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It was a freezing December morning in North Florida.

Heat duck hunting season.

But no one was hunting that day on the west corner of Lake Seminole.

The mist that shrouded the normally serene shoreline was lifting.

As a crowd of game wardens, sheriff's deputies and locals gathered near a boat ramp.

A sense of urgency hung heavy in the air.

More boats were showing up, more officers were showing up.

Scott Dungee stood at the lake's edge looking out into the murky waters.

When he spotted a helicopter, clear the tree line.

So it landed a hundred yards away from where everybody was gathered on the side of the lake.

The rotor blades slowed to a standstill.

The door swung open and a man in a green flight suit stepped out.

Violet came over and introduced himself.

I just told the pilot I'm going in the helicopter with you.

Scott wasn't a policeman or an emergency worker.

He was out there looking for his friend.

I hadn't come home yet from Duck Hunt.

There were 24 hours since anyone had heard from Mike.

Something was definitely wrong.

And in these freezing temperatures, Scott knew they had to act fast.

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