Image courtesy of author
Patriots Circle will be out June 15.
The following is an excerpt here from "Patriots Circle" by local author John Adam Wasowicz. The book will be released on June 15.
It’s the Fourth of July 2026, the Semiquincentennial celebration of American Independence. Although it is a time for pageantry and patriotism, our nation is one of strife and division. That feeling is evident in Old Town Alexandria as an awry battalion of hooligans gathers at Belle Haven Park along the George Washington Parkway.
As the group progressions down the parkway, Tom Mann, editor of The Washington Chronicle, discerns that their objective appears to be to assassinate progressive U.S. Senator Abraham Lowenstein, who is dressed as George Washington at a commemorative event at the circle at Mount Vernon. He alerts local community and patriotic citizens, who spring into action.
**
Darkness at the Edge of Old Town
JUST BEFORE the break of dawn on the Fourth of July, the assembly began.
First, a few motorcycle hogs roared across the Wilson Bridge and took the exit for Alexandria. Lit by lonely beacons of light that cut the dark, the bikes turned sharply at South Washington Street and progressed onto the G.W. Parkway. Shortly thereafter they turned into the parking lot just above the Belle Haven Marina and cut their engines.
A few more fuel-injected monsters headed along the outer loop of I-495 before spinning around the shamrock-shaped knot of highway at the Route 1 interchange to Patrick Street before working their way down to the parkway. Then they joined the group at the marina. Still others drove north on Route 1 after exiting I-95 at the Occoquan River basin or south on the G.W. Parkway after crossing the American Legion Bridge in Maryland.
By 5 a.m., the assemblage resembled the crowd at Woodstock, absent the rain. The city stood cool and lifeless. The only sound was from the occasional big rig barreling across the Wilson Bridge a quarter mile away, and that rig was commanded by some lonesome traveler trying desperately to meet a deadline to deliver goods in Philly or New York.
At 5:49, the sun rose. The moon, still visible in its waning gibbous phase, slowly disappeared as the brightening sun erased it from the sky. Bodies stirred, eyes searched the area, and people oriented themselves to foreign surroundings.
At 10 a.m., a man atop a motorcycle wearing a black leather jacket and gloves, silver boots, and a red helmet, raised his arm and twirled it in a circular motion. “Mount up!” he ordered. By prearrangement, motorcycles roared to a spot right behind him, forming a phalanx. As the motorcycle brigade moved forward, cars and RVs maneuvered into place behind them.American flags and decals adorned most of the vehicles. The vehicles occupied all four lanes of the parkway and stretched for half a mile. The lead motorcycle sped forward, beginning a trip down the parkway that was destined to end at the circle.
**
Fight! Fight! Fight!
© Tom Mann, The Washington Chronicle, July 4
If you trust me — and I know you do — drop whatever you are doing right now and run as fast as you can to the stone bridge over the G.W. Parkway midway between Old Town and the circle in front of Mount Vernon.
A battalion of evildoers on motorcycles and in other motor vehicles are headed to the circle. They intend to kill Senator Abe Lowenstein, who is appearing as our beloved General George Washington.
Do not bring guns! Our resistance is nonviolent. Bring disposable items that can obstruct their march down the parkway. Tarps, cardboard boxes, trash bags, bedsheets— anything that can prevent them from reaching the circle — are our best ammunition until law enforcement can arrive.
Go!
**
A MASSIVE crowd gathered on the bridge, hundreds strong.
Every imaginable household throwaway had been placed in a pile in the middle of the bridge straddling the parkway. To anyone oblivious to the unfolding crisis, the mountain of household items looked like a huge pile of trash that the garbage collectors had avoided picking up for weeks.
The people who were about to hurl those items over the bridge appeared as giddy as a bunch of mischievous kids waiting for a bus — equipped with handfuls of snowballs.
If those in the parade appeared uncertain and apprehensive, everyone on the bridge seemed resolute and festive. “Don’t toss anything until you see the whites in their eyes,” hollered an old man waving a commemorative U.S. Navy flag that he had pulled off his rec room wall moments before he rushed to the bridge.
