The Preserver & Protector 2: Destiny Reclaimed

Author

Valerie J. Clarizio

Reads

19.8K

Chapters

Author

Valerie J. Clarizio

Reads

19.8K

Chapters

💪🏻 Protector 🎭 Drama 🧙‍♂️ Paranormal & Fantasy

Chapter One

Book 2: Destiny Reclaimed

From slightly above one thousand feet, Jack Cornelis’ gaze zoned in on the quilt-like patterns of water-filled fields, otherwise known as rice paddies. The tall elephant grass surrounding the field was thick enough to hide an entire military unit on the ready for an ambush. Under this scenario, his twenty-twenty vision wasn’t foolproof. He’d learned that firsthand during his initial evacuation when they underwent close fire, losing both his gunners and several soldiers as they carried wounded to his Huey Helicopter.

The rhythmic thump of the rotors snapped him back into the task at hand. The sound of the blades had two effects on him. At times, they practically hypnotized him, flipping him into auto-pilot to perform his mission. Other times, they mesmerized him, holding him hostage in memories of past evacuations. Luckily, right now he’d been cast quickly into auto-pilot. He scanned over the rice paddies, particularly the edges which were commonly used to set booby traps.

Up ahead, a soldier stepped out, waving his weapon in the air. Jack descended quickly, grass blowing flat as he landed. They’d only have a short time—seconds—to collect the wounded before they had to ascend.

Pop…pop…pop…pop…tink…sloosh.

Pain ripped through his left eye, and his head jerked back, hitting hard against the seat. He blinked, at least he thought he blinked. Sandpaper ground against his eyeball. Through his good eye, he darted his gaze to his co-pilot. The man slumped forward. Unmoving.

With a glance over his shoulder, he saw wounded being loaded. Pop…pop…pop…pop…echoed through his head along with incomprehensible, muffled yells from soldiers. He needed to get out of here—get the wounded to safety.

His hand ached as he wrapped it tighter around the collective and ascended as quickly as he could. Adrenaline rushed his veins, his heart hammered, and the pain ripping through his skull now rendered his good eye blurry, the left one useless. His right hand throbbed, and he felt faint.

His jaw clenched at Singleton’s dead body in the copilot seat, but he couldn’t worry about that now, the wounded in the back counted on him to get them to the medical unit. He couldn’t let them down.

A strong odor of alcohol stung Jack’s nostrils. He opened his eyes, then blinked to get the sand out of them. It took a second to realize his left eye was covered. As he reached up to touch it, he noticed the bandage on his hand. When he wiggled his fingers, they burned with pain, but it was tolerable, and he found some comfort in the fact he could move his digits.

With his other hand, he reached for his eye. The soft gauze was layered thick. At that moment he recalled how he’d been injured. Fear cracked through him with the force of a whip. My eye. He remembered not being able to see out of his left eye as he flew the Huey back to the medical unit. Was the damage permanent? His throat went dry. On one hand, that could be his ticket out of Vietnam, but on the other…flying Hueys—medivacs were his destiny. He was good at it, and the wounded needed him.

A soothing whisper floated into his ear canal drawing his attention. As to not further upset his pounding temples, he turned his head slowly in the direction of the calming sound. A nurse stood a few feet away, on the opposite side of the next bed over. She inspected a wound on the soldier’s leg. The small-framed woman with long, golden hair smiled softly at her patient.

The soldier reached up and touched her porcelain cheek. “I love you,” he whispered.

She darted her gaze around the room. If she’d noticed he watched them through his slit eye, she didn’t let on.

“I love you, too. You did it. You preserved history again.” Her sapphire blue eyes emitted warmth—love—pride.

He knew that expression and longed for it again. The nurse gazed at that soldier the way his girlfriend gazed at him. Gwennie. Oh, how he yearned to see her again. First chance he got he planned to propose to her. He could kick himself for not marrying her before he left for war. Make her his before someone else snatched her up.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” the soldier replied to the woman. “Plus, we won’t know for sure if anything will be impacted until we know the extent of his eye injury. As per history, he has a lot of missions to fly yet, and lives to save.”

Jack wondered who the man referred to in his comment about missions to fly and lives to save? More importantly, what had the nurse meant when she said the soldier preserved history.

His heart picked up pace. Their conversation reminded him of the discussion he’d had with his dad only months before he’d left for Vietnam.

His father had sat him down, and the seriousness in the man’s gaze and tone worried him. He was sure his dad had been about to tell him he was sick and dying.

