Chapter 5:
Tintin and the Captain saw very little of their new friend over the following week. The Captain was constantly in and out, patrolling the decks, attempting to converse with the Marie-Claire's crew or captain, or standing on the prow twiddling his thumbs and trying not to fidget. Tintin, for his part, spent most of his time in their cabin planning the overland trek. Some of it would be by plane, in two short jumps from one isolated village to another, but the third and final push to Baffin Bay would have to be on foot across the open ice. They'd spoken little of it after their first day at sea, but Tintin knew the time for planning would soon be over, replaced with the time for action.
They had stopped over in Iceland for mail and imported goods, and where Tintin received a telegram from the Greenland expedition's leader, one Dr. Vladimir Ladunsky of the University of Moscow. It detailed the desired rendezvous they were to make with members of the expedition, but gave no description at all of the discovery they had made. The Captain had harrumphed and made some caustic comments about archeologists and their secretive habits.
On the few occasions when they did catch sight of Angus, he was nearly always nose-deep in his battered notebook, studying who knew what scraps and fragments of information, no doubt looking for some way to prove his theory and re-establish himself in the academic world. When not buried in his notebook, he was reacting violently to the swell and constant motion, retching over the side of the Marie-Claire.
When, after a week sailing ever farther north, they disembarked in Kulusuk, Greenland, Tintin, the Captain, and Angus met in the small city's only hotel, it was to finalize the last few details before setting out early the next morning. Their destination was Baffin Bay.
"You know, Tintin," the Captain ventured, "every time we get into one of these tin cans, something bad happens."
"Nonsense, Captain," Tintin gritted out, clutching the yoke with a white-knuckled grip as the plane shook and rattled around them. "It's just . . . turbulence."
"Turbulence?" Angus shouted, his voice incredulous. "This is horrible! Much worse than anything I've felt at sea."
"That's rich, coming from a landlubber like you," the Captain retorted sharply.
"Oh, please," Tintin pleaded, "arguing about it won't make it any better."
An uneasy silence settled between them as the plane rattled on. They were on the second leg of their journey across Greenland, in a tiny plane they had chartered on their last stop. With Tintin piloting and Angus, Snowy, and the Captain squeezed into the cramped cockpit, they were entirely on their own, and heading straight into a massive snowstorm. Already the wind buffeted them, swirling and shifting direction so quickly Tintin was struggling to hold the plane to its proper course. As they flew onward, the snow began, dumping down in a sheet of driving, greyish white that obscured the view and turned land and sky into a blank canvas. Snowy crouched on the plane's floor, whining in terror.
"Quiet, Snowy," Tintin said, concerned and wishing he could pet the dog. Snowy looked up at his owner, hopeful, but soon laid his head back down again on his paws.
"Can't we land and wait it out?" Angus asked, his voice rising suddenly in pitch as the plane rocked alarmingly.
"And let the storm tear us to pieces on the ground? We'd never get back up again. Besides, in case you haven't noticed, there is nowhere safe to land."
Angus looked out the narrow window and gulped. Through the wind-torn shreds of grey cloud he could see the jagged peaks and valleys in the ice beneath, every surface lumpen and uneven. Landing was completely out of the question. Even as he watched, a gust of wind caught their tailfin and threatened to send them spinning out of control to crash on one of the peaks.
"Come on, come on," Tintin whispered, his face screwed up in concentration.
"Reminds me of the Sahara," the Captain quipped, his face nearly white. Snowy had jumped up into his lap and he was clutching the dog for dear life.
"No time for reminiscing, Captain," Tintin replied, bouncing in his seat as they nearly flipped over. "There's only one thing to do: get as low as we can, away from the clouds, and try to outrun it. Without hitting anything or crashing."
"But that's suicide," Angus nearly shrieked.
"Have you got a better idea?"
There was no reply. Tintin pressed the yoke forward and the plane dropped, plummeting sickeningly before evening out over the snow-covered terrain. The visibility was marginally better below the cloud-line, though the wind and snow were worse, sheeting across their wings and windshield like living, malevolent beings hungry for blood. Angus's stomach turned over and he fought down the overwhelming urge to be violently sick on the floor of the cockpit. Snowy continued to whimper in distress, his ears flat on his head and claws buried in the Captain's blue jersey. The Captain himself was fully occupied with holding the dog still and swearing furiously under his breath, every word ground out through clenched teeth.
In the pilot's seat, Tintin was breathing heavily with concentration as he fought with the yoke. Under his hands, the plane leveled out and sped forward to eat up mile upon mile of unbroken white.
"How far to the next stopping point?" the Captain asked after another half-hour of frightened silence.
"Shouldn't be far now," Tintin replied. "In fact, by my calculations, it should be on the horizon."
"I can't see anything," Angus responded, straining his eyes to see through the murky gloom. "Oh, wait . . . no. There's something . . . over there." He pointed vaguely to the right, drawing his companions' attention away briefly to glance through a side window.
The ice pillar appeared suddenly, as if from nowhere, clipping their left wing and sending them spinning uncontrollably. Tintin shouted, Snowy barked, the Captain swore, and Angus put his head down as they bumped through piles of drifted snow and came to a screeching, crashing halt on the very outskirts of a village. Lights flickered through the storm and it wasn't long before the town's inhabitants bundled out to investigate the downed plane.
