driven off by our initial assault on the city. Our command teams have full control of the building. We had to request an airstrike on a PRGC base after we observed them gathering in armored vehicles.”
“My God,” Veysel said as he covered his mouth. This had not been what he wanted.
“Communications?” General Yılmaz said, stepping in.
“Secured Sir. We’ve turned off the civilian communication system and have had all military channels sanitized for our broadcasting. Civilian internet access have been turned off, and TRT and several other broadcasts are now under our control. We issued the statement you asked us to do.”
General Yılmaz nodded. “Take us inside.”
The generals ascended the secured staircase to the war command level. The lights were dim, emergency red strips guiding the way. Inside the central briefing room, the large electronic map of Türkiye blinked with green-coded territories and several yellow hot zones. A colonel waited by the digital operations table, ready.
The generals ascended the stairwell to the strategic command level. Emergency red strips guided their path. Inside the central operations room, an illuminated digital map of Türkiye blinked with green-controlled zones and a few flickering yellow hotspots.
At the table, Colonel Ergün stood at the digital operations table. He saluted the Generals as they walked in.
Veysel removed his gloves and stepped toward the map. “Full situational report. Let’s hear it.”
Colonel Ergün began. “The Prime Minister escaped capture during the initial strike. Army Commandos lost contact with her after a brief engagement at her residence. She is presumed in flight, likely with loyalist protection and will try to regroup with whatever forces she can muster. We’re on the hunt for her.”
Yılmaz exhaled sharply. “She’s got a lot of contact with the security forces. But she won’t last without a command center. We need to make sure we control every artery in this country and deprive her of that.”
The colonel nodded. “Ankara is under control. Roads are sealed in and out of the city. The Parliament building is secured, but a GMT officer detonated several large explosives inside. The TİP and PKK Party headquarters are under lockdown, and their party organizershave been arrested.”
“Istanbul?” General Kurt asked.
“Fully secured sir. Local command elements stood aside as you anticipated. Taksim and bridges are under our protection. No reported resistance minus several police encounters. We have a lot of scared tourists sir and our military units are having difficulty housing them.”
General Ergün nodded. “I’d advise we get them inside whatever hotels are in the area and disperse them as much as possible. The worst thing right now is a foreign government sending military forces to evacuate their civilians.”
The others nodded as Veysel continued to ask about other cities. “Izmir?”
“The city quickly joined us to be frank.” The colonel said. “Local civil authorities supported us in making 800 arrests of TİP officials and dozens of PRGC officers.”
“Diyarbakır?” General Yılmaz asked.
“It is complicated there sir. Sporadic fighting continues between the Army and PKK-linked militias. We don’t have control of the entire city. However, the PKK lacks central militant coordination, but tribal-scale resistance is mounting. We’re conducting limited aerial suppression to support our efforts to bring the city under control. We will need to mobilize the Gendarmire to assist us in bringing the population under control.”
Veysel murmured, “We will need to bring the MİT and Gendarmerie chiefs here as soon as possible. We need to gain control of the other security services, including the police as soon as possible. What is the situation with the air force and the navy?”
“Airspace remains restricted. No hostile air activity has been reported. Several F-16s are flying overhead as we speak and have joined us. Ground crews have secured fuel depots and arsenals, and 18 pilots have been detained who were still loyal to the regime.”
Yılmaz glanced toward the map’s western edge. “The Navy?”
“No confirmed contact since midnight. The Thai fleet reported in harbor off Çeşme has disappeared. It appears they made a break for it and returned home a while ago.”
General Ergün finally spoke. “Ensure naval ports are sealed. We don’t want shipments to arrive to support the PRGC or a French maritime invasion.
The Colonel nodded as he turned to the grey sites on the map
“Detention operations are ongoing in all major cities. GMT and Party leadership have been detained, and we are conducting raids on other party facilities. We have the Ministers of Interior, Defense, Foreign Affairs, Health, and Treasury all in custody. The Justice Minister remains unaccounted for, but we have at least managed to capture the main PKK warlords who joined the regime.”
Veysel asked the burning question on everyone’s mind. “And the President?”
“Confirmed alive in the PEOC Bunker. No communications. No outside contact. No viable extraction. She is cornered in there sir and my men are working to break inside.”
The room fell still.
For a moment, the three generals stood not as victors, but as men aware they had stepped beyond the veil. What began as a mission of principle now bore the ugly outlines of political rupture.
