Shattered Image. J.F. Margos

      First of all, I would like to thank my mother, who never faltered in her support of me during all my writing projects. She made sacrifices to assure my success, and I could not have accomplished any of this without her. I love you very much, Mom.

      Also, thanks to my two sisters, Carol and Jill, who are my best friends and buck me up when I’m down, with a special thanks to Carol for shooting my photo. Thanks to my brother-in-law, Myron, for helping me with all the stuff I don’t know how to do, and to my niece and nephew, Jeni and Gregory, for just being themselves. Also thanks goes to my dear friend, Sue Stevens, who constantly gives me moral support and kicks my rear as necessary. Thanks also to Mary Long (aka the “Kid”) who gives pretty good advice for a youngster.

      Thanks to my godfather, Deacon George Bithos and his great wife, Presvytera Ria, for all their support and understanding, and for being part of my family and letting me be part of theirs.

      I would also like to thank my Spiritual Father, Fr. Jordan G. Brown, who advised me in many spiritual areas both as background for this book, and just in general over the many years we have been friends and spiritual relatives.

      To my friend, John Esper, for brainstorming on the title. Nice work, dude.

      Special thanks goes to my agent Helen Breitwieser, who believed in me at a time when I had begun to lose that belief in myself. I did not expect such steadfast encouragement, advice and undaunted support. I am blessed, Helen, by your professionalism and your friendship.

      Thanks also goes to my mentor in business, and attorney, W. Robert Dyer, Jr. Bob, you took a stupid kid and educated her. The things you have taught me have proven invaluable indeed. I don’t know where I’d be in life without your guidance and support, I just know I’m glad I won’t have to find out.

      Finally, it is fitting and right that we should all acknowledge all the women and men who served in the Vietnam War, but in particular those women and men who served so valiantly in the medical field, facing death to save life. I would most especially like to acknowledge and thank my friends Doyle Dunn (who served in Vietnam in the American Red Cross) and his wife, Lauri Dunn, R.N., former captain in the United States Air Force and a Vietnam veteran. Both Lauri and Doyle were an invaluable resource to me in the writing of this book. Thank you so very much for all of your help to me, and for serving our country in such a difficult time.

      Thanks and acknowledgment to the great teams at CILHI (Central Identification Laboratory Hawaii) who make incredible sacrifices and go to the far reaches of this planet to bring home our departed soldiers.

      I would also like to acknowledge and pay tribute to all of those Americans who died in Vietnam in the service of our country (8 women and over 58,000 men) and to the many—too many—who still remain missing in action. At this writing, there are still more than 1,900 Americans missing in action from the Vietnam War—lest we ever forget.

      May their memory be eternal.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter One

      The dense fog slithered up the riverbank, coiling itself around the traffic light ahead of me and partially obscuring the green glow until I was underneath it. With daylight barely peeking over the limestone cliffs on the other bank, the fog was an especially unwanted handicap. I plunged the clutch pedal into the floor and, feeling the ball of the gearshift lever in the palm of my hand, I eased the stick down into second, slid the clutch slowly out of the floor and appreciated the rumble of the downshift and the tug of the engine braking. With my left palm I wheeled the car into a left turn and began my descent down the hill to the low-water bridge below the Tom Miller Dam. They called that machine of mine a Mustang, but it had a roar and rumble more like a wildcat.

      I pulled the car over to the edge of the road when I reached the island in the middle of the bridge. Red Bud Isle they called it, but on that morning it was a gray silhouette on gray water shrouded in a thick, gray mist. I was sick of this weather and ready for spring and Texas sunshine.

      I could see red