Rated for naughty language and a drunken sea captain

Eight

Coughing and waving away the smoke that curled out from the engine of the seaplane, the pilot examined the damage.

"Well?" his co-pilot asked. He was standing on the pontoon, gun in hand and eyes trained towards the bobbing, capsized longboat.

"It's just the ignition lead," the pilot said, a touch of anger entering his voice. "Bloody typical!"

"Easily fixed," his companion pointed out evenly.

"True. Any movement from them?"

"Nothing so far. I vote we coast back and just shoot them close-range."

"Sounds like a plan to me." Both men had been surprised to discover how difficult it really was to shoot accurately at an irregularly moving target from a moving position. If this had been a film they'd be back on board the Karaboudjan toasting their success by now.

"You finished yet?" the co-pilot asked. Holding onto the wing strut for balance as a large wave rocked them, he turned back towards the pilot, who was still busy with the engine. "Almost," came the reply. "I just need to tighten the" –

"Hands up!"

Tintin pulled himself part-way onto the pontoon, gun aimed at the armed co-pilot. Both men jumped and stared at him, wondering where the hell he had come from and astonished at his sudden appearance. Tintin used their surprise to pull himself up fully, straddling the pontoon. "Drop your gun," he warned. "Don't make me say it again. I'm a good shot!"

"Better do as he said," the pilot muttered. "He is a good shot." He nodded towards the engine for emphasis.

The co-pilot clicked the safety back on to the gun and tossed it into the water. Moments later the Captain and Snowy swam over and joined them.

"Get them into the plane and tie them up, Captain," Tintin ordered.

"Pfft! Fuck them! I mean, sod them. They didn't give a shi- er, a damn about shooting at us when we were sitting ducks, did they? Pair of bast- I mean, gangsters."

"Yes, but we're not gangsters. Let's just tie them up and get out of here before the Karaboudjan figures out that something's gone wrong and turns back."

x

Once the pilots were tied up and sitting on the floor in the back of the plane, Tintin tried to question them. "Who are you running the drugs for?" he asked.

"Fuck off."

"Language, gentlemen," the Captain said piously.

Tintin shrugged. "Doesn't matter," he said as he turned to face the controls in the cockpit. "They'll talk eventually, when the police get their hands on them. They always do, to save their own skin." He started flicking switches and hitting buttons with a practised ease.

"You can fly a plane?" the Captain asked doubtfully.

"Yup. I met a pilot in England last year, and stayed friends with him. He's in Afghanistan now, and I interview him every so often. Major Wings, I call him. He calls me General Trouble." The motor started to throb and the propellers whirred, drowning out his final comment; "Mind you, I've never landed successfully in my life…"

"Pardon?" the Captain asked politely as he secured his seatbelt.

"Nothing," Tintin said innocently. "Here we go!"

Their take-off wasn't as smooth as it could have been, but the Captain couldn't deny that Tintin could actually fly a plane. He took a side-long glance at the lad and reassessed him. At first, aboard the Karaboudjan and in the longboat, Tintin had looked young – very young: fourteen or fifteen at the most. He still looked young now, but it was impossible for him to be that young. He must be one of those people that just looked that young.

"How old did you say you are?" the Captain asked again, a hint of suspicion creeping into his voice.

"Am I going I the right direction for Spain?" Tintin asked worriedly.

The Captain tapped the compass on the dashboard. "I'm pretty sure. Almost certain. Whether we get there in one piece will be another story. See that on the horizon?"

"Yes…"

"That's what we in the business call 'a big fucking storm'. Holy shit. This is going to be rough." The Captain was worried enough to forget his vow of clean speaking. He'd been terrible at it anyway, he reflected. Fuck it: I'm going to die in about ten minutes. Might as well go out cursing the gods!

"Hang on, Captain," Tintin warned. They were baring down on the storm quickly.

"Hang on to what?" the Captain muttered. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat as the storm loomed closer: thick black clouds and sheeting rain. Every so often, deep inside the insidious grey bank, he could see the tell-tale flashes of lightening. He could almost taste the metallic hint of atmosphere. He gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles were white, and began to beseech the gods.

"You pack of bastards! Forty five rotten years on this earth, and I get to die like this. You'd better send me to Hell, Big Guy, 'cos if you don't I'm going to kick your ass so damned hard…"

They hit the clouds and the storm washed over them, tossing them around as though they were nothing more than a toy plane on a windy day. They jolted, the Captain's stomach rolling unpleasantly as he bounced up and down in his seat, his head almost hitting the roof. He could barely hear Tintin muttering something, and even the dog was whining and howling.

