Faced with rejection by husband, who became an invalid fighting in the Second Iraqi War, and the increasing pressures of her career as a journalist and single mother, Rita Collins nears a breaking point. Yet, even as she must face a web of corruption and deceit all around her, including her own infidelities, she remains determined to find success and romance.
Faced with rejection by husband, who became an invalid fighting in the Second Iraqi War, and the increasing pressures of her career as a journalist and single mother, Rita Collins nears a breaking point. Yet, even as she must face a web of corruption and deceit all around her, including her own infidelities, she remains determined to find success and romance.
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âI understand your reluctance, Brian, but letâs begin anyway. What do you remember about that day, leading up to the explosion? . . . Brian? Brian, are you going to talk with me?â
The gaunt young man lifted his head slowly, even painfully it seemed, as though disturbed by a trespasser while wallowing in some infernal depth. âOnly because I have to, Dr. Kinzer.â Then, though weary with repeating his story, he began it again. âThe weather was mild that day. In fact, not bad at all. So different from the heat and wind and blowing sand of previous weeks. Those are the things you remember about Iraq. The sand cuts right through you and the heat smothers you. Makes you delirious at times. But by that day we thought weâd already seen the worst.â
âFallujah had been liberated the day of your injury, isnât that correct?â
âThe day before, actually. We were feeling great. Operation Phantom Fury had been a success. The first time we were alone, I hugged Vince and we laughed about it. What a relief, we thought! At last, we had a victory next to our names. A solid victory. Thatâs what weâd come for. Thatâs why we had suffered together in that damned Iraqi desert.â
âThen what happened, after your private celebration?â
âOur driver had the Humvee rolling right along, taking us back to base. Dodging a few potholes, but nothing bad. Nothing that would make us stop. We were two vehicles back of the troop trucks in our convoy.â
âIs that because the trucks were slower?â
âRight. Slowest go up front, to set the pace and not fall behind as they would if they were in the rear. Still, we were in a hurry to get back, to report on all we had done. We had come over this same road going to Fallujah with no problem, so going back should have been no problem as well.â
âHow many were with you in the Humvee?â
âFive of us altogether. Two in the front and three in the back. I was sitting directly behind the driver.â
âWas Vincent Gallia sitting with you?â
âNo, he was up front. We didnât sit together in situations like that. If we did, guys would talk.â
âWhat do you mean talk? Talk about what?â
âTheyâd say we were getting special privileges that allowed us to buddy-up all the time, so I told Vince to sit in the front . . . And thatâs what got him killed.â Brianâs voice trailed off, becoming frail and thin, so Dr. Kinzer bent forward to hear him better.
 âIs that when the explosion occurred? On your way back to base?â
âYes . . . ,â Brian answered softly before suddenly flaring up. âYou know that already, donât you? Isnât it all contained in that file youâre holding? Iâm sure it is. Iâve already told enough people. Why do I have to tell you? Iâm tired of it all!â
âI understand your impatience, Brian, but I need to hear what happened from you.â Dr. Kinzer remained calm, adding in a sympathetic voice, âWe sometimes recall important new details when we retell a story, so please tell me what happened next.â
âAfter a while there was no traffic coming toward us. Not something you notice right away. Then the lead vehicle must have slowed down, and soon the convoy stopped completely. We thought there had been an accident that had blocked the highway, but in combat zones you can never be sure. Just like Dad used to tell me about Vietnamâfriend or foe, you never knew which was beside you. After weâd been sitting there for a few minutes, I told our driver to get out and see what was wrong. He climbed out of the Humvee and started up the line of vehicles toward the front because he couldnât see anything from our position. Vince climbed over into the driverâs seat in case we had to start up again before the driver returned. Suddenly, there was a flash and roar up ahead of us. All sorts of debris were thrown up. You couldnât even recognize what any of it was. And before any of it could begin to fall, there was another flash, closer than the first. And then before any of us could even move, a third. White heat, I remember searing heat. Like nothing you can imagine. Like the sun had just risen up, right beside us. The Humvee lifted upâand then nothing. I donât even remember it coming down.â
âThese were IED explosions?â
âYes, three mortar rounds buried under the highway. Detonated remotely by someone who could see us or had received a signal. The wreck ahead of us had been staged to make the convoy stop in the target area.â
âDo you remember the rescue?â
âNo, not really. I only remember the Humvee being on its side, passenger side downâand a terrible, terrible pain below me--and . . .â Again, Brianâs voice trailed off, anguished by now.