General Veysel Kurt broke the silence first. His voice was calm, deliberate. “If she concedes, we avoid a long fight. If she acknowledges the coup it’ll give us a pathway to legitimacy. To stability. More importantly. It’ll allow us to end this already bloody situation. ”
Across from him, General Levent Ergün leaned back in his chair, eyes hard. “What you’re suggesting is theater. You want her to play the final act of the old regime and then bow off stage with dignity. That doesn’t work. Not with Communists. She must be detained without any compromise and dragged out of that bunker.”
Kurt frowned, fingers steepled. “You still blame her don’t you?”
Ergün’s lip twitched, but his voice remained flat.
“I pleaded with her to take action against those terrorists, and she just sat there. Sat there as I showed her the bodies of our compatriots. Sat there taking the talking points of those PKK rats. She just sat there and watched while Eda dismantled the last pieces of the Republic. She may not have built the regime, but she endorsed every brick Eda laid. She is not innocent.”
Yıldız, who had been silent until now, adjusted his posture.
“Letting her speak, under any circumstances, risks igniting whatever resistance remains dormant. In the east. Among the universities. Even abroad. All it takes is for her to go off message, and suddenly we’re the tyrants. She becomes the last ‘legitimate’ voice.”
Kurt met his gaze.
“I don’t want to give her a platform. I want to give her an off-ramp. An agreement. She concedes and asks the people to comply. In return, she keeps her people alive and walks out in daylight. That’s the only way we walk into the daylight,t too.”
Ergün scoffed.
“You’re dreaming of a peaceful revolution. That window closed the moment our helicopters touched down. It closed the moment we went on this journey”
Kurt stood and walked toward the window slit, watching the sun rise faintly over the city.
“Eda was the problem. Yes, others were enablers, but If we drag the President out in cuffs or worse, we harden opposition and invite international condemnation. Every holdout sees us as occupiers, not reformers. We need to be shown as restoring the rights of the Turkish people.”
Yıldız folded his arms. “She was just as complicit as the others.”
Yıldız then turned toward Ergün. “I don’t like it. And I don’t trust her. But you’re right, if she speaks, it undermines everything. There’s no version of this where she gets to address the country.”
He looked back at Kurt. “Offer her the ability to stop this bloodshed. To acknowledge the National Security Council’s authority to govern in the interim. If she does that, we publicly commit to due process. She and every one of her cabinet officials will get a trial, a fair trial, not a purge. If she refuses, we cut power, disable ventilation, and smoke her out by force.”
Ergün didn’t object. But his face said he didn’t believe in the offer, nor in mercy.
Kurt straightened. “Then that’s the offer. We can close the chapter without turning the last page into a graveyard.”
Yıldız gave a hard, narrow smile. “She might. Not out of loyalty, but out of fear. She knows what happened to presidents in worse coups. If she thinks she can save her people, maybe she’ll do it.”
Ergün scoffed. “You’re assuming she’ll play along.”
Kurt looked at Ergün. We can’t run the country with bayonets forever.”
They said nothing more before Colonel Erdoğan walked in to tell them the Chiefs of the Defense Staff were here. Kurt had Major General Ünal carry a letter from them and instructed him to negotiate with President Arslan to bring this siege to an end.
Major General Ünal saluted and left the room as Colonel Erdoğan brought them to a room with polished command tables, maps of Türkiye projected across multiple displays. Inside, seated were the heads of the Turkish Armed Forces’ branches.
Across from them stood the coup’s senior leaders. General Veysel Kurt, General Arda Yılmaz, and General Levent Ergün. Their men flanked the walls, weapons slung casually, helmets still on.
Veysel spoke first. “Sirs. As of this morning, we control Ankara, Istanbul, and Izmir. The Prime Minister is in hiding. The President is entombed in her bunker. Several Ministries have been seized with their ministers under arrest. The GMT is broken, and the PRGC is scattered across the country. We ask for no oaths today. Only the commitments you made to us.
He turned his eyes towards the Chief of the Defense Staff. “All of you have already agreed to issue the declaration supporting the Restoration. You know this is bigger than any of us.”
General Güler exhaled deeply, not speaking. Admiral Özbal gave the slightest nod.
Veysel turned again, this time more directly. “Chief. You haven’t signed.”
The Chief of the Defense Staff said nothing. His fingers tightened, faintly. Yılmaz stepped forward as he continued. “We received word from MİT. After you were taken for ‘questioning’ at headquarters, you attempted to defect back to the regime. You reached out to GMT holdouts and requested air cover.”
There was a silence as the other chiefs turned to the Chief of the Defense Staff, almost aghast.