Something nearby shifted with a glassy clink. It was strange: the noise cut through the rest of the clamour around him like an old friend's salutation. Hardly daring to hope, he looked over at the felt-padded compartment in the door and saw the thin neck of a bottle peering out at him. As he reached out for it he held his breath. If only it's whisky. All would be fine if I could just die drunk… he thought desperately.

It was whisky.

Might as well get bladdered one final time!

He opened to bottle quickly and drank it down as fast as he could, glugging great swigs from it as though it was the nectar of the gods. The familiar haze enveloped him, and even though they were right inside the storm now, with no escape other than death or one final miracle, he found that he didn't care. Why should he? It was bloody hopeless anyway. He might as well have a bit of fun before he shuffled off this mortal coil in a blaze of screaming, fiery agony.

"Giz the controls," he said, struggling out of his seatbelt and lurching over to Tintin. He'd just thought of something funny to do. Cheer the lad up before they both died. "C'mon, giz them!"

"What?" Tintin snapped. He had answered, but his eyes were trained on the dark clouds ahead of them, trying to guide the plane through the thick grey wall and the frequent lightening.

"No, s'rsly, this'll be funny. Gimmie the controls for a sec'," the Captain said.

"I don't think this is quite the moment," Tintin replied shortly. "Sit down and leave me alone. I can't concentrate with you" – The Captain lunged for the lever and tried to yank it out of Tintin's grasp.

"What the hell are you doing?" Tintin cried. "Leave it alone! Oh God!"

The Captain pulled the lever to the side and the plane followed suit, lurching and rolling over wildly onto its back. The Captain, who was unsteady to begin with, fell backwards, rolling arse-over-tit to crash into the pilots in the back of the plane. Tintin, who was still wearing a seatbelt, managed to grab the controls back and right the plane with difficulty.

The empty bottle of whisky rolled to a stop, clinking gently against the Captain's foot. My only friend. He seized the bottle by the neck and staggered back towards Tintin, infuriated by the lad's unwillingness to share.

"Now then, you little dick," he said, "I don't care for your tricks." He hefted the bottle: it felt good in his hand, like it belonged there. "W-will you l-let me… let me take over: yes or, or no? I'll give y-you 'till three…"

"Go away!"

"One, two, three…"

"Seriously, sod off!"

"Then take that!" The Captain raised the bottle and brought it down on Tintin's head, hard enough to shatter the glass. He stared at the piece he still held – the broken neck – and swore. "Piece of shit bottle! You'd be no good in a bar fight!"

Tintin slumped forward, leaning heavily on the lever, and the Captain lurched forward again as the plane banked sharply and took a nose-dive. With his face inches from the glass, the Captain saw the thick grey cloud and driving rain sprint past rapidly. Beside him, Tintin groaned.

"What the hell?" the boy said weakly. He touched the back of his head gingerly, and came away with bloody fingers. He looked up and waited for his eyes to focus before realising what was happening. "Oh, crap!" He grabbed the stick again and yanked it back sharply. Suddenly sober, the Captain clung on to the back of Tintin's seat and watched as the cloud gave way and the ground rushed up to meet them.

At the last minute the plane pulled up and coasted, low to the ground. A vast sand-dune rose and something happened – the tip of the dune must have clipped the pontoons, the Captain thought to himself as he started praying once more.

The plane rocked forwards and Tintin fought to keep it under control, his teeth gritted and his hands white-knuckled on the lever as he pulled for all his worth. But it was no good: the knock had loosened something in the engine – probably the ignition lead again – and the pontoons made tentative contact with the sandy ground.

For a second they glided smoothly over the sand, and Tintin thought that they would be alright, but the pontoons weren't designed for skating on sand: they were sharply pointed for cutting through waves. The points struck a hard bank of sand or rock and the whole plane flipped over. The Captain was flung around again, while Tintin simply grabbed Snowy and held him tightly, eyes closed against the fluffy white fur.

The plane landed on its back and skid another few feet. One propeller snapped clear off and whizzed away, slicing the air as it went. When the plane stopped skidding and all had been silent for a few seconds, Tintin opened his eyes.