People grabbed items from the communal pile and waited.
Rows and rows of motorcycles, four across, proceeded ahead of 100 to 150 vehicles decorated with American, Confederate, or pirate flags; some with riders and passengers wore their old military uniforms, others were attired in black from head to foot. They all wore face coverings of some kind.
Due to the steep embankments on either side of the stone bridge, the approaching horde could not bypass the bridge and was forced into a single lane to maneuver past a truck that had been wedged into the stone structure. As each motorcyclist approached, a cascade of trash, cloth, paper, and plastic items spilled over the bridge, impeding progress.
Grass clippings and twigs rained down on helmets. Old toys landed on the shoulders of riders. Trash splattered on the hoods and windshields of vehicles. Tarps and bedsheets obstructed the drivers’ vision. And overripe vegetables fell on handlebars like ice from an avalanche.
Motorcyclists and motorists were pummeled from both sides of the bridge. A rider or driver who avoided a pillow while entering the underpass risked being struck by an old shoe while exiting the other side.
Neighbors appeared with cans of spray paint and shaving cream which they sprayed and smudged on the front windshields of the cars, making it difficult if not impossible for the drivers to navigate forward.
A few innovative types pressed nail guns into the sides of tires and flattened them.
But then a member of the horde pulled a rifle out of the trunk of a car and began shooting at the bridge.
“GET DOWN!” someone cried as people on the bridge scrambled in all directions, some crouching down on the sides of the bridge while others dashed for cover in the adjoining woods. In the confusion, dozens of motorcycles churned through the tunnel and continued south. However, only a few of the cars sneaked through the opening, now filled with suburban shrapnel.
**
POSITIONED NEARBY at Fort Hunt Park were about 100 cyclists, who’d gathered for a short 5-mile race from the park to the circle. Their race had been cancelled due to the chaos along the parkway.
“What can we do to make a difference?” asked one of the racers, dressed as though he was competing in the Tour de France. He didn’t stand out. Everyone was dressed that way.
“We can’t catch up to or compete with people on motorcycles,” someone commented.
“Unless those motorcyclists are impeded in their travel,” someone else observed. “We can swarm around them like bees.”
“Yeah,” said another cyclist, thinking of how Sir Francis Drake and a fleet of small agile vessels helped defeat the Spanish Armada. “It’s worth a shot.”
Acting in concert, 200 wheels — propelled by feet pumping pedals like the steel pistons of engines — spun through the park to the tunnel beneath the parkway. There, they stopped and waited. The sound of the sycamore hitting the ground sent a quake through the tunnel. The sound of the motorcycle engines echoed in the hollow chamber.
The motorcycles had passed over the tunnel.
“Let’s go!”
The command given, the cyclists pushed their bicycles up the crest that served as the entry and exit lane to the tunnel from the northbound lanes of the parkway. Riders huffed, their knees pushing their legs with all the energy they could muster, pedals turning, bicycle tires spinning, the body of riders now acting as one unit, ascending, cresting, and attacking the rear guard of the motorcycle brigade.
**
AT CEDAR RIDGE, car brakes were released and accelerator pedals pushed as Thunderbirds, Cobras, Firebirds, Challengers, Darts, Stingrays, Jaguars, Mustangs — pony cars and muscle cars, some in original condition and others restored, all priceless possessions — swept down the knoll to the parkway, forming a massive block of steel across all lanes of the road.
The drivers cut their engines, put their cars in park, and jumped out to run back up the hill.“I scrapped together every penny I had in high school to buy that car,” said one 75-year-old as he gave his Dodge Dart a last loving glance. “That old slant six would have lasted forever.”
“Not to worry,” said another. “We might just be preserving something a whole lot more valuable than some engine parts.”
At first, the motorcycle brigade coming up at full speed couldn’t figure out whether the cars up ahead were moving, or in what direction they were headed. When they realized what was happening, it was too late. An avalanche of ’60’s memories collided with chrome fuel-injected horses, and the sight wasn’t pretty.
