Ten

The waves lapped lazily at the shore of the beach, the golden sand darkening with the salty moisture. By the time the waves had drawn back and begun their gentle rush forward again, the sand had almost dried to the same golden colour as before. The heat here was tremendous, but somehow Tintin was able to bare it. It was comfortable: the heat of San Lucia perhaps, or maybe even Turkey. He couldn't remember any more. He'd travelled so far and so often that sometimes the places blended into one another, and when he woke up he'd have to take a few seconds to remember where he was.

He was lying on his back on a beach towel. He'd pushed his beach parasol back, the better to soak up the sun and top up his tan – he was always careful and wore sunscreen, so he wasn't overly worried about his skin. He knew the dreaded ginger-gene was notorious for producing pale-skinned creatures that wilted and pealed in strong sun, but his reddy-blond hair had come with decent skin that took to the sun quite well. He rarely burned and tended to tan quite easily.

The beach was almost deserted. Further down, on the other end of it, he could see the model Noémie Lenoir having an animated chat with Snowy while an enormous cat dressed as Robin Hood lifted weights. In the far distance, the tell-tale fog drifted in. Well, here come the zombies, he thought to himself. I'd better get out of here. It's a shame they ruin everything.

An ear-splitting roar broke the hazy lethargy of the beach as Captain Haddock pulled up on a shiny red motorbike, throwing sand backwards as he went. He stopped the bike and got off, his every movement exaggerated like a vaudeville villain in a black and white movie. He put his hand over his eyes and looked carefully around the beach, ignoring Noémie, Snowy, Robin Hood and the approaching zombie-fog.

"Oho!" he said, when he finally spied Tintin – who was lying only a few feet away, and should have been noticeable from the get-go. "There's a bottle of wine!"

Tintin looked around. The zombie-fog was getting closer. He'd have to move soon. But now he had the extraordinary feeling that if he ran fast enough he'd be able to fly. They can't get me if I fly away. But nowhere did he see a bottle of wine. "What are you talking about?" he asked curiously. "Where do you see a bottle?"

The Captain was growing larger and larger. He loomed over Tintin as he seized the boy by the throat, one enormous hand wrapping easily around his neck. The other produced a cork-screw. "I'll have to open it," he said, ignoring Tintin's question.

Tintin tried to get away, but his arms and legs weren't responding. He looked down and saw that his body had been replaced by a glass bottle, his head protruding from the neck where the cork should be. He looked up in time to see the twisty, rusted metal cork-screw bearing down on his head, and shouted out in alarm.

"Somebody help me!"

His arm hit something hard – very hard – at the elbow, and he opened his eyes with a shout of pain. He was lying on a hard, concrete floor beside a low bed. The bedding was in disarray, as though someone had tried to build a fort in it, or had been wrestling with the thin, scratchy blanket. Snowy stared at him in alarm, stubby tail wagging frantically. The door to the room opened and a strange man – Middle Eastern judging by his dress and colour – entered quickly, a rifle pointed at Tintin. "You need help?" the man asked urgently.

"Oh God!" Tintin said, still breathing heavily. "No, sorry. Just a nightmare."

The man slung his rifle back over his shoulder and nodded. "This happens. You were long time in desert."

"Where am I?" Tintin asked as he got to his feet and untangled his legs from the blanket. "What is this place? Am I…" He paused and squinted at the man. "Am I dead?" he asked nervously.

"No, not dead," the man said with a grin. "We find you last night, out in the desert. You come with me, to the Lieutenant. He will explain."

Tintin pushed his bare feet into his shoes and followed the man out into a sun-drenched courtyard that lay within high, stone walls. Men patrolled the ramparts here and there, each armed with a rifle. Some wore British army uniforms, others wore similar outfits to his guide. Nobody paid him much attention beyond a few curious glances and he couldn't see the Captain anywhere. The man led him to another small, brick building. Inside, a long desk took up most of the room and a red-headed man in a loose white shirt and black trousers sat behind it. He looked up, a pipe clamped between his teeth, as Tintin was shown in.

"He's awake, sir," the Middle Eastern man said. "The young boy."

"Ah! Good!" The man stood up and came around the desk, his hand held out. Tintin took it and shook it. "Glad to see you on your feet! My name is Lieutenant Delacourt. I'm in command of this outpost."

"Pleased to meet you. My name is Tintin. But where are we?"

