The Call of the Thunder Dragon (59 page)

Zam looked at Falstaff, the red
colour in his cheeks, brought out by the wind had gone; leaving
only a pale white ghost.

“Hot drink?” He croaked.

She nodded to him bringing up her
hand automatically giving a thumbs up. However, The stove was lost.
The water flasks had been spilt and were empty. Thin layers of ice
covered the tiny floor space. There was only half a bottle of rice
wine and two bottles of Brandy. Zam thirstily guzzled half the rice
wine and passed the rest up to Falstaff.

He fumbled with his thick wet
gloves and dropped the bottle. Zam stretched out to catch it as it
rolled on the cockpit floor. Holding it tightly, she climbed up and
held onto Falstaff’s shoulder while she helped the bottle to his
lips.

“The stove is gone! The water is
frozen!” She said speaking into Falstaff’s ear.

“It’s well below freezing, the
thermometer there only goes to -10°!” He pressed his head against
Zam’s and she squeezed his arm and shoulder.

“Have we anything to eat?”

Zam reluctantly let go and ducked
under cover again. She emerged a few moments later with a crumbled
piece of paper containing sugary Jaggery.

Taking turns they gnawed at the
sugar, licking the paper clean, until soaked by the rain and
whipped by the wind it disintegrated and flew away shredded into
wisps of paper, rolling over the fuselage, clinging to the tail
until the wind flicked the specks of paper away.

The bracing wires on the wings
looked like bars of ice. Inside the fuselage, the control cables
could be the same soon Falstaff thought miserably.

“Punakha ridge should be below,
or ahead us on this heading,” Falstaff said. “I’ll check the
controls, make sure we are free of ice and then you take the
controls while I fill up.”

“Why so much fuel?” Zam said,
“Surely the machine has drunk enough?”

“We’re at a higher altitude, the
air is thinner, the gasoline doesn’t burn as well. The engines
aren’t producing as much power. So we also have to push them harder
and put more fuel in!”

Zam took the controls again while
he filled up. Falstaff also let her hold the yoke and feel how the
rudder moved when he weaved to keep the ship free of ice.

As Falstaff took back the
controls, Zam slipped under cover again, finding the tin enamel
flask that had come with the stove. It was still full of brewing
coffee. Although now cold and nearly frozen. She mixed the coffee
with the Brandy. There was also the wet, icy, dried beef to chew on
while the strong coffee with Brandy helped flush their cheeks red
with a little with warmth.

In the distance, on the horizon
they could make out a dark green mist over the green land beneath,
reflecting up, rising towards the dark blue of the empty sky.
Across the sky beyond that was a white snow-line, distorted by the
refraction of the light across the curve of the earth. Falstaff
pointed to the north-west tracing his finger to the east.

“That’s the western end of the
Himalayas! Over there to the east, can see three lines of crooked
ridges?” Falstaff pointed. “Where they are pulled together like
crumpled paper? That hump is where we came from!”

“If we stay on this course we’d
go to that mountain range there!” Falstaff, pointed back to the
north-west “See the jagged peak there, rising up out of the snow on
the horizon?”

“Yes, it’s incredible, so far
away it is like a cloud on the edge of a dream world,” Zam
said.

“That peak is Everest! Mahalangur
Himal? The highest mountain in the world? Shall we go there?”
Falstaff joked, a cold, wet shiver, stifling his laughter.

“Are we that high?” Zam asked

“No, that’s four times higher!”
Falstaff said. “It’s about time we came down from the clouds
now.”

Falstaff checked his watch. The
fuel tanks were half empty. They had three cans left. Falstaff made
a decision.

“I’m taking us down. I hope we’ll
be able to get to the edge of the cloud layer there.”

She nodded.

“Do you think you’ll be able to
recognise the river junction, the Ha Chu and Wang Chu?”

The edge of the clouds crept
slowly dearer. Falstaff corrected his course as the westerly wind
grew ever stronger. Falstaff wiped his goggles. White wisps of ice
crystals flew past like ribbons, darting, stinging like snakes of
ice, twisting in the air towards them. Falstaff got the fanciful
impression of a massive cloud dragon rearing over them; its stomach
ripped, - open with thousands of twisting darting ice dragons
pouring out of its belly.

