Second novels are interesting.
The author has gained his acceptance, has been celebrated and commissioned. He sits before his page under different conditions now; free of certain worries and eager to flex, eager to see what he can try, and come up against his limitations. When the story aims to be a series and the focal point a specific individual, character comes to the table. Anchorage is important; adding depth, solidifying internal conflict, accessing points of ready identification. A wise author is one who understands that we, as human beings. build our own character every day. We are never finished with this, nor can any protagonist be if he is to retain his cogency, and his mystique. What, though, is to be done with a protagonist who is walled off from his emotion and content to be thus? By an author who has known such walls and been, himself, content to live behind them? Well, this is the moment, isn't it? The moment for discontent.
Jack Carr, in his preface, makes mention of the difficulty veterans experience upon returning from war to civilian life. He poses the question: Can this man, who transformed into the very insurgent he'd been fighting, find peace and purpose, and learn to live again? I think that's the wrong question. I think the right question might have been: Are you ready, author, as a former combatant yourself, to test the boundaries of your emotional imprisonment - so necessary for a SEAL on the field of battle, yet so thoroughly castrating in ordinary existence? This is the transition, and, if our writer has not seen fit to make it, how much hope are we to have for his protagonist?
So, the second novel is not much more than structural play. Our former Navy SEAL, James Reece, has managed to escape many, many things - among them, the tentacles of the law and the ethical impact of assassinating so many civilians and the brutally disorganizing grief that would accompany the death of his wife and daughter. None of this descends upon him. He's on a ship, concentrating on storms, and navigating a course to an under-the-radar life he does not expect to last much longer. Still, the CIA will find him and offer him a mission.
There's a Clancy-level pre-occupation with weapons here, which Carr more than indulges. We also go overboard on political cynicism, which can poison a tale and nearly does. Additionally, there is the convenience of providing American-made rifles to adversaries in order to level the playing field - a rookie mistake and an honest one. Yet the rub, and it is predictable, comes with the introduction of a friend Reece nearly killed but who must now work with him. There is no earning of forgiveness or airing of resentment in their interaction, which shallows out the primary relationship Reece has in this novel - and that, my friend, is not a good thing.
Will any of this be addressed? I have the third installment on tap, so I guess we'll see.