“In the river?”
Higgins shook his head. “And me without my gummies.”
Russell surveyed the map as well. Though he had not been made privy to the original map tattooed on Fontaneda’s skin, Kismet had seen no advantage to keeping him out of the loop regarding the area of the search. “We can use boats,” he suggested. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
“Beats the hell out of tramping through the woods,” Kismet said.
“Or wading through the muck,” Higgins added.
Russell took a long look at the map, as if committing it to memory, then clapped Kismet on the shoulder. “Tomorrow, we’ll find it. Whatever it is.”
The next morning, Kismet was surprised and a little dismayed to learn that the boats Russell had arranged for were inflatable three man rafts. The rubber boats were more portable than hard-shelled craft like canoes, but more vulnerable to hazards hidden just below the surface, such as fallen tree branches. Eager to get on with the search, he kept these concerns to himself.
They hiked to the lake shore and inflated the boats using portable battery operated pumps. There were six boats in all, accommodating eighteen of them altogether — the rest of the platoon would remain at the camp. Kismet and his friends were assigned to separate boats, each with a two man escort, and the entire element was split into two groups to double their effectiveness.
Russell’s boast of finding the goal that day proved overly optimistic. Kismet’s concerns about the risk of using inflatable soft boats however, proved prophetic.
It was a little after four o’clock when Kismet and his escort were just paddling out of a minor creek — so tiny that it did not even appear on the detailed topographical map — when the little boat snagged on something.
At first, Kismet thought they had merely grounded on a submerged rock, but the audible hissing noise warned that the situation was far more critical.
“Damn it,” raged the soldier at the front of the raft. “I missed that.”
Kismet felt a shudder pass through the boat they back-paddled away from the snag. A submerged root shifted beneath the murky water, visible for only an instant as the water came alive with bubbles of air escaping from the ruptured air cell.
Kismet didn’t think the raft would sink. The inflatable air cells were all independent, so one leak would not compromise the craft’s buoyancy. At the very worst, it would lose some rigidity and take on a little water. Unconcerned, he was about to resume paddling when the soldier nearest to the leak panicked, scrambling away from collapsing cell.
Water suddenly poured into the boat as the undamaged section of the raft became overloaded. The shift caused everyone to pitch forward, and the hasty soldier tumbled into the creek. As he struggle to avoid being likewise dislodged, Kismet realized that the something was moving in the water all around them.
“Snakes!”
“Son of a bitch!” The soldier who had fallen in screamed at almost the same instant, splashing frantically. Amid the froth of white water, Kismet saw a dark, writhing mass fall away from the man’s wrist.
Water moccasins!
Kismet’s heart lurched into overdrive as he became aware of more of the squirming shapes. He couldn’t tell what was a snake and what was just a shadow, but for a moment, they seemed to be everywhere.
Something moved near his foot.
The other boats in the party were already paddling over to help. Russell had his pistol out and was searching for a target, but Kismet barely noticed. At least one of the deadly vipers was in the stricken raft with him, squirming in the water just inches from his leg. Meanwhile, all around the boat, the water was alive with dark wriggling shapes. Before he could move, the man in the water was attacked again.
“Help him!” Annie cried from another boat. She started paddling furiously, as if she might, all by herself, somehow reach the struggling soldier and save him.
Russell fired into the water, dangerously close to both the ailing man and Kismet’s raft. One of the squirming shapes exploded in a spray of viscous blood, but the animal continued to thrash violently. Russell fired again and again, emptying the magazine into the water.
Kismet did his best to ignore the tumult outside the raft. With painstaking slowness, he drew his kukri, but even that slight bit of movement caught the viper’s attention. It coiled and struck…
The dripping fangs closed around the steel of Kismet's knife, and as it squeezed down, the razor edge sliced deep into its head.
With a flick of his wrist, Kismet hurled the mortally wounded snake back into the swamp.
While Russell and his men drove off the rest of the snakes, Annie’s boat crew arrived to pulled the wounded soldier into their raft. The man was already clenching his teeth in agony and swearing at his ill luck.
Kismet heard Annie asking: “Will he be all right?”
Actual deaths from snake venom were rare, especially in the United States, but the grim expression of the unit medic as he hastily administered an antihistamine injection filled Kismet with dread.
The man — Specialist Jeremiah Olson — was still alive and conscious when they reached the hastily arranged rendezvous with the rest of the platoon and the Humvee that was waiting to take him to the hospital. There was every reason to believe that the man would survive, but the tragic incident had dealt a savage blow to the morale of the expedition, crushing all hope of finding their goal.
Russell waited until they were back at the camp, in the tent and more or less out of earshot from his men, to vent his rage. “I am done with this shit, Kismet. You will tell me what in the hell you are looking for, or I will leave you here, right here, right now, orders be damned.”
Kismet sighed. He understood how the major felt; it was a soldier’s job to follow orders, even if those orders didn’t make sense, and it was the commander’s job to send men into harm’s way, without knowing the reason for the sacrifices that would be made. But that didn’t make it any less of a burden.
On the other hand, would learning the truth about the mission — about the mythical nature of the their goal — put Russell at ease, or make the accident on the water seem even more senseless?
“All right, Major. You probably are going to wish I hadn’t told you this, but here goes. You probably know the story of how Florida was discovered, right?”
Russell's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Spanish explorers, looking for the Fountain of Youth…Wait…is that what you are looking for?”
His tone was incredulous, yet there remained an undercurrent of hope that belied his skepticism.
Kismet gave him a short version of events, starting with the correspondence from the man who had called himself Fortune, and leading up to the discovery of Fontaneda’s diaries. He spoke of Leeds only as a rival explorer, omitting mention of all that had happened on The Star of Muara. Finally, he showed Russell the map, cut from the Spaniard’s own skin.
“You don’t seem crazy,” Russell finally concluded. “But is any of this even possible? Eternal youth?”
Russell’s question, strangely enough, was the one part of the mystery Kismet had not allowed himself to dwell on. From the moment the search had begun, his one thought was to beat Leeds to the prize. He had accepted Fontaneda’s account on faith, focusing on finding the cavern, without indulging in “what if” fantasies about living forever or saving the world. He spread his hands, shrugging. “I’m no biologist, but it seems conceivable that some natural property of the water from this Fountain might stimulate new cell growth.”