Musa’s eyes flicked to the younger officers, then to the portraits of Atatürk still hanging above the command dais. He finally spoke. “You’ve hijacked the Republic. This is not restoration. This is a seizure. Say what you will about this regime,e but look around you. Look at the blood that has been spilled. Turkish blood. “You think the people will forget? You think the officers out there, our soldiers, our pilots, our seamen, will forgive this?”
Veysel didn’t say anything for a moment, but before he could, Levent stepped in. “They won’t have to. They’ll understand. After the dust settles. After the Party is buried. They’ll see what we did. They’ll see the sacrifice we all made to end the purges. To end the people’s suffering. To uphold the oath we took to Atatürk and his promise to the Turkish people.”
Levent’s voice became sharp as he pressed Musa. “We’re not asking you to fight for us. Just don’t stand in the way. Say your piece, then disappear. Retire with your pension. Walk away when this is done.”
There was a long pause. Musa stared at the order sheet in front of him. On it, the words:
Joint Statement of the Turkish General Staff: Declaration of Military Restoration
Musa’s signature line was the only one left blank. He looked at it for several long seconds. And then he signed. Not out of loyalty. Not out of agreement. But because he understood what it meant to lose.
Arda quickly took the statement and handed it to a junior officer who would fax it to all division commands and to air and naval commanders.
The message went out over secure military bands, repeated every four minutes on loop.
Across the country, several uncommitted divisions and their subformations received the message and began the process to seek authentication. After confirming it, several battalion level formations stopped mobilizing and their divisional commanders began speaking with their army group commanders to get a sense of the situation.
The streets around the Konak pier were unusually quiet. Gone were the taxis, the late-night vendors, the drinkers humming old songs near the promenade. Instead, a line of Kirpi armored vehicles rolled silently through a boulevard that had been empty of its usual hustle and bustle. One by one, they halted at key intersections, releasing detachments of soldiers onto the wet cobblestones.
Onlookers which would have been watching had already ran away for the safety of their homes as news began to spread of the situation around the country. Inside the TİP’s Regional Headquarters, the night staff were still working. The building was filled with party slogans on faded red banners, the smell of old books and Turkish coffee lingering in the air.
Portraits of General Secretary Ayşa Arslan hung on the walls alongside the posters of First Secretary Erkan Gülsoy, İzmir’s political strongman. Senior party officials were huddled in the top floor briefing room. They had been receiving fragmented reports all night with arrests in Istanbul, gunfire in Ankara, and the loss of TRT’s control room. The words “military deployment” and “martial law” came in through half-functional whatsapp threads on encrypted apps.
Still, they had not fled. Gülsoy stood by the window, arms crossed, peering through the curtain. “They wouldn’t dare turn their guns on the Republic,” he muttered as he peered out into the quiet streets.
His deputy, a thinner man with a nervous tic in his left cheek, whispered, “Sir… Ankara is lost. I have three different confirmations. TRT has gone dark. The Presidential Palace is under assault. The Defense Minister’s been detained.”
Gülsoy’s jaw tightened. “Then we need to start rallying the people. We speak from İzmir. This is a party city. The people…they will rise up and help us restore the popular revolution. They remember what the army di…”
He was cut off by the sound of a vehicle halting directly beneath their building. The air was still. Then, a metal clang followed by the thunder of boots rushing inside.
The building's front doors burst open as shouts erupted from the reception hall. “Silahlarınızı bırakın! Eller havaya!” A soldier screamed as one secretary ran for the side exit, only to be thrown against the wall by a soldier sweeping the hall with his rifle. On the third floor, the party’s internal security men, middle-aged ex-unionists with pistols tucked in their jackets, drew their weapons, but they were hopelessly outmatched. Three were disarmed within seconds as another simply threw his weapon on the ground. One was shot in the leg as he fired several shots that hit randomly into the building.
.
Gülsoy turned to his comrades. “We do not run. We do not hide. We are the Party. We face them.” He adjusted his collar, straightened his posture, and opened the door himself as the soldiers arrived on the landing.
“I am Erkan Gülsoy. First Secretary of the Communist Party of İzmir. I demand to speak to a commanding officer.”
The soldiers aimed their rifles as a lieutenant stepped forward.
“You are under arrest by order of the Armed Forces of the Republic in line with the declaration of martial law and the order to bring to justice all elements that have engaged in high crimes against the Turkish people.”
“What martial law order? Who signed it?” Erkan barked at the officer.