The motorcyclists who didn’t crash head-on tried to avoid the cars by applying their brakes or going around the huge barricade of antique cars. Motorcycles skidded into one another or drove off to the side, losing control and ending up crashing into trees and bushes along the side of the road. Some careened into the river. Others headed toward the knoll, where they lost momentum on the steep incline. Riders were thrown from their seats and rolled down the hill.
As the motorcyclists staggered to their feet and tried to regroup, the cyclists of the Tour de Mount Vernon swarmed them, knocking them off their feet or their hogs and corralling them into submission.
**
TWO DOZEN chartered buses had parked along Route 235 after dropping off people at Mount Vernon for the morning festivities. They stopped whatever they were doing and rushed to the circle to render assistance.
“We need a perimeter around an injured politician who is about to be attacked,” he said. “I need your buses to form a barricade around the circle.”
The bus drivers were retired military, ex-cops, state and municipal workers, blue-collar guys and gals, possessing strong instincts and keen imaginations. They immediately understood the gravity of the situation and the proposed solution. Fittingly, many of the bus lines for which they worked bore patriotic names written on the sides of the vehicles: Colonial, American, Freedom, Patriot, United, Liberty, Stars & Stripes, and Red, White & Blue.
“Let’s go!” hollered one of the bus drivers. The men and women rushed to their buses, some of them dropping cigarettes to the curb and running faster than they had in years.
Meanwhile, a crowd had coalesced around Abe, wounded by a recent explosion and lying as in state at the Capitol Rotunda. Lifting him ran the risk of exacerbating his injuries and diminishing any prospects of recovery, at least according to two doctors in the crowd who came forward to render assistance.
As the buses formed a tight circle — the front bumper of one kissing the rear bumper of another, like elephants in a circus tied trunk to tail — individuals began boarding the buses and taking up positions beside windows.
Others gathered in the parking lots on either side of the parkway.
Revolutionary War actors thrust their muskets through the bus windows. Though the muskets were harmless, they created the appearance of a lethal defense. Hopefully, the mere impression of power would be enough to discourage a confrontation. Others took up stations in the parking lots, shielded from the parkway by summer trees and lush foliage. They didn’t appear all that different from Ethan Allen and the Green Mountain Boys.
The buses formed an outer wall that would have made any steelworker proud. No space existed between each bus, as though they had been welded together into a chain.
**
LED BY a red-helmeted warrior, the would-be Visigoths rode the final link of the parkway to the circle, stopping 100 yards in front of a giant steel bracelet surrounding the grassy circle in front of Mount Vernon.
When the parade had started, it sounded like a herd of buffalo swept along by a hurricane. Now it was nothing more than a bunch of strays with little if any wind in their wake.
Windows of the buses were open, and the snouts of weapons — harmless colonial muskets alongside lethal modern machine gun barrels — pointed at the bikers. More gun barrels appeared between trees in the parking lot.
Fingers were pressed lightly to triggers, waiting for a signal.
“We should surrender,” said the biker, throwing his firearm to the ground.
Suddenly, a voice commanded the civilians and militia gathered at the circle with lethal firepower.
“Don’t fire!” cried Sherry Stone, deputy police chief, who had appeared via the Mount Vernon Trail on horseback courtesy of the U.S. Park Police. Her emphatic order to hold fire was passed from bus to bus and from parking lot to parking lot. Marksmen held their positions, and their fire.
One of the bikers reached into his boot and pulled out a handgun.
Arms bracing guns tightened, trigger fingers poised at the ready.
The biker tossed his handgun to the ground. More followed suit. Slowly, one by one, the bikers tossed their weapons to the ground and raised their arms in surrender. Knives, rifles, and handguns clicked and clacked on the pavement. A peaceful surrender appeared at hand.
“Weapons down!” Stone shouted.
Unfortunately, her order went unheeded.
John Adam Wasowicz
John Adam Wasowicz is the author of the popular Old Town Mystery Series. He has lived in the Alexandria section of Fairfax County for 40 years. He has practiced law in the public and private sectors since 1985, including service as an Asst. Commonwealth Attorney. His first book, “Daingerfield Island,” published in 2017, introduced readers to Mo Katz, the protagonist in the Old Town Mystery series.
