As always, this is a work of fiction. Even the remotest resemblance between the characters described in this story and any person living or dead is purely a coincidence. Any person engaging in sexual activity is 18 years of age or older.
There are likely numerous misstatements of Kentucky law in the narrative below. The intent was to move the story along, not provide legal advice. There is no Crockett County in Kentucky.
I appreciate all the feedback I've received on my earlier stories and encourage comments and suggestions to this story as well. Please be kind and gentle.
A WAR ON THE HOME FRONT
PROLOGUE
Matt Morton slowed as he approached the long farm lane that led to his house. As he prepared to turn into the lane, he noticed an older crew cab pickup, pulled off onto the side just a few yards down the road. He turned into the lane to clear the roadway, then stopped the truck. He opened the door, then walked down the county road to the truck. He'd gone into town to purchase lumber and have dinner with his mother. The bed of his truck was full of 1x12 boards, materials for tomorrow's repair to the barn. He'd inherited the farm when his grandfather had died. Until a year earlier, it had been a quarter century since the farm was anything but a home of record in a military file.
Matt and his mother, Sally, had moved in with his grandparents when Matt was six. His father, a decorated Virginia state police corporal, had been killed during a traffic stop. He'd pulled over a car with Florida tags, loaded so heavily that it had fully compressed the rear shocks and springs. The trunk of that car had been loaded with cocaine. The driver had pulled a gun and Matt's dad and the driver had both died in the ensuing shootout. Sally, a schoolteacher, had quickly concluded that she could not afford the Washington, DC suburbs on her salary and her late husband's pension. She had moved back onto her parents' farm, taking a teaching job in the eastern Kentucky county school district's high school, then becoming the first female principal in the district's history. She had educated and guided several generations of students before retiring two years before. Although she had never remarried, she had "kept company" with a male teacher some fifteen years older whom she'd met a few years after moving back. He had died shortly after she retired.
Matt and his mother were both only children. After Sally's parents died, she had moved into town, purchasing a small house that was convenient to the school, allowing her to walk to work when she wanted. At her request, her father had left the farm to Matt, hoping that it would lure him back home when his military career ended. She'd arranged for a neighboring farmer to lease the croplands, paying sufficient rent to cover the taxes and provide basic maintenance on the property. She'd leased the farmhouse to a series of families, most of whom had later moved to town rather than stay so far from the nearest neighbor.
Matt enlisted in the Army the summer after high school graduation. He'd spent twenty-five years on active duty, mostly with special forces units. The Army had been very good to him. He'd trained as a medic and obtained a college degree, plus a masters' degree in health care management. In special forces units, medics were far more than just first responders. Frequently the primary interface with the locals in "hearts and minds" actions, Matt's training and skill levels matched or exceeded that of many rural general practice physicians of the pre-WWII era and he had access to antibiotics and painkillers that those pre-war doctors could only dream about. Matt had run inoculation programs, delivered babies, treated broken bones and various wounds, and performed simple surgeries. Cross trained as a weapons specialist, Matt was proficient with both NATO and former eastern bloc weaponry. His grandfather had been a competitive rifle and pistol shooter in his youth. He had trained Matt to be a superb shot with both rifle and pistol long before the Army had ever put him on a firing range.
Matt's recruiter had told him that if he enlisted, the Army would guarantee that he saw the world. Matt had, although nearly all the parts he'd seen were far, far away from those most tourists visited. He'd once calculated that in twenty-five years of active duty, he'd spent seventeen deployed overseas, mostly in rural areas of Latin America, southwest Asia, and sub-Saharan Africa. Somewhere in the attic, there was a box full of "I was there" ribbons and medals. The box also held a Bronze Star with V Device, a Silver Star, and a Distinguished Service Cross, each of which had come with its own Purple Heart. The last Purple Heart had brought about Matt's retirement. As a result of the action that generated it, Matt now carried a collection of plates, screws and pins holding various parts of him together as well as a host of scars on his legs and torso. The level of damage did not interfere with ordinary activities as a civilian, including reasonable exercise, but it had put an end to deployments. Rather than sit at a desk or be limited to training roles, Matt had chosen to retire. To his mother's delight, he had returned home to the farm on which he'd grown up.