Tintin and his friends climbed shakily out of the wreckage, groaning at new bruises and nearly burying themselves in the deep snow. Getting up and calming Snowy, Tintin gazed ruefully at the remains of what had been their ride.
"There goes another one," he said quietly, still patting the snow out of Snowy's fur. The dog barked and licked his owner's face in agreement. "No matter, Snowy, as long as we're all in one piece. Is anybody hurt?"
The Captain patted his ribs thoughtfully, counting. "Negative. All present and accounted for, thank the fates," he reported, pushing his cap a little higher on his head.
"Angus?"
The groaning lump of green overcoat stirred groggily, then a head finally popped up out of the snow. "Where did you say you got your pilot's license?" he asked, wincing.
"I didn't," Tintin quipped, reaching out a hand to help Angus up.
"You could've warned me," the other complained, shaking snow out of his eyes.
They stood, peering through the driving snow as the first responders arrived. Tintin stepped forward eagerly, extending a hand and calling out greetings in French, German, and English. The new arrivals seemed to understand the latter, for their leader responded quickly. He was a large man, nearly a head taller than the Captain and bundled in a massive, fur-lined parka. His boots left deep prints in the fresh snow and when he spoke, his voice rumbled with a western American accent.
"Welcome to the wastelands of glorious Greenland," he boomed out. "I'm assuming your dramatic entrance didn't go quite according to plan."
"No," Tintin began, still blinking snow out of his eyes and trying to adjust to the gloom.
The big stranger thrust a hand forward. "Watt," he grunted in introduction.
"What? What are you talking about?" the Captain wheezed in confusion. He made to brush the stranger's hand away, but Angus cut him off.
"Is that you, Harrison?" he asked, as if he recognized the stranger.
"What the . . . ?" The big man hesitated and leaned forward, peering at the scholar anxiously. "Angus!" he shouted, wrapping the other in an enormous and bone-crushing bear-hug. The Captain winced, positive he could hear the smaller man's ribs cracking.
"The very same, and hello to you too."
"How've ya been, ya lunatic?"
"I've been better, and would you mind putting me down, please?"
"Oh, sorry." The American dropped Angus rather unceremoniously onto the snow. Angus picked himself up and surreptitiously checked his ribs. "Watt Harrison," the big man said, shaking hands with a grip like iron. "Base leader and expedition guide. But enough of my talk, ya must be frozen. Come in, come in, we'll see if we can't rustle up some grub for ya."
They followed Watt back into the town, Tintin nodding to the inhabitants who asked to keep the wreckage of the plane. He'd regret it later, but it was no use worrying about it at that point.
Harrison soon led them into a small house that was thickly insulated against the storm, and sat them down in front of a hot meal. They tucked in vigorously, eating and exchanging stories with their garrulous host.
"Tintin and Captain Haddock, eh?" he asked when they introduced themselves. "Famous names; what brings ya all the way to Greenland, and in the company of my old college roommate, Angus Hoffmann?"
"Small world, isn't it?" Angus said.
"Actually, I thought you were expecting us," Tintin began. "We're here to find the archeological expedition. Dr. Ladunsky's telegram indicated that we were to meet you here for instructions before continuing on to Baffin Bay."
"Oh, old Vladimir," Watt said. "I must've forgotten in all the excitement. It's not every day we get a crashed plane with survivors."
"Do planes come down often?" the Captain asked in alarm.
Harrison burst out laughing. "Nah, don't you worry yourself, Captain. The most excitement we get out here is the occasional spot o' sunshine." He took a swallow from a dark bottle, then turned to Angus abruptly. "And you, Angus; I don't remember reading your name in Vladimir's instructions, and that one I would've remembered. What are you doing here in frozen fairyland? Not trying to prove those crazy theories of yours, I hope."
Angus shrugged, and Tintin had the fleeting but distinct impression that he would have preferred to not answer the question. "I'm a historian, it's a dig, how could I stay away?"
Watt slapped him on the back good-naturedly. "That's the spirit, kid! I always liked that about you." He turned to Tintin and the Captain. "Would you believe it, Angus here talked me into taking this job? It's all thanks to him that I spend my time tramping around the most desolate places on Earth, freezing my bum off one month and sweltering to death the next."
"You're a wilderness guide," Tintin guessed correctly. "Attaching yourself to any and all professional teams that come through and need to know the layout."
"Right you are, Tintin," Watt agreed. "You might be able to tell how old a bit of bone is, but if you don't know where you're goin' or how to survive in bad weather, then you're sunk. But that's quite enough of that." He leaned forward and unrolled a large map. "So, tomorrow we set out for the camp. I reckon two days march will get us there, maybe less without any complications. From there, it's another day's march to the head of the bay and after that you're sittin' pretty in the North Atlantic."
"How do you figure that?" the Captain asked, leaning forward over the map and pointing at the spot Harrison had identified as the camp. "It's miles to the place, and a roaring gale outside. There's no way we'll get there in two days."
"Oh, that? Nah, that's just a stiff breeze. Besides," Watt smiled conspiratorially and winked, "we won't be walking on the surface. Just you wait and see."
They drifted off to their beds shortly after that, but as Tintin lay listening to the whistle of the wind outside, he couldn't help but wonder why certain parts of Watt's story didn't quite add up.
A/N: Would love some more feedback, folks. Future chapters might depend on it . . .