Moving quietly across the dark inlet, the team members sat low in their thirty-foot fixed-hull inflatable boat, a dinghy, and watched the lights of the Santa Rosa harbor grow distant. When the hull touched sand, Swaney lifted the motor and guided the boat onto the beach. The four pulled it out of the surf and secured it with stakes and ropes. High tide was four minutes after midnight, three hours away. Using night-vision goggles, they found the two large dunes they’d selected from the aerials and decided these provided the best cover for their camp. Each of the four had a small video camera mounted on top of his helmet, and the live feeds were sent to a control center in a brown, unmarked van — “the UPS truck” as it was known — parked in the lot of the Sheraton hotel on Camino Island. Each man also had a hot headset mike that allowed the two technicians in the van to talk in real time to the team. Everybody could communicate.
They set up camp by pitching four single rayon tents with fly screens. They unloaded coolers of food and drinks. The plan was to spend two full days exploring the island and two nights in the tents. They were not yet tired and decided to explore. They wore full military-style uniforms, minus the protective flak jackets. All were well armed with Glock 19 semi-automatic pistols and two carried M4 assault rifles. Each had a GPS monitor on his belt that allowed the technicians in the truck to follow his movements. The technicians were staring at the screen, following the four green dots as they moved along the beach, and trying to stay awake. No one on the team, and certainly no one in the van, expected excitement.
After an hour of walking the beach and finding no trail leading to the interior, Swaney said they would wait until daylight. By 11:30 the men were tucked away in their tents and falling asleep. They were all snoring an hour later when the first cat screeched at full volume and ruined their slumber. The animal was close by and its sound was a shrill, piercing call to action that ripped through the still night and caused the four to jump out of their skin. They instinctively grabbed weapons and looked out the fly screens. They waited, hearts pounding, lungs pulsing. The second scream seemed even closer, but that was probably because they were waiting for it.
The cry was not one of anguish. It was aggressive, as if warning the trespassers that they did not belong there.
Vince whispered loudly, “Hey, boss, what the hell’s that?”
Swaney whispered back, “How am I supposed to know? Let’s stay quiet.”
“Let’s get back in the boat.”
“Nobody moves.”
The cry seemed to come from the general direction of the south, either on the beach or close to it. A minute passed, and one to the north answered with his or her own version of a high-pitched growl that was distinguishable from the first.
There were at least two of them out there. Minutes passed and nothing was heard.
Swaney said, “Okay, get your lights and Glocks. On three we jump out and look around.”
On three they scrambled out, bounced to their feet, flooded the area with lights, and saw nothing.
“Hey, boss, you ever heard a panther growl?” Roy asked.
Swaney said, “No, have you?”
“Not in real life, but I saw one in a movie.”
“So you’re the expert?”
“Didn’t say that, but this boy sounded sort of like the one in the movie.”
“It’s either a panther or a bobcat,” Marcus said with some authority. “Both are native to Florida, though the panthers went south a long time ago.”
“Can you tell one from the other?” Swaney asked.
“Maybe. I’d bet it’s a panther.”
“Are they friendly?” Vince asked.
“Did they sound friendly?”
“Not exactly.”
“No, they’re not friendly at all. They’re aggressive as hell when they feel threatened.”
“I ain’t threatened nobody,” Vince said.
“Are you shittin’ us again, Marcus?” Roy asked. “Always shittin’ us.”
Marcus said, “No I’m not. Panthers are known for their aggressiveness.”
Swaney said, “All right, knock it off. We got food and supplies out here, so we’ll take turns playing sentry. I’ll take the first two hours. You guys get some sleep.”
The other three returned to their tents as Swaney sat on a cooler with his M4. He smoked a cigarette and gazed at the distant lights of Camino Island. He listened carefully for the approach of something, though he knew the cats or whatever they were would not make a sound in the sand. There was no moon and the night was dark. Somewhere up there a satellite was watching them. An hour passed. Swaney smoked his third cigarette to stay awake. He walked silently around the campsite, holding his pistol. He heard no snores from the tents and figured the others were too rattled to relax.
They tag-teamed through the night, taking turns as lookouts, all armed and ready, and though there were no more screams or howls, they slept little. Roy was awake when dawn broke and made a pot of coffee over a burner. The aroma drew the others out of their tents.