âAnd what else? What did you start to say? Brian, are you listening to me? Brian?â
Slowly, Brian resumed his story. â. . . and Vince in front of me. I could see Vince. The explosion had thrown him against the passenger door. And now his face, his beautiful face, was gone . . . just a mass of torn flesh and oozing blood. Thatâs the last time I saw him, if it was him. It was like one of those creatures being torn to shreds in scenes from hell byâwho is that painter?â
âDo you mean Bosch? Hieronymus Bosch?â
âYes, I think so. That seems right. I remember too that I couldnât hear anything. I was on top of the guys who were in the back with me. I could see their mouths moving but no sounds were coming out.â
âYou had been deafened by the explosion? Is that what happened?â
âI guess so. Later, I could hear again, but my hearing is still not what it was. We must have been real close to the third shell that exploded. . . . But the rescueâyou asked about the rescueâI donât remember that. The pain must have been too great. I think I passed out. Seeing what was left of Vince is the last thing I remember in the Humvee.â
âWhat is the next thing you do remember, after the rescue?â
âThe Medevac copter taking me to Bagdad. I recall a little of thatâthe chopperâs sound and motion. But even thatâs just a blur. I recall thinking we were going home, Vince and I, just going home. Everything was going to be okay. Weâd be heroes, coming home from the war, just like weâd planned. But now I know it was only the morphine.â
âWhat do you remember next that you know was real?â
âAn Army doc telling me my legs were gone. Had to take them, he said and said it blunt as hell, too. That was real. I started to sit up, to look, I remember that. At first, I thought what he said was only in a dream. A nightmare that would pass. I would come-to, and everything would be okay. Iâd have my legs and Vince would have his face. But I couldnât even make myself look, I just couldnât. If I looked, I thought, the doc would be right. If I didnât, everything would still be okay. Then I asked him about Vince. He told me two guys had injuries but would be okay. But what about Vince, I asked him again. Was Vince one of those two guys? Was Vince all right? Was he still alive? He was still alive, wasnât he? I kept asking that until the doc shook his head and said, âNo.â Then I quit.â
âWhat do you mean, exactly, when you say you quit?â
âI didnât want to hear anymore and didnât want to see anymore. The real-me wasnât a whole person anymore. The dream-me was okay. The dream-me still had a future. Was going home. Would get into politics. Would run for office and win. All just as we had planned, Vince and Iâand Dad.â
âSimilar to what your father has accomplished? Is that what you mean?â
âYes, just like Dad coming home from Vietnam. But even betterâgoing faster and farther. I had a beautiful wife to help me, just as he had. And a cute little son to hold up to the cameras and kiss. Once I had been that son. And I had a faithful partner. The dream-me was a guaranteed winner.â
âDo you mean a partner in addition to your wife?â
âYes.â
âWho was that?â
âVince, of course. My partner was Vince.â
âAnd now? What will the real-you do?â
âNot one damn thing. The real me just needs to go away now. The real me is wasted.â
âBut that canât happen.â
âWhy not? Why canât it happen? It happens all the time in the real world. Who says it canât happen? Who says I canât just go away? It should happen. What should be, must be.â
âThen why wonât you make rehab happen? You can still have a good life. Rehab could turn everything around for you and your wife and son. You still feel a responsibility to them, donât you?â
âBullshit! You must be at least the fiftieth person to tell me about the rehab miracleâand at least forty of them have been Rita!â
âThatâs because she loves you and sheâs worried that youâre not yet in rehab and on your way to that good life you want.â
âHow do you know I can have a good life? Huh? What makes you so damn sure?â
âBecause others have done it, some with even worse injuries than yours, difficult as that may seem to you now. You have no injuries at all above the knees. Your medical team says that youâre nearly ready for discharge, that their work is almost done.â
âBut thatâs where youâre wrong, Dr. Kinzer, and so are they. Iâm different. The guys youâre talking about are all just GI Joes. Warehouse workers back home. Nothing more than clerks and mechanics and delivery guys with ugly wives and fat kids. Nothing big changed for them. But me, I was going to be a political star, dead certain. And so I fell much, much, much farther than any of them did. I had a beautiful wife and a son and a great future. And a solid political family behind me. I would have been a star in no time with Dadâs helpâand Vinceâs support.â