The Lieutenant gestured to a chair and Tintin sat down gratefully as the man took his own seat again. "Afghar," he said with a grimace. "Dreadful place, but better here than Afghanistan, what-what?" He spoke with a clipped English accent that came straight from a public school.

"How did I get here?" Tintin asked.

"Well, about mid-day yesterday we noticed a column of smoke rising up there from the south. We immediately thought it might be an aeroplane – happens sometimes, you know: poor buggers get disorientated and come down – so I sent out a patrol and they found you. You were unconscious so they brought you back here. Apparently your dog barked until they found you. Clever boy, hmm?" Snowy looked up and wagged his tail again before hopping up onto Tintin's lap.

"Did they find my friend?" Tintin asked.

"Big bearded chap?" the Lieutenant asked. "Yes they – Ah! Here he is now!" He stood up again and hurried around his desk to the door. Tintin turned and looked over his shoulder to see the Lieutenant shaking hands with a wary and silent Captain Haddock. "Good to see you! Lieutenant Delacour at your service. Regular army."

"Captain Haddock," the Captain said as he took the seat next to Tintin. "Navy."

"Merchant or army?"

"Was army, now merchant. I'm in import-export."

"I see. And did you see any action?" the Lieutenant asked.

"My last stint was in the Falklands," the Captain admitted.

"Bit of a hairy conflict, that one. Never been fond of the Argentines, myself. A very boorish people, you know."

"Yeah, well, you know how it is when the uppity natives want their land back," the Captain said with a grin. Tintin frowned at him, wondering about the hard glint in the older man's eyes.

"Exactly right," the Lieutenant agreed. "Ahmed," he called, and the man that had escorted Tintin reappeared at the door. "Bring three glasses and a drink for us." The man, Ahmed, nodded stiffly and disappeared for a moment, returning with a tray containing some glasses and a bottle of rum. He placed it on the desk and bowed to them before leaving, closing the door behind him.

"So, was the smoke from a plane, then?" the Lieutenant asked as he began to pour the rum.

"Yes," Tintin replied. "We came down with quite a bump and the plane flipped over before bursting into flames. Oh, no thank you," he said, covering his own glass with his hand before the Lieutenant could pour him a measure of rum, "I don't drink spirits."

"Oh? Fair enough." The Lieutenant made to pour some rum into the Captain's glass, who stared regretfully at the bottle. "No thanks," the Captain said heavily. "I think I'll pass too."

"Well, I won't press you," the Lieutenant said with a shrug. "Now, you were saying?" He tipped his glass to Tintin and took a long swallow. The Captain watched sorrowfully.

"You certainly saved our lives," Tintin continued. "We were walking all day, but we didn't know where we were going or even if there were outposts or towns nearby. Without you and your men we would have died of thirst."

"That's why you ought to have a drink with me," the Lieutenant said with a grin as he refilled his own glass. "But what brings you to this Godforsaken land in the first place?"

"We were at sea," Tintin said smoothly. He didn't want to get into any great detail with the Lieutenant, regardless of how the man had saved their lives, "and we were hit by a storm. Our only way out of it was to take the seaplane and try to find land."

"Ah, yes, those storms. They caught a few ships yesterday. A couple went down. One went down with everyone trapped on board."

Tintin frowned. "Really? That's awful."

"Yes, can't remember the name of the tugger now. Some odd name. Hang on, it might be on the news: they're attempting to search for the crew at the moment." The Lieutenant nodded to something behind them, and they turned to see a television mounted in a wall bracket in the corner of the room, near the door. He turned it on and the picture flickered into life, showing an expanse of choppy ocean, with three ships and a number of life boats converged on a particular spot. An English woman was providing the commentary to the scene.

"… comes in the wake of the sinking of the Tanganyika, near Vigo, whose crew escaped before the ship sank. A few miles along the coast is the wreck of the Jupiter, driven into the rocks and lodged there. They too received the distress call from the Karaboudjan" –

"Karaboudjan?" Tintin and the Captain said together.

– "but were unable to offer assistance, letting the Benares take the helm on the rescue mission. However, by the time the Benares reached the last known co-ordinates of the Karaboudjan there was no sign of the ship or her crew, who are believed to have gone down with her. At the helm of the Karaboudjan was Captain Archibald Haddock" – here a picture of the Captain, smiling and wearing a naval uniform flashed onto the screen – "a native of London. His First Mate, Allan Thompson," – the picture of the Captain was replaced by one of Allan – "was an American who had spent the last twenty years in Europe. Neither family was available for comment. Next up, a man who was attacked by an Alsatian puppy tells us of his adorable ordeal."