He’d even started the conversation with, “Son, it’s time you know.”

Jack recalled his heart leaping into his throat, positive the man was ill.

His father continued, “We’re not like other people. Normal people. We’re special.”

How? They were the most regular people he knew. No frills. Sure, his dad was a veteran and a doctor, and for that, he was very proud. But still, they were just normal people living in small-town Wisconsin, and his dad was about to retire.

“Special?” Jack questioned.

“I’m almost sixty-five, and I should have told you this—relinquished the power to you a while ago, but I didn’t want to burden you with it until I had no choice. The missions are getting harder and harder, though, and I’m afraid if I don’t pass the power on, I’ll risk losing it all—all our ancestors worked for.”

Nerves had shook his father’s voice, and he’d begun to ramble which was extremely unusual for him.

A slight quiver had raked through him and he folded his sweaty hands together and rested them on his lap. This whole exchange was crazy.

“Power?” Jack remembered questioning.

His father had leaned closer to him over the table. “There’s no easy way to say this. We come from a long line of history Preservers.”

“Preservers? I don’t know what you mean.” He recalled staring at his dad for what felt like an eternity while he waited for an explanation.

After taking the time he needed to get his thoughts in order, his father pressed on. “Me, you, your grandfather, great-grandfather, and so on, carry a special power to preserve history, our decorated military history. Your cousin Arthur, his pa, grandfather, and so on have been trying to steal our decorated military honors for decades. Our job is to prevent that from happening, hence, the term Preserver. People—our relatives who try to change history are known as Modifiers. If they succeed, it changes everything—the past—the future. All we have earned and known is at stake, but more importantly, one little change to history could have a huge impact on life as we know it—as everyone knows it. A change could create collateral damage, affecting innocent people. We must be on the ready for whenever they choose to travel back in time to attempt to switch histories—claim our destiny. But, we—you—don’t have to do it alone. The Gods will send Protectors to help.”

“Protectors?” Jack recalled being unable to refrain from interjecting questions.

His dad had nodded. “We are assigned Protectors to help us—watch over us as we fight our enemies to preserve history.”

“Our enemies are our cousins? They time travel?” He’d wondered if his dad had lost it. This conversation sounded absurd.

Again, his father had nodded. “Unfortunately. They’ve been fighting to steal our history at least as far back as the Civil war when your great grandpa, Ben Cornelis, and his cousin, Simon Dupont, ran off and joined the war. They were just teenagers. You know the story of Ben, the drummer boy who’d saved his commanding officer. Anyhow, Simon’s story wasn’t…well, it wasn’t heroic like Ben’s, and the Duponts have been working relentlessly ever since to steal our history to hold as their own. They want to be known as the heroic ones. All they care about is the glory. They don’t give two hoots about anyone else, the collateral damage that could occur, the lives and events that would be changed if they are successful in stealing—changing history. I, my pa, grandfather, and so on, have been time traveling to fight the Duponts, and preserve history. The time travel—Preserver power is passed to the next generation upon death or when the holder relinquishes it.”

He remembered the distinct warmth on his shoulder when his father had placed his hand to it during this strange conversation.

“Son, I can’t do it any longer. I’m too old. This fight takes unremitting vigilance and physical strength. My heart and brain are willing, but my body is too weak. You need to take over.”

He remembered staring at his father in disbelief.

After several beats, his dad spoke again. “I’ll just let this sink in a bit. We’ll talk more later.”

And with that, his dad had rose from his seat and left the room. Leaving him alone with his doubting thoughts.

Two days later, his dad sat him down again and told him more about Preservers, Protectors, their history, and expectations of the roles. His father had given him a lot to think about, both unusual and unbelievable in nature. If anyone else had revealed this information to him, he never would have believed it, but since it came from his dad, the most reputable person he knew, it warranted credibility. Once emersed in the war he’d disregarded it, didn’t really have time to think about it.

Now, here in a mobile unit hospital bed, he thought of that conversation while continuing to watch and eavesdrop on the two strangers next to him. Were they talking about him and his role as a Preserver?

The soldier slowly turned his head toward him. Shock cracked through him like a lightning bolt as he stared into deep-set, dark brown eyes—his own eyes. It was like looking into a mirror.

The nurse moved between their beds and fixed her gaze on him. “Welcome back. How are you feeling?”

Jack tried to speak, but his dry throat held sound hostage after the first squeak.

“I’ll get you some water.” The woman’s golden hair shifted as she spun and stepped away from him.

