Matt Hlinak - DoG

The four huddled together for a few minutes while Culann explained the plan.

“You’re really going through with this?” Worner asked.

“Yes,” Culann replied. “Everyone is upset with the Captain, and I am going to make it right.”

“You’re nuts,” McGillicuddy said.

“You may be right,” Culann said, “but you have to agree that it would be nice to pull one over on the Captain.”

“Yeah,” McGillicuddy replied, “but is it worth it?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Culann said. “I never planned to make a career out of this, so if I get caught, it’s no big deal to me. And I’ll take full responsibility if anything goes wrong. I won’t let on that any of you knew anything about this.”

“It’s not the job, greenhorn,” Worner said. “He’ll kill you.”

“Not if we do this right.”

Worner and McGillicuddy and even Frank seemed to look at Culann with a certain level of respect that hadn’t been there before. This whole idea was absolutely asinine, but Culann was filled with determination and confidence when he spoke of it.

Without quite understanding how they’d reached this point, all four men had become convinced that stealing the orb held some significance beyond the childish prank it appeared to be.

“Okay, greenhorn,” Worner said. “What do you want from us?”

“We need your cannonball,” Frank said.

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” Worner said. “My granddad gave that to me.”

“What would you rather have?” Culann asked. “A hundred-and-fifty-year-old Civil War cannonball or a three-thousand-year-old artifact from the lost city of Atlantis?”

Worner reached back and tugged on his ponytail. Culann bit back a smile. Frank had been right about how to appeal to Worner.

“But it’s my good luck charm.”

“You’re damn right it is,” Frank said. “That’s why it brought you here. The cannonball led you to the most amazing find in the history of the world. You give us the cannonball, we’ll give you the Atlantis orb.”

“I get to keep it?”

“Absolutely,” Culann said. “If you provide the financing for this venture, you reap the profits.”

“I thought you were going to try to sell it to make up for the money we’re losing.”

“That’s still on option,” Culann said. “But it will be your decision. I don’t really care about the money. The mission itself is all I care about.”

“So what’s in it for me?” McGillicuddy asked.

“Come on,” Frank said. “You heard the plan. You know damn well that you can’t resist playing a prank this big — this is worth at least ten greenhorn fishslaps.”

“Fair enough,” McGillicuddy said with a smile. “I’m in if Worner is.”

“Okay,” Worner said after a moment’s reflection. “What else you need?”

“We’re going to need a diversion,” Culann said.

McGillicuddy’s blue eyes sparkled. “You leave that up to me.”

They finalized the plan and then assumed their positions. They were about ninety minutes out of port and could see the craggy coastline climbing out of the black water ahead. They were hoping the Captain would go for one last cigar before docking; if he didn’t, the whole plan went out the porthole. They’d have about five minutes to grab the orb while the Captain strolled around the deck a couple of times. Frank and Culann stood by the rail on the starboard side, about twenty feet from the door to the bridge. They wanted to keep within eyeshot without being too conspicuous.

Forty-five minutes later, the plan unfolded. The Captain stepped onto the deck, paused to light his cigar, and then ambled away. He walked with measured steps and he paused often to lean against the rail and look up at the heavy clouds above. Culann hoped the rain would hold off until they were done, lest it force the Captain to cut his stroll short.

With the Captain out of the way, that just left Gus. Culann and Frank couldn’t move until McGillicuddy completed his diversion. The cousins stood at the rail, muscles tensed, just waiting for Worner’s signal. The seconds felt like hours, and Culann began to doubt the reliability of the two rednecks who were so vital to the success of the mission.

And then they heard Worner’s weathered voice call out from the deck: “Man overboard!”

The engines shut down, causing Culann to lurch forward as the ship slowed.

Frank caught him. The door to the bridge flew open, and Gus charged out onto the deck.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, “I thought I was done babysitting these little faggots.”

When Gus had gone far enough away, Frank darted to the bridge, and Culann followed as quickly as he could with a cannonball jammed in his jockeys. Culann was expecting to see a large wooden wheel like in pirate movies, but the bridge looked more like the cockpit of a passenger jet. The wheel itself was indistinguishable from the steering wheel on a car, but it was surrounded by high-tech equipment with digital displays and an array of switches, buttons and dials.

“Over there,” Frank whispered, pointing to a small door at the back of the bridge.

The Captain’s quarters were small and Spartan, although far more luxurious than the cramped berths the crew members wedged themselves into each night. Shelves built into the wall held the Captain’s clothes, a few books on weather and navigation, and a pair of expensive-looking binoculars. A twin bed on a metal frame that was bolted to the floor took up most of the room. The bed was made, the blanket stretched so tight that no creases could be seen. Underneath were two black suitcases and an army-green knapsack.

“That’s gotta be it,” Frank said.

Culann bent down and pulled the bag out from under the bed. It was heavy. He unzipped the top and saw the orb there, wrapped in a white t-shirt.

“Okay, hurry up,” Frank said.

Culann pulled Worner’s cannonball from his underwear and dropped it in the knapsack. He unwrapped the orb, which was about twice as heavy as the cannonball, and stuffed it down his pants. His leg tingled as the orb made contact with his skin. He wrapped the cannonball up in the t-shirt and zipped the knapsack shut. The switch wouldn’t hold up under close scrutiny, but the cannonball was close enough in size and weight that the Captain might not notice.

“Be careful,” Frank said as Culann slid the knapsack back under the bed. “You gotta get it exactly right. A dude who makes his bed this perfectly is gonna notice if something’s out of place.”

Culann did his best, although he hadn’t paid close enough attention to the bag’s placement when he first saw it. He’d been too focused on grabbing the orb. It was heavy, too heavy for his underwear to hold, so he held his left hand over his crotch to support the orb’s weight. With his right hand, he pulled the hem of his t-shirt over the top to try to cover it all up. He hoped this would allow them to escape detection long enough to get the orb below deck, but he knew they’d be quickly found out if someone saw the obvious bulge in his pants.

“Let’s go,” Frank said.

They cut through the bridge and glanced out a porthole. A crowd of sailors huddled near the starboard side. McGillicuddy and Worner had done well. They just needed to slip past the commotion and drop the orb off in their bunks.

“What are you two doing?”

The voice was commanding and measured. It was almost mechanical with the hint of an echo, as if it had bounced off canyon walls rather than a man’s throat. The voice dug deep into the pit of Culann’s stomach.

The Captain stood before them. Though his eyes were obscured by his ever-present sunglasses, Culann could feel them scanning his face, searching for signs of deception, signs of weakness. The Captain brought the stub of his cigar up to his mouth with his left hand, while his right slid under his jacket to where his pistol undoubtedly waited. Culann tried to swallow, but the saliva had evaporated from his mouth. He heard a click as the Captain’s hand emerged from beneath his jacket.