Sharkey lifted the night vision scope and peered through it. No doubt about it, this particular place was ideal. There was no way in that didn't have a dozen or more sightlines from the house. They couldn't approach easily without being seen. By the same token, no one could escape easily without being seen and recaptured. There were no close neighbors, and the place looked sufficiently run-down that no one would think it possible that a missing Naval officer might be held prisoner there… Yet, it was sufficiently intact that someone could hole up there and be relatively comfortable. It was far off the beaten path, not a place anyone would have looked. And it was sufficiently far from Selkirk Road, that the skipper wouldn't have seen it when trolling for places along that route.

He passed the scope to Captain Crane with a recommendation. "This could be the place, sir. I don't see any cars, but they might be in back."

He watched the skipper lift the scope to his eye and look through it. The skipper was feeling these late nights, he knew. He doubted Captain Crane had gotten much sleep since two nights ago, when his XO was taken. Two nights that they had hunted along Selkirk road, and ventured farther afield into the trees, looking for someplace that might be used as a prison.

Captain and XO were friends, good ones, after these four years of close coordination. The skipper would be only too well aware of what might befall his friend, if Mr. Morton didn't spill the information they wanted. And knowing Mr. Morton – as stubborn as he was – he wouldn't say a word.

In his years in the Navy, Sharkey had been in a few tight places. He knew the kind of people who might be holed up in that house; he had first hand, intimate knowledge of people like that. It disturbed him that one of those people was that Mark White, who was among the worst men Sharkey had ever worked with. He had been briefed by the skipper and the admiral on the situation at the retirement party, and he knew that there was some kind of history between Mr. White and Mr. Morton. The skipper had picked up on that in the receiving line, and the skipper was rarely wrong. If Mark White was running true to form…

It sickened him to think of what White might do… The villain would have made it his business to find out every possible weakness that Mr. Morton might have. Sharkey didn't know himself what would give a man like the XO nightmares but it was a given that Mark White would know. And he would capitalize on that. Even take it further. Sharkey had seen what White was capable of, on the Hopper, and had heard even worse stories from his girl on the Ronald Reagan. He worried over what White was doing right now…

His attention was caught by the skipper again, as Captain Crane lowered the scope. "It's certainly remote enough. But I don't see how we can get close enough to be sure…" He was silent, thinking it through.

Sharkey offered some help. "I can only see one way to approach, sir. We might be able to get there from the lee-side." There was a small grove of trees on that side; not too dense, but perhaps enough to provide some cover. He hadn't been able to tell through the scope, but he knew that some of these old farmhouses had basement entrances on the lee-side of the house, protected from the elements. This house looked large enough to maybe have a basement, or at the very least a root cellar. If they could reach the house, and get in through the basement, they'd be at a disadvantage coming up the basement stair, but their entrance would be guaranteed to be a surprise. "We can send Kowalski. He's checking out that side of the house, sir." He started to raise his flashlight to signal Ski, but stopped when the skipper shook his head.

"I don't like it… The cover isn't dense enough." The skipper lifted the scope again, but this time, he directed it away from the house, toward a small body of water off to the north. "We can hire a boat, and get a look at the back of the house. Maybe that will give us a little more information."

It probably would. They would at least be able to tell if there were any cars round back. But it went against the grain to wait that long… "We wouldn't be able to hire anything till morning, sir. Shouldn't we go ahead, try to get closer."

The skipper shook his head. "I know what you're thinking, COB. But we can't afford to make any mistakes here. As soon as they know we've found them, Mr. Morton becomes expendable. I won't take that chance."

Sharkey felt a little sick. Man, oh, man, he wouldn't want to have to be the one to tell the admiral… Or the crew, for that matter… "Sure, sir. I understand." He slid back from his spot, and crawled a few feet before rising under the cover of the trees and heading for the road. He heard the skipper behind him. "I'll call Ski in. We can make for that lake now, sir. Maybe there's an all-night boat rental place."

It was a small body of water though… He turned toward the skipper with another idea. "I can call Pat, have him retrieve the Zodiac from FS1, sir. We can have it here in a matter of an hour or so…"

The skipper was already nodding. "Good thinking, COB. Get Patterson out to that lake ASAP." He shot Sharkey a sharp glare. "Less than an hour, if at all possible. Stay here. And keep Ski where he is. I'll get eyes on the back of the place, and the three of us can compare notes."

So Sharkey snagged some binoculars from the car, called Pat, then crawled back up into his aerie. The skipper drove away, turning onto Selkirk Road. Sharkey followed him with the binoculars for awhile, until he turned onto the highway, then looked back at the house.

Everything was dark and still. They were either in for the night, or there was no one there… But it didn't bear thinking of, that this could be the wrong house. There wasn't another place anywhere around that was as ideal as this place was. If it were the wrong house, they would have to start again, from scratch, and time was running out… Forty-eight hours, already, maybe slightly more… Much longer, and they could kiss Mr. Morton goodbye, because their chances of finding him were sunk… If this wasn't the place…

It had to be the place. Sharkey had no idea how long a man could hold out against the most sophisticated and painful of questioning techniques, but it was a safe bet that anyone who didn't talk, died… And probably within a week or two. If they couldn't discover a trace after forty-eight hours, their chances were shot. Their window of opportunity for recovery was closing. And Sharkey didn't like the thought of that at all…