He returned his gaze to the familiar-looking patient in the next bed. Silence filled the room as he stared at the man. Pride emitted from the guy’s gaze. Why?

The woman returned, and Jack took the water from her with a shaky hand. The cool liquid soothed his itchy throat enough for him to speak. “How long have I been out?” He stole another glance of the soldier in the next bed.

“Just a couple of hours. The doctor stitched your hand, cleaned out your eye, and dressed the shallow wound on your head. You should be fine in no time.”

“And the others?”

The woman directed her gaze to the mystery man in the next bed, then slowly returned it to him.

“Your co-pilot didn’t make it. The gunners are fine, and the wounded are here and being treated.” She smiled warmly. “You did great. If not for you they wouldn’t be here.”

That was his job, along with all the other Huey pilots.

He closed his eyes. The one covered by the gauze itched, and he fought the urge to scratch it. Then, he took a deep breath before reopening them. The good eye opened to a bit of a larger slit this time. The guy in the next bed came in to focus again. In a momentary flashback, he recalled this soldier had been on his chopper—up front with him. But wait, that couldn’t be right—what happened to Singleton, the copilot? He thought harder on the memory.

Jack lifted his injured hand and pointed with his bound fingers toward the mystery man. “You were in Singleton’s seat.”

“Yes sir, I moved him in case you needed help. I thought you’d been shot in the eye but found out later the bullet only grazed your hand and head. It was debris in your eye.”

With his fingertips, Jack pressed lightly against the gauze patch covering his left eye. It was sore to the touch but not too bad. His throbbing temples hurt worse.

“But, you did it all. You’d been injured, yet flew the chopper and its passengers to safety with one eye and one hand.”

He tried to recall the flight back but couldn’t.

“I don’t…”

The soldier popped himself up on his elbow, keeping his gaze on him. “You did it. Without a doubt it was heroic. You’d hardly touched down before you passed out.”

“Huh.”

“Thank God you were able to do that or we’d all be dead.”

“So, you’re not a pilot?”

“No sir. I was just one of the injured you picked up.” The soldier pointed at his leg. “I got shot in the thigh.”

A sense of admiration sifted through Jack. Everyone on that helicopter would be dead if not for this man and his resolve. “So, you’re not a pilot, and you’d been shot, yet you still climbed up front to help.”

“Yeah. My only hope was to try to keep you alert. You had me estimate how far off the ground we were and try to keep you away from obstacles. Your depth perception seemed to be a problem.”

Good heavens, it was a complete miracle. “What’s your name?”

“Blake.”

“Well, thank you, Blake.”

He gazed at the nurse. “And your name?”

She glanced at the other man, and they shared a knowing smile before she replied, “Ariel.”

Jack eased his aching head back down to the pillow. “That’s a pretty name. Reminds me of a guardian angel.”

Out of the blue, a spine-chilling, eerie sensation saturated every cell of his being. The feeling seemed oddly familiar. He racked his brain to place the root of it, but with the level of exhaustion consuming him, he couldn't focus. His eyelids drifted shut.

A hard jolt to his arm catapulted him to full alert despite his fatigue. A tall, dark-haired nurse yanked his arm again, nearly pulling it from the socket. Why was she gripping him so tightly, and where had the nice blonde gone? This wasn’t right. What was this woman up to? He squirmed to free himself from her hold. The woman’s long fingernails dug into his skin. Her dark, soulless gaze unnerved him. In her opposite hand, he glimpsed a shiny object. He pulled away from her as he sprang into a seated position.

All at once, she spun away from him and into the petite, golden-haired nurse. Ariel, and the soldier from the bed next over, struggled to get the object from the woman's hand. Jack’s pulse pounded. What in the hell was happening? He made a move to leap off his bed to help them but before he could a sudden, fiery gust of swirling air knocked the three of them to the floor. A dark funnel cloud encircled the dark-haired nurse, spinning fast and hard.

Jack blinked to clear his vision. When he refocused, it was not a woman in the swirling tornado-like funnel, but a large raven. A dragon-like screech pierced his eardrums as the dark cloud disappeared.

Strong air currents rushed over him as if he were standing under the whooshing blades of the helicopter. Heat surged his body. The sensation of danger dissipated but sheer curiosity caused him to keep his gaze fixed on Blake and Ariel who hovered in the air a few feet off the floor. They both began to spin as if caught in a whirlwind. Faster and faster. Lifting until they spun out of sight.

Jack collapsed back onto the bed. He had to be dreaming.

