Their work took them close to the bayside shore of Dark Isle, and, for some reason, they decided to have a look on land. The island was notorious for its slave history and old tales of trespassers who disappeared. However, it had been deserted for decades. The locals, especially the fishermen, stayed away from it. The scientists, though, were far too educated for ghost stories and scoffed at the legends of voodoo curses and savage animals. As they slid the boat to a stop in the sand, a strong wind rose from the sea. Lightning clapped nearby. Thunder boomed from the mainland. The sky quickly became dark and ominous. Since there was no shelter to be seen, the scientists made the decision to hop back onto the boat and head for the ramp. As they cast off, the winds began to gust and a thick, slicing rain began to fall. The boat was shoved away from the island. Heavy waves began slapping it around. The men were not wearing life jackets and couldn’t find them in the chaos. The choppy water tossed them about. The boat was no match for the waves and finally capsized. All three men went under.
One managed to hang on to the boat for two hours as the storm raged and the winds howled. When it finally passed, a county rescue team pulled him to safety. The sound was dragged for hours and into the next day, but the two lost men were never found.
The usual inquiries were made but eventually went nowhere. It was a storm, an act of nature. The experienced scientists were doing their work properly. It was just bad luck.
Lost in the tragedy and its subsequent investigation was the fact that the two casualties were white. The survivor was black.
Dark Isle had claimed more victims.
If the corporate suits who ran Tidal Breeze down in Miami were aware of the island’s colorful legends, it was not evident. After suddenly becoming attracted to the island, and after preliminary conversations with the right politicians and bureaucrats, Tidal Breeze began a clandestine operation to inspect and monitor the property. It hired a firm to use satellites to photograph, chart, and record every possible square foot. It hired another firm to scour the island with drones and send back images. What was feared became a reality. The island was so densely packed with ancient trees and vegetation it was impossible to see what was really on the ground. Leo, a Category 4 with winds of 145 miles per hour and a storm surge of an estimated twenty-five feet, had knocked over thousands of mature trees and strewn their limbs and roots into massive piles of debris. Thousands of other trees stood their ground and were shading much of the interior of the island. The vegetation had grown back after the storm and was too thick and dense to walk through. There was no evidence of roads or trails, no signs of the ruins of old buildings. A slight ridge ran along the center of the island. Its height was estimated at twenty feet in places, but most of Dark Isle was at sea level.
Though they would never admit it, because of the inevitable backlash, the suits had already decided that the best way to develop the island was to turn loose the bulldozers. A scorched-earth approach, one that Tidal Breeze knew well. They would save some of the nicer trees, display them, make a fuss over them, and preen about the company’s long-standing commitment to protecting the environment and natural habitats.
A third firm, called Harmon, was hired to send a team ashore. It consisted of four tough guys who’d once served in the army’s Special Forces. Three had been dishonorably discharged. They were supposedly experts in the more demanding areas of corporate security and private, semi-military-style jobs. Scoping out a small deserted island would not be much of a challenge.
Swaney, the captain and leader, decided a nighttime landing would be the smarter move. They couldn’t run the risk of being seen by police or sheriff’s deputies. The Coast Guard patrolled the area around Camino Island and Cumberland Island, Georgia. The DNR was often seen poking around. There were dozens of fishing boats and pleasure craft in and out of the main harbor at Santa Rosa. Someone, it seemed, was always nearby.
Camping and picnicking on Dark Isle were not against the law. For the locals, the island was a no-man’s-land that had never been developed and had never been owned, for all practical matters. It was just sitting there, three miles of deserted jungle surrounded by white beaches. Anyone could stop by for a swim, a picnic, or a hike.
But no one did. There were too many old stories of those who’d tried.