"Oh hell!" The Captain sat back and covered his face with his hands. "Blistering barnacles, what a week!"

"That's a bit odd, don't you think?" Tintin said suddenly. "The Karaboudjan sinking?" The Lieutenant was staring at them in confusion, but passed no remark.

"Damn straight," the Captain said loudly. "That ship wasn't a cockleshell, and Allan is no fool. There's no way she sank without time to launch the lifeboats. I'd stake my own life on that."

"That's probably not worth much, considering that you're dead," the Lieutenant pointed out. "Officially, anyway."

"Good point, that man. I don't believe that the Karaboudjan went down. Not like that, and not so damned suddenly."

"Neither do I," Tintin agreed. "Lieutenant, is there anyway we can leave today? We have to get to the coast as soon as possible."

"So soon? Well, it can be done but I wouldn't advise it. You're both probably still dehydrated, and going back out there would be dangerous. But, if you're certain that you have to leave then it can be done. It should be enough if I send two guides with you: that whole area has been clear for weeks."

"Who are you fighting out here?" the Captain asked curiously.

"Terrorists," said the Lieutenant. "The Taliban. Middle Eastern oil companies. You know: the usual."

x

"What a git," the Captain said gruffly. They were mounted on camels and plodding slowly out of the compound with two armed guides, who were riding ahead. Tintin grinned and waved back at the Lieutenant.

"He's not so bad," Tintin said. "He saved our lives."

"Then he's a git with some redeeming features. That doesn't make him any less of a git."

"Why do you dislike him?"

"Because. He's a git. Oh, it's not him: it's everything he stands for." The Captain waved his hand flippantly. "Public-school boy. Posh twat that joins the army. Probably still salutes the flag and dreams of doing glory for the Empire."

Tintin shrugged. "Isn't that the point?"

"No it bloody isn't!" the Captain snapped. "Look around you, lad. Do you think England has any claims on this place? And look at how he treats his own second in command."

"I thought he was polite."

"He was disrespectful. Making a Muslim carry a bottle of booze for us to get pissed up on? Disgraceful. That sort of man treats people of other races like shi- er, rubbish, because he believes them to be savages compared to the great and noble Englishman. That sort of attitude went out with the dodo. He's a throwback. He's the sort of jingoistic twat that gives the army a bad name."

"Huh," said Tintin. "I never thought about it like that."

"Daddy probably paid for his commission. I'd bet all his ancestors sent soldiers to die in every war England has ever been in."

"What do you mean; 'paid for his commission'?"

"There's two types of officers, Tintin."

"An officer and a gentleman?" Tintin offered with a grin.

"No," the Captain said witheringly. "There's the ones that start off at the bottom and fight their way to the top because they show ingenuity, tenacity, and a good head for strategy; and the rich ones that never start off as enlisted men because their wealth and military background demands that they rise to the rank of officer straight away." The Captain shook his head in disgust. "I had to fight for my rank. I worked my way up to Captain under my own steam. Nobody ever gave me anything for free. And they could have: there's been a Haddock in the British navy since the beginning of the British navy. We're old-school."

"Why did you leave the navy?"

The Captain shrugged. "Didn't have the heart for it any more."

"But you stayed at sea?"

"Aye. Might as well. Nothing for me back on land."

"You never married?"

"Yeah, but that didn't end well. No offence, kid, but let's change the subject, eh? Unless you want to talk about yourself?"

"What do you want to know?" Tintin asked.

"How old are you?"

"Hey, is that a palm tree?" Tintin pointed ahead. There was, in fact, a single palm tree showing its spiky head above the horizon of a small sand dune in the distance.

"Yeah, I think it is," the Captain agreed.

"I wonder if this is the well of Bir Khegg already," Tintin said. He harried his camel and the beast picked up speed, taking the lad forward to catch up with the guides. "Hang on: I'll go and check."

"He's a canny little sod," the Captain muttered. "Bloody genius at changing the subject."

Author's Note: Sacrificing Lieutenant Delacourt's good name for the Captain's character development like a boss.