âYou still have support. And that successful life can still be yours, but only if youâll try for it. Donât you owe that to your wife, your son, and yourself?â
âNoâno! Youâre wrong! All that belongs to the dream-me who died in that damn Humveeâwith Vince. Iâm only that person now in dreams. The morphine-me. And when Iâm in that place, Vince is still there with me. And weâre happy. Weâre going home. The IED didnât explode. And all these troublesâthey just step aside for us, like weâre royalty. Just as troubles should.â
Carl Parsons gives little away in the blurb related to Trios: Death, Deceit, and Politics, so it really is a case of suspense when the reader first weighs up whether to bite the bullet and read on. With little to go on other than an Iraqi War soldier, an estranged journalistic wife, and a series of infidelities, I was eager to read more. So, here is what I have to say about what turned out to be an extremely slow burn.
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The book opens abruptly with Brian retelling his account of an explosion from his hospital bed. What should have been a routine journey back to base following a celebration for liberating a city quickly turned sour when a fabricated accident caused Brian and his fellow troops to a halt. It took merely a few minutes before planted bombs took out the vehicles and troops he was traveling with, taking his legs, his lover, and a few good men. Great start. I was on the edge of my seat wondering what was going to befall this fallen soldier who had lost someone particularly close to him.
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The closeness and specifics of the bond between a casualty and Brian is made clear from the offset. Though it is not mentioned in blatant terms until almost 40% into the book, we all know. This makes what should be a thriller and suspense novel rather dissatisfying. Yet, I persevere because I figure death has been witnessed. Deceit from so many different angles has been revealed and I want to know the politics behind these decisions. Unfortunately, it does not pick up in pace until we are significantly into the second half of the book. At this point, the story is moving too fast.
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After a while, the book seems to leave the war and deceit behind, turning to politics with a capital P. In her capacity as a journalist, Rita undertakes an interview to discuss the freedom of speech and communism that is developing at the local university. As a reader, it feels like the author might have an agenda, although what that might be is unclear. There just seems to be little relevance to the beginning of the book. Overall, it feels like these middle chapters are filler action to bring about a change in relationship dynamics. Unfortunately, the scenes last way too long for the little impact they have in the long run.
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One of the better features of the book are the strong female leads. These characters are developed well enough, and the reader is able to get a good sense of their personalities, and defiance. Then men in the book are less defined. For the time they spent controlling the narrative in their world, some of the things they did at the end of the book were questionable.
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Overall, it felt like there were several stories that were operating that did not quite mesh together. I wanted to hear more about the war, about the soldierâs history, how he became ill⌠I wanted to see the glory and splendor of a soldierâs funeral⌠I wanted to know why there were communist students, and what they were trying to achieve? I want to know why the end of the book was the end.
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As this book threw up more questions than answers, it certainly wasnât the right writing technique for me personally. With some reworking and lengthening, there is some potential to create a better narrative. This is a story for people that like to read between the lines and produce their own theories and backstories. Of the three main themes, politics was threaded throughout the book, so this will also have some bearing on the niche audience required for this text. For the right person, it is worth the read over a few hours.Â