The airboat captain is desperate to spot a gleaming pair of eyes. In the middle of the St. Johns River, in the redneck heart of Florida, darkness is deepening, and a chill envelops the swamp. For nearly five hours, six men have sat on thinly padded seats, wearing earphones to muffle the airboat's roar. They swat prehistoric insects off one another in silence. Wind rattles their jowls, slices through their jeans. They chew tobacco to distract... More >>>
"That bitch be mine!" says Greg Amira, who was wounded on 9/11 and in Iraq.