“The military command. You are being detained for high crimes against the state. Cooperate, or you will be removed by force.” Behind the lieutenant, two more squads arrived. Within minutes, the senior staff were disarmed, cuffed, and escorted down the stairs. One shouted, “You’ll answer for this in front of the people!” as a soldier shoved him against the wall.
Outside, dozens of civilians peered from their balconies. Some filmed silently. Others wept. The red flags of the Party still hung from the building's awning, fluttering in the dawn wind. Then came the helicopter, low and loud, its searchlight scanning the surrounding blocks.
A soldier ordered the flag removed as the red cloth was torn down, balled up, and handed to the lieutenant. He looked at it briefly, then tossed it into the back of the armored vehicle as several other TİP and PKK officers were raided and their officials detained and contents secured.
President Ayşa Arslan sat stiff-backed in a leather chair that had seen too many emergencies and not enough resolutions. Her hands rested motionless on her knees. Around her, the bunker’s inner war room was dimly lit, its walls painted in bureaucratic beige, the air too still, too dry. Aides whispered. The occasional beeping console sounded far more ominous than it should have.
On the screen, a Polish news anchor was reporting the unthinkable.
The feed cut briefly to grainy footage of tanks rolling into Taksim. Another segment showed Leopard 2s stationed on a bridge. Then clips of uniformed soldiers inside provincial governors’ offices. In one shot, a commander in fatigues stood in front of the İzmir party headquarters as party officials were led away, heads bowed.
Ayşa didn’t blink.
Beside her, General Esmail Ghaani whispered in disbelief, “It is really over isn’t it.”
“No,” said Arda, a national security adviser. “The Revolutionary Guard Corps is mobilizing. We have reports from Diyarbakır and Gaziantep. They’re organizing a counter-strike.”
Ayşa turned her head slightly. “Who is commanding it?”
There was silence. Then a muttered reply. “No one we can confirm. Local commanders. Field units. Maybe Colonel Alkan in the east.”
“Maybe?” Ayşa asked. Her voice was distant, almost tired.
General Esmail looked at Arda and shook his head. “Colonel Kadir would’ve launched a counter-attack by now. I can’t get a hold of any of my senior officers, much less junior ones.
The Polish broadcast rolled on.
Ayşa closed her eyes briefly. A chill rolled down her spine, not from fear, but recognition. “They’ve locked it down,” she said in defeat. “They’ve won.”
One of the bunker officers stepped into the room. “Comrade President, the phone lines are dead. We’ve tried satcom uplink, nothing. We’re not even getting interference anymore.”
For a long moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the gentle whir of the ventilation fans and the low, anxious breathing of those around her.
Ayşa leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her voice a whisper to no one in particular. “We knew they were unhappy. Angry even. But this?”
No one answered. “We passed reforms. We tried to stabilize the currency. We gave the provinces autonomy. We tried to heal the war wounds.”
Still silence. “Was it too fast? Too much?”
She looked up at Arda. “Was it Eda?”
He didn’t answer. She nodded to herself, slowly. “No. Eda was the sword. I gave her space to swing. I let her run too far ahead. And now we all paid the price for it.”
Someone placed a blanket over her shoulders. She didn’t notice.
Ayşa turned back to the screen of her fellow comrades being rounded up and placed into army trucks. Shivers went down her spine as she remembered the haunting images of the Bahçeli regime loading Türkiye’s minorities onto trucks. Did the people never learn she thought.
Behind her, one of the aides began to cry quietly. Another was already praying under their breath.
But Ayşa couldn’t move. She was still watching the screen. As if by staring long enough, she could rewind the last twenty-four hours. But the past was no longer available. Her head dropped in defeat.
The bunker had food, ventilation, and power, but it was cut off from the rest of the world. Her chief of the PRGC paced. One security officer stood by the reinforced steel door, fingers trembling slightly on his rifle.
They had survived the first engagement through the noise and chaos, but the silence now was worse.
Then, at 07:14, a metallic clang echoed through the corridor leading to the blast door.
A voice slightly distorted by the intercom system broke the quiet silence. “This is Colonel Ünal of the Young Turk Society. I am authorized to communicate on behalf of the National Security Council.”
Everyone froze for a moment. “Madam President. The building is secured. You are not under immediate threat. You will not be harmed provided you comply.”
Ayşa rose slowly. Her voice was calm but clipped, her eyes fixed on the steel wall before her.
“Comply with what Colonel?” There was a brief pause. Then the voice continued.