When next he woke, his temples throbbed less than before, but they still pounded. He hadn’t a clue how long he’d been out. Turning his head to the side, he found the next bed vacant and recalled the odd dream he’d had about Blake and Ariel.

As he lay there staring at the empty bed, a doctor stepped into his line of vision.

He turned his attention to the tall, blade-thin man. Deep creases stretched out from the guy’s dark inset eyes. His eyelids drooped as if he hadn’t slept in a while.

Jack’s injured eye twinged and his brows furrowed as he peeked around the doctor at the empty bed.

“Captain Cornelis. How are you feeling?” The man’s voice sounded more chipper than he appeared.

“Got a bit of a headache, but other than that, I feel fine.”

“Overall, your injuries are minor. You got lucky. It appears a bullet snuck between the windshield where bolts hold the frame, hit your hand, maybe deflected off the collective then hit your helmet above your left eye and came out the helmet by your left ear. The bullet scraped your head, and I dug some metal and plexiglass fragments out of your eye.”

His heart plummeted to his stomach. How bad was the damage to his eye? He couldn’t pilot if he couldn’t see.

The doctor lifted his hand. In it, he held Jack’s helmet. “See.” He pointed to a hole. “The bullet entered here.” The doc turned his arm slightly, angling head covering so Jack could see the exit hole. “And came out here.”

An inch or two lower and it would have gone clear through his eye.

“Holy shit.”

“You got that right. Anyhow, your hand and head will be fine. We’ll know more about your eye when I check it tomorrow. For right now, I want you to rest. Keep your eyes closed.”

He nodded and swallowed hard, not wanting to think about the damage to his eye. He was nothing if he couldn’t fly. He’d do whatever the Doc told him to do in the hope for a full recovery.

The whip of a man turned to leave.

“Wait!” Jack called out.

The doctor turned back and stepped closer to him.

Jack pointed at the bed next to him. “The soldier that was in that bed, where is he?”

The man arched a brow. “That bed’s been vacant since you came in.”

His pulse pounded. “What?” How could that be? He was sure there’d been a man in that bed. He even talked to him.

The doctor held his hand up. “Just get some rest.”

Five days later, Jack stood in his tiny room in the barracks. Loud echoes from the other soldiers resonated throughout the halls, but he didn’t mind. He’d take that over a hospital bed any day. He grabbed his helmet and eyed the bullet hole, then he looked in the mirror and placed his fingertips to the scrape that started low on his forehead above his left eye, extended upward over his temple, and then higher on the side of his head. All that remained of the injury to his eye was some splashes of red among the whites. He blinked a few times. Not a trace of pain, and his vision seemed as good as it ever was.

Still, his pulse soared. Talk about a close call. He could have come out of this blind in his eye. He swallowed hard. Or, even dead.

He pulled the photo of his lovely Gwennie from inside his helmet and pinched it between his thumb and the outside of the head covering near where the bullet penetrated. With the fingers of his opposite hand, he traced over her peaches and cream cheeks, unleashing the memory of how soft her skin felt against his fingertips. Though the photo had faded, in his mind, he could see her clearly, little pink button nose and all. Inhaling, he recalled her tantalizing vanilla scent. He skimmed his tingling fingertips over her lips. Those kissable, bow-shaped lips. The second he got home he would propose to her—make her his forever.

Gwennie, she’s what kept him going through this mess of a war.

He slipped the photo into his shirt pocket, next to the envelope addressed to his sweetheart. He’d written her some during the time he’d been away, nearly two years. Guilt sifted through him, not often enough. She deserved more. He’d be sure to pop that letter in the mail today.

Jack eyed the damaged helmet in his hand one more time, then set it down and grabbed the new one he’d been issued earlier in the day when he’d been cleared for duty. Cold, hard realization punched him in the gut, again. He almost died. His personal experiences from this war had taught him to lower his expectations. Sweat beaded on his temples. Was it fair to Gwennie to string her along? The odds were stacked against him in terms of making it home alive. Should he just let her get on with her life now, rather than waiting for notice of his death? He choked at the thought, but knew he should do what was best for his beloved. He pulled the letter from his pocket and tossed it in the trash.

“Cornelis!” someone yelled from down the hallway, snapping him out of his thoughts.

There was no more time to reflect on what almost happened, he needed to focus forward, get to his chopper to fly another evacuation mission. That’s what he was there to do. That was his job. Hopefully, in the future, it would be without issue. Just a couple of more months and his second tour would be completed.

He took one last glance at himself in the mirror. Was he a fool for thinking he could get out of this war alive?