David Lynch is the hero of my next historical novel, "Ghost of the U-85." He's not your everyday kind of guy who you'd expect to be the hero.
Excerpt from the book:
In his rush to get another angle, the videographer collided with a rumpled and ever-grumbling Richard Lynch, the long-suffering, Pulitzer-prize winning reporter for the Virginian-Pilot. His face and general rumpled demeanor were testimony to thirty-two hard-lived years.
Those years began with stellar ambitions, beginning with graduating at the top of his class at the Naval Academy in 1962, after which he survived three tours in Vietnam as a marine infantryman, for which he was awarded the Silver Star, along with the Purple Heart and assorted other medals.
Then the nightmares began, followed by the headaches. Then the drinking. Then two ex-wives whose alimony payments pretty much drained his bank account each month. And then there was the beautiful five-year-old daughter who adored him for some unexplainable reason.
Lynch could not remember what a good day felt like.
And this wasn’t one of them, he thought as he paced frenetically while suffering through one of the many cluster migraines he knew he would be experiencing this day.
“Hey, he isn’t going anywhere, shithead,” he growled at the videographer.
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