The deployment schedule had kept Matt from ever forming any kind of permanent relationship with a woman. He stood about five foot ten inches and weighed about one hundred sixty pounds, within a pound or two of his weight at enlistment. He was ruggedly handsome, and his good looks, along with his physical condition and military bearing, caught the attention of many attractive women over the years. There had been numerous casual relationships with various NGO and UN staffers, a couple of news correspondents, and even some local nationals. Since returning home, he'd avoided relationships with women from his home town, although he'd had numerous offers. Most of the women he'd known from high school were married and divorced, usually with a couple of children and a tale of woe about a dead-beat ex-husband. There were too many rocks and shoals in those offers to make them the least bit attractive. At present, he was seeing Monique, an emergency room doctor in a university hospital about 50 miles away, whom he'd met at a jazz club. He'd been sitting two stools down from her at the bar when a former boyfriend had refused to take "No" for an answer. After the boyfriend had grabbed her arm and jerked her off the barstool, Matt had intervened. He'd quickly disabled the boyfriend and frog marched him out of the club. Monique had bought him a drink to say thank you, then accepted his offer to join him for dinner. Their common interest in medicine had provided common ground and they had developed a "good friends with benefits" arrangement which had no prospect of becoming something more. Monique, a statuesque African American, was not about to move to rural eastern Kentucky, where interracial relationships were still actively frowned upon. Matt had no desire to move to the city, enjoying living on the farm. The two of them had drifted along, seeing each other about twice a month for romantic dinners, concerts and theater evenings, and torrid sex. They'd taken one week-long trip to the Caribbean together, but both acknowledged that there was no long-term future in the arrangement, and it was clear to both that it was winding down.
Matt's frugal lifestyle and extensive deployment schedule had left him with very few opportunities to spend money, resulting in his having a healthy investment portfolio. For the last year, Matt had been using some of those funds to update the farmhouse and restore the barn and other outbuildings. He'd brought in professionals to do the electrical and plumbing but all the other work had been his. The house now had a new roof, a modern country-style kitchen with upgraded appliances, two-and-a-half modern bathrooms, insulation, propane fired gas heating with wood stove backup, an air conditioning system, and modern windows. Because there was no cell or internet service in the area, Matt had installed a satellite dish and maintained satellite telephone and internet service as well as having a cell phone. His deployments in Latin America had mostly focused on actions against the cartels, so he also installed a state-of-the-art security and video monitoring system tied to the satellite service, allowing him to see what occurred in and around the house and barn from anywhere he could find an internet connection. The boards in the bed of the truck were the last pieces of siding needed for the barn repair. After that, he would paint the barn and the outbuildings, and the year-long renovation project would be complete. He was unsure what would follow. The county health clinic had a standing offer to him to work as a physician's assistant and the local ambulance service wanted him as an EMT. Absent some other opportunity arising, he expected that one of those jobs lay in his future. In any case, he believed that his days of combat were behind him and that he could look forward to a peaceful second act to his life. It would take a while to discover that he wasn't quite correct in that belief.
CHAPTER ONE
As Matt approached the truck, he heard what sounded like a baby's cry. He stopped in the middle of the road, listening carefully and then heard it again. It seemed to be coming from the truck. He walked up to the side of the truck and peered in. There was a woman leaning against the driver's side door, apparently asleep. There were three small children in car seats in the rear seat. The bed of the truck held several suitcases. Matt knocked on the driver's side window, hoping to awaken the woman. She began to stir.
As she awoke, the woman looked out her window. Her response was not what Matt anticipated. Rather than greeting him, she reached into her lap and raised a.38 revolver, pointing it at him through the window. Matt quickly raised his hands. Then he began efforts to defuse the situation.
"Lady, please point that somewhere else. I saw your truck on the side of the road as I was coming home and just wanted to check to see if you were o.k. I live up the lane you passed about thirty yards back. That's my truck in the lane."