“General Veysel Kurt offers the following terms. You are to acknowledge, in writing, and then through a televised address the National Security Council’s assumption of emergency authority over the Republic of Türkiye. If you do this, the Council guarantees your safety, the safety of your staff, and due legal process. You will be placed under protective detention and escorted to secure housing. Your ministers, those in custody, will also be afforded legal representation. No summary trials with the death penalty removed as a sentence for all members of your civilian government.”
Murmurs began behind her as one of the guards shook his head slightly as sweat dripped from his brow.
“And if I refuse?” Ayşa asked, her voice sharper now.
The answer came quickly. “The Council will consider the situation unresolved. This facility will be forcibly entered, whether with tear gas or controlled demolition of the doors if necessary. You and your staff will be taken by force. You will be trialed under a military court. And it will be likely that violence will continue across the country.”
Before Ayşa could say anything, the Colonel continued. “This is a final offer.”
Then the silence returned as Ayşa looked around the room. Her staff waited for her words like a jury waits for a sentence.
Finally, she turned to them not as their leader but as a woman who had spent the night watching the world fall apart. “Eda’s plan collapsed the moment the tanks rolled out. We cannot fight from a bunker. If I resist, I become a martyr. If I comply, maybe I become a bridge. This revolution must continue one”
She closed her eyes for a moment. Thinking that she could feel the Colonel’s impatience wearing thin. When she opened them, she spoke to the door.
“Tell your generals I need an hour to think.”
There was a pause but then the soldier’s voice came back. “Then think fast, Ms. Arslan. Time is no longer a luxury. I expect an answer now.”
Ayşa stared at the empty door, thinking about what she should do. Before anyone could talk her out of it. Her head dropped as she casted the blanket aside. "Okay. Give me the paper."
General Eesmail blinked in disbelief. One of her military aides stepped forward, eyes rimmed red from fatigue. “Comrade President, the PRGC units may still...”
“No,” she interrupted. “They will not come. And if they do, it will only cost more lives.” She turned her gaze to the blast-proof door behind them. “They’ve won. Let’s end this with dignity.”
One of the guards hesitated at the door controls. She nodded to him gently. “Open it.”
“President Arslan,” he said, respectfully. “You are to be escorted under protection to deliver the address from the Palace. Your staff will be taken into custody per National Security Council orders.”
Ayşa glanced over her shoulder. Her remaining ministers, exhausted, silent, pale, stood motionless. Her press secretary whispered, “You don’t deserve this.”
She touched her arm gently. “None of us did.” One by one, the officials were escorted out. Some protested softly. Others gave Ayşa a long, mournful glance, as if unsure whether they’d see her again.
A military officer stepped beside her. “Ma’am?”
She looked once more at the bunker that had served as her government’s tomb. Then she turned and walked out, her steps measured, her back straight.
The room was dim, lit only by the glow of a single camera and a cluster of studio lights. Ayşa sat upright, dressed in a simple dark suit. Her face bore the fatigue of endless nights, but her eyes remained steady as she looked at the teleprompter.
The broadcast began.
As the broadcast ended, Ayşa's composure broke for a moment. Her voice trembled slightly, and tears welled in her eyes, quickly wiped away with the back of her hand.
Behind the camera, a soldier stepped forward to escort her to the armored vehicle waiting for her. The interior of the armored vehicle was cold, sterile. Ayşa sat alone, her hands folded tightly in her lap, the coarse fabric of the uniform provided by the military feeling foreign against her skin. Outside the narrow, bulletproof windows, the gray streets of Ankara slid by, empty save for a handful of soldiers standing watch.
The hum of the engine and the thud of tires on asphalt were the only sounds.
Her mind drifted, not to the present, but to a moment now distant, yet seared into memory. When Baran challenged General Ergün. Ergün paused, his eyes locking with Baran’s. Fury and fear flickered beneath his cold exterior. Word for word she remembered it. “The last time a civilian government threatened the army, it was the army that prevailed, and it was them who found themselves dangling from lamp-posts..."
Back in the present, the faint weight of those words settled over Ayşa like a stone. It looks like Ergün was right. She hoped she had saved the millions who supported their cause from needless violence. At the same time she couldn't help wonder if this was all avoidable.
She swallowed hard. Had she been too cautious? Too trusting? Had she underestimated the depths of the army’s resolve?
Her fingers curled tighter around her knees as the vehicle slowed to a stop. She remembered that opportunity to crush the army...but the thought faded as the doors opened.
She exhaled, beneath the exhaustion, a fragile acceptance began to take root. This was not the end of her story, only the closing of a chapter. At least she hoped as she entered the dark cell.
