After a breakfast of fruit and ham sandwiches, they dressed and prepared for a long day of exploring. All had their Glocks on their hips. Roy and Vince carried machetes to hack through the undergrowth while Swaney and Marcus were armed with their M4s. Swaney checked in with the boys in the UPS truck and all systems were go. A silver drone hummed into view about a hundred feet above them to act as their forward scout. Its 360-degree rotating scan gave the techs a clear view of the team on the ground and the intimidating job in front of them. Communication was clear and instant. The four on the ground talked to command at will, though Swaney wanted as little chatter as possible.
Using infrared images from satellite photos taken before Leo, Swaney chose a trail, or what he hoped would be a trail, off the beach, through some dunes and into a thicket of sea oats and hedge vines. For an hour they hacked with their machetes but made little progress. The drone was two hundred feet above them but could not penetrate the dense canopy of the oaks, elms, and Spanish moss. The techs in the UPS truck could see nothing but forest. The sun was high and hot, the forecast was for clear skies, temps in the eighties, and the chance of the usual late afternoon shower. After two hours the men were hot and tired, and Swaney signaled for a retreat. They had advanced perhaps fifty yards through the thick bushes, vines, trees, and storm debris. Back near the water and in the clear, the drone picked them up again and followed them as they hiked along the beach. At another slight opening, they found a trail covered with dead trees and made some progress, though every inch was contested. By noon, they were exhausted and fed up with the island. There was nothing there but dead trees and wild vegetation.
Their goal was to find nothing. If there were remnants of history, any signs of the lost slave colony, they were to destroy them. Tidal Breeze wanted a clean slate when it assaulted the island. Objections from historical societies and lawsuits from preservationists would only delay the beauty of Panther Cay.
The men were resting and eating sandwiches at the foot of a two-hundred-year-old elm when they lost contact. Their headset mikes were suddenly dead. The boys in the UPS truck did not respond. Marcus, the tech expert, tried a cell phone but they were out of range. He tried a satellite phone but its batteries were dead. He said, “This is too weird. The batteries are brand-new, never been used. They can’t be dead.”
Swaney looked at his cell phone. It was dead. He looked at his handheld GPS monitor. The screen was black. The helmet cams were off. They listened for the drone but did not hear it.
Abandoned by the technology they took for granted, they said nothing as they ate and absorbed the reality of where they were. However, they were tough soldiers who’d been well trained years ago, and they were armed. After four hours of fighting their way through the forest, they were convinced that no other human was on the island. The only possible threat was those damned panthers, which would be dead the second they were spotted.
Swaney stood, stretched, picked up his backpack and his M4, and said, “Let’s backtrack and head for the beach.”
Shielded from the sun, the forest was cool and dark. As they moved slowly and searched for their trail, a thick cloud settled over the island and shut out even more light. Within minutes, Swaney stopped and looked for clues on the ground. All four scanned their surroundings. They were already lost.
5
In the UPS truck, the technicians went through their emergency checklists and tried everything. After half an hour of futility, they finally called their Harmon supervisor in Atlanta. There was concern but no panic. The men had been in far more dangerous situations. They were experienced and armed and could take care of themselves. There was no discussion of a rescue.
6
The first rattlesnake was resting on a limb three feet off the ground and showed no sign of alarm. He watched them as they froze and gawked at him. He did not coil as if to strike, nor did he bother to rattle his tail.
“Eastern diamondback,” Marcus said softly, as if the snake might be upset at being identified. “The deadliest of all rattlers.”
“Of course,” Roy said under his breath. He no longer believed anything Marcus said.
Vince rubbed the handle of his pistol and said, “I can take him, boss.”
Swaney lifted a hand and said, “No, let’s just ease away.”
To make matters worse, Marcus said, “These boys don’t live alone. When you see one you know there are others.”
“Shut up!” Roy said.
The second one was coiled and ready to strike, but gave the obligatory warning. When Swaney heard the unmistakable sound of the rattling, he stopped and took a step back. In the weeds, less than ten feet away, was a thick diamondback highly agitated.
“Take him, Vince!” Swaney said quickly.
Vince, a legendary marksman, fired four shots from his Glock and blew the snake in half. They watched him flip and jerk, his fangs still snapping as he died.
The gunshots echoed through the woods. When all was quiet and the snake was still, the four men realized how heavily they were breathing. No one spoke for a moment or two.
Marcus said, “This bad boy is over six feet long, very rare.”
Swaney stepped back and looked around. “We came in from the southeast. I’m guessing west is that direction. Seems like the sun is brighter.” He pointed and said, “Let’s head this way. Mark the trees so we don’t go in circles.”
“We’ve been doing circles for the past hour,” Roy mumbled.
“Shut up.”
The third rattler hit Swaney at the top of his right boot and did not break the skin. Swaney jumped as he screamed and lost his footing. Vince fired away but the snake disappeared into a pile of wet leaves. Roy, the medic, examined Swaney’s leg and pronounced him lucky. The vinyl layer of the boot had two deep fang marks.
They took a long break and had some water, but only a sip or two because they were running low. Each man gave his assessment of their situation and there was no consensus about which direction to try next. They had no idea if they were trekking closer to the shore or deeper into the jungle. Distant thunder did not lighten their mood. Marcus again tried the mikes, transmitters, and phones, with no luck. Even the compass on his watch was frozen.
It was a stretch to believe anyone would try to rescue them. The boys in the truck were geeks. Their bosses in Atlanta would not know what to do. They had sent in their best team for the job. Now that team was hopelessly lost. There was no backup.
They agreed that if they could manage to inch along in a straight line, more or less, they would eventually find the beach. Dark Isle was only three miles long and a mile wide. Surely they would find the ocean sooner or later.
They began moving, all eyes on the ground now, all ears waiting for the slightest rattle. Marking the trees as they moved along, Swaney tried to keep them in a straight line but it was difficult. There was no trail. Almost every step had to be cleared. They took a break at 5:00 p.m. and sat in a semicircle. Each took one sip of water from bottles that were almost empty. They had eaten everything in their backpacks.
Swaney said, “Okay, it’ll be dark in a couple of hours.”
“It’s already dark,” Roy blurted, and he was not wrong. The thick canopy above them kept the sunlight away.
Swaney went on, “I say we keep going for another hour and also look for a clear spot to bed down.”
“We haven’t seen a clear spot since this morning,” Vince said. Tensions were smoldering and the men were losing confidence in Swaney’s leadership.