Page 4 of Her Faithful Protector

JACK REDLEY KELLEHER

Oahu, Hawaii

Perchingon a hill concealed behind a row of ferns, I peer through my binoculars, observing a squad of Marines approaching a compound where four hostages are held. Humidity is at a stifling ninety percent, and the temperature continues to rise, reaching the high seventies.

I bet these jarheads would rather be sipping cocktails in an air-conditioned bar, listening to the strumming of a ukulele. But they’re here on a mission. While they are trained, they still have much to learn. None of them have experienced the chaos of battle or the intense pressure of a life-or-death situation.

“Staff Sergeant Mitchell,” I instruct, asking for an update on the time elapsed.

“Sir, they have five minutes until they reach the extraction point.”

Concern fills me. They haven’t even located the hostages.

I continue to observe until the squads depart from thecompound. Now, a dense jungle lies between their current location and the extraction point.

“Let’s go,” I say to Mitchell, and we leave our post to join the Marines at the edge of the Kahuku Range.

I look into each Marine’s eyes, watching sweat covering their faces, their shoulders rising and falling with each breath.

“Sergeant Perry reporting, sir,” the squad leader says. His face paint fails to conceal his worry. The trainees are familiar with my reputation on this island, and this one clearly wasn’t expecting to meet me today, thinking Mitchel was in charge. He then announces, “We have successfully retrieved all four hostages, sir.”

I acknowledge the sergeant, then inspect the squad with a stern expression. “Welcome to week three of your AIMC!” I declare. AIMC, or Advanced Infantry Marine Course, is a rigorous seven-week training program designed to refine the squad’s infantry skills in a realistic setting. “Today was your lucky day. You got me whooping all your sorry asses.”

I pace in front of the line-up, then stare at the leader. “You’re three minutes behind schedule, Sergeant.”

“We faced a counterattack and found two wounded Marines separated from their squad.”

“They’re a vital aspect of the mission, not a pretext.”

“Yes, sir.”

I then deliver the fate of the Marines. “The air support designated for your unit’s extraction faced fuel constraints, and their location was jeopardized, so the pilot received orders to terminate the extraction. You exceeded the permissible time for maneuvering the path to the target, and you failed to secure the property within the specified timeframe.”

“Understood, sir. It won’t happen again.”

“You’re all dismissed,” I order.

Mitchell takes charge, barking, “Debrief in fifteen!”

Despite the additional three minutes, the men performed better than expected. The mission parameters Mitchell and I established were practically impossible, but today’s most important lesson is that they upheld the principle of leaving no Marines behind. And that makes me proud.

As the day comes to an end, I make my way to the waterfront. Finding a comfortable spot on a smooth rock, I retrieve a folded sketch from my wallet. The lines on the paper are well-crafted, a testament to Ava West’s exceptional talent as a courtroom artist. Not only does she possess the skill to capture an image, but she knows how to reveal the essence of a person—which is exactly what she did when we were in Bozeman.

The relentless Montana wind messed up her hair the night we met, and I tried to get the wild strands off her face. The silkiness of her blond curls left my fingertips tingling as her azure eyes and peaches-and-cream complexion became visible. God, how I wanted to kiss her. Only Ava could drive me to act with impulse like that, although I kept my self-control.

Our introduction was brief because neither of us enjoyed small talk. We were both there to support Morgan, her best friend, after she narrowly escaped a murder attempt. Despite that, Ava and I managed to find time for one-on-one conversations. We discussed the books we love. Mine beingHelmet for My Pillowby Robert Leckie, a memoir written by a World War II Marine veteran, and hers beingThe Helpby Kathryn Stockett, a novel set during the civil rights movement.

Time flew by beautifully when we talked, whatever the topic—the military, visual art, psychology. Despite her girl-next-door appearance, she exuded intelligence and maturity. Our six-year age gap seemed irrelevant. There was a profounddepth in her heart that hinted at the ability to carry weight, perhaps both mine and hers. It was evident when our conversation innocently veered toward the topic I dreaded the most—birthdays. In that moment, I realized she was unlike anyone I had ever met.

Believe it or not, I didn’t have a real birthday on my actual birthdate until I hit thirty. There is no relation between my pessimistic view of birthdays and parental neglect or anything of that nature. It’s all because I was abducted at the age of seven.

I was born in New York, but a significant part of my childhood is missing from my memory. Nothing made sense when I found myself inside a Florida monastery, a nun feeding me, asking me my name. I had no idea who I was—it was like my braindead self watching my body doing its own thing. Only thanks to my brother’s perseverance, I was reunited with him and my dad three years ago, and I had my first real birthday celebration. It felt peculiar, but I experienced it nonetheless.

When people hear my story for the first time, pity is usually the first reaction I see in their eyes. But not Ava. She was surprised, naturally, but instead of offering apologies or trying to understand what I had gone through, she showed belief. ‘You may not have all the answers, Jack, but you’ve got all the fight within you. Take a moment to give yourself credit for who you are now,’ she said then. That brought me comfort, and it felt as if we were connected even before we met. Still, there were many things I chose to conceal.

Now, the more I look at the sketch, another impression starts to emerge. People say that every artist leaves a piece of themselves in their work. Perhaps it’s merely my imagination, but I see her presence behind my own face.

Holding onto the sketch, I gaze ahead. The sun is at its prettiest when it sets. I’ve seen sunsets all over the world, and Ican say the best ones I witnessed are in Montana—especially in Bozeman when I was with her. But there’s something undeniably captivating about the vibrant hues of the Hawaiian sky at this time of day.

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