He was upside down, held in place by his seatbelt, but he was still alive. Under his fingers he could feel Snowy's heartbeat, and when the ringing in his ears died away he could hear the dog's frantic cries of fear and confusion. "Captain?" he said tentatively.

Behind him, something groaned. He managed to put Snowy down on the ground – roof? We're upside down, aren't we? – and unlocked his seatbelt. He crumpled out of the seat and quickly got to his knees. Behind him, the Captain had managed to crawl over to the door. The handle was warped and the door was stuck, but a few well-placed bangs with the heel of his hand soon sorted that, and before the cock-pit had time to fill with black smoke the door was open. Coughing and spluttering, they crawled out and collapsed on the sand a few feet away. Turning over, Tintin could see that the underside of the plane was on fire, the flames slowly creeping towards the engine.

"It's a miracle," the Captain said faintly. "It's a bloody miracle."

"Good heavens," Tintin said, springing to his feet, "the pilots are still inside!" He rushed back to the plane, ignoring the Captain's shouts and Snowy's frantic barks, and dove back in to the cockpit, shielding himself from the flames with his left arm. Before the fire spread much further, he had hauled one of the unconscious pilots out and gone back for the second.

"Drag them away from the plane," he ordered, his voice hoarse. He grabbed one of the men by his feet and struggled away. The Captain did the same for the other, and they laid them side by side away from the plane.

Tintin collapsed back on to the sand and watched the plane burn. He was bloody annoyed, although he was doing his hardest to control his temper. He wasn't used to losing it, but he also wasn't used to hanging out with a drunk with a death-wish. He cast a side-long glance at the Captain and resolved to ditch him at the nearest town. He'd go on by himself: he didn't need the trouble and it was easier to work alone.

So where's the nearest town? He took stock of their surroundings for the first time since they'd crashed. The only thing he could see was the plane. And sand.

Lots and lots of sand.

It stretched out before them like a golden ocean, broken here and there by waves of sand that towered solidly over the stark, blazing landscape. Above them, the sky was blue and free of clouds, and somehow reminded him of old movies about the Egyptians, and things like that. It looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't decide if it was a dreamscape from a nightmare or something he'd seen in a book.

"This doesn't look like Spain," he said at last.

"Er, it should be," the Captain offered.

"What deserts are in Spain?"

"Desert?" The Captain looked white and shaken at the word.

From off to the right, they heard Snowy barking. It was different from before. Before, it had been clearly frightened: now he sounded quite happy. He appeared, running merrily over the top of a sand-dune, his stubby tail waving in delight and a giant bone trailing lopsidedly from his mouth. Tintin got to his feet again, more impressed at the tenacity of Snowy's grip than anything else.

"Where'd you find that, boy?" He held his hands out to Snowy, palms out and fingers spread wide. "Show me!"

Snowy got a better grip on the bone, looking up cheekily at Tintin as he danced out of reach of the hands. Hands take bones. Not this time! He trotted away slyly, and was pleased to see Tintin and the Tall-Human-Man following him. He led them over the dune and down the opposite side, to where the Lots Of Bones lay waiting for him to eat them. He sat beside them, proud of his discovery.

"Is that… is that a horse?" the Captain ventured.

Tintin nudged the oddly-shaped skull with his foot and sighed. "No," he replied dully, "it's a camel."

"A camel?" The Captain looked surprised. "I didn't realise there were camels in Spain."

"We're not in Spain. I think we're in the middle of the Sahara Desert." Tintin put his hands in his pockets and viewed the bones calmly. Beside him, the Captain's face blanched on all colour as he gripped his hair.

"The Sahara?" he said in a small voice. "The… The Sahara? Then.. then that camel died of… died of…"

"Died of thirst," Tintin finished. Well, this makes things a bit more difficult, that's for sure. Behind them, over the dune and out of sight, the flames finally reached the engine of the plane and it exploded, showering the sand with debris and sending a great plume of smoke up into the sky. The Captain jumped and looked back over his shoulder, his eyes wide and fearful. Tintin didn't bother to look round.

After all, cool people don't look back at explosions.

Author's Note: Sorry this is a little late. I was trying to prepare a good excuse for it, but I can't. I spent the day playing video games and watching Game of Thrones and just forgot. Sorry!

There was a pilot, the one from The Black Island, who was featured in several 'interviews' in the Tintin comic strip. His name was, in fact, Major Wings.