The ice covered the windshield
and formed once again over the dip in the canvas on the bow.
Falstaff looked at the wires still thick with ice. The Caproni was
sluggish to steer. He had to jostle the controls, force the rudder
to move; breaking a layer of ice each time.

They had to get down now, land
before we fall, Falstaff thought.

“Damn!” Said Falstaff broke the
silence. “I could do with a cup of tea!”

He started singing again.
Encouraging Zam to learn the words. Embarrassed, she shook her
head.

“Maybe you’ll like to dance?”
Falstaff grinned, “Dah, dah, dee…

It's three o'clock in
the morning
⁶⁵
,

We've danced the whole
night through...

And daylight soon will
be dawning,

Just one more waltz
with you...

That melody so
entrancing,

Seems to be made for
us two,

I could just keep on
dancing forever dear with you!

There goes the three
o'clock chime, chiming, rhyming…”

Falstaff broke off singing, he
twisted around at the sound of the Port engine stopping and
starting. It seemed to be choking every few seconds. A thick white
trail of unburnt fuel was creating a thick trail of white fuel
vapour behind them.

He glanced the other way to check
the starboard engine when Zam pulled at his arm pointing towards
the rear engine. A thin fizzing trail of boiling vapour was
trailing out of the top of the radiator where the water pipe
entered the radiator grill.

Falstaff was stumped for a
moment, he couldn’t believe his bad luck. He reduced the revs on
the engines putting the Caproni into a shallow dive towards the
clouds. A controlled glide from a low altitude would be better than
a stall and dive from a high one.

Concluding that the port engine
was now only wasting fuel, he cut the revs down. The engine slowed;
gave a cough as if it had backfired and burst into flames.

“Bugger!” Falstaff shouted.
There was nothing he could do but fly. He kept glancing at the
flames. Small yellow flashes flicking around the engine casing
while thick black smoke trailed behind.

“Take the controls!” Falstaff was
out of his seat and stepping over Zam before she could even move to
the co-pilot’s chair.

Falstaff crawled on the floor to
the fuel tanks, wishing he’d paid more attention to the layout of
the pipes. He turned the first tap, then stopped to check its
routing. Definitely to the port engine, he decided with his fingers
crossed. The last thing he wanted was to starve the other engine of
fuel. After the left-hand tank, he scrambled around the right-hand
tank searching for the taps.

He crawled back to the cockpit
and slid into his seat, taking the yoke.

“I’ve got it! He called out. He
glanced at the fire hoping the pipes would drain of fuel and stop
spreading outwards from the engine. The fire was mainly now under
the engine. Finally, the black smoke gnawing like a fire dragon at
the engine; its body a weaving spout of smoke behind the damaged
engine, let go. The black line of smoke ended, receding behind
them.

Falstaff and Zam stared, unnerved
at the sight of the wing, the cowling around the engine had gone,
the radiator was loose, the pipes kinked or burst. A two-meter gap
in the lower wing surface cooled rapidly giving off a faint trace
of smoke. Fortunately, none of the upper wing was damaged and
Falstaff was able to still move all the control surfaces.

“We’ll be okay.” Falstaff
grinned. He glanced behind at the rear engine at the thin trail of
boiling vapour that told him how hot the engine was, but not how
much water was left in the radiator? The Caproni seemed to be still
handling well enough. The westerly wind now had a firm hold on
them. Falstaff adjusted the revs on the starboard engine increasing
its revs; helping to turn the Caproni back on course. His feet were
lively on the rudder, equalizing the forces, turning their nose
back on course.

Falstaff checked their heading;
they descended into the clouds, Seven thousand feet. Six thousand
feet. Shortly they came out of the clouds above a green windswept
landscape. Falstaff felt disappointed somehow, it reminded him too
much of bitterly cold Highlands and the special survival training
he’d been forced through in Scotland.

Zam sat up straight and yelped
with joy. “Home!”

She undid her belt and jumped up
to look over the side.

“Get down! Stay Strapped in!”
Falstaff called out. “I’ll try keep her in the air as long as
possible, but we might go down at any moment!”

Scolded Zam resumed her seat. Zam
studied the landscape, around them was a plateau as far as she
could see, covered with rough scrubland. Barren and too exposed for
any cultivation the plateau edge gave way to thick forest as it
reached the slopes. She could see the shadow of the Caproni,
crabbing across the barren, windswept, highland ahead of them.

As the they approached the
western edge of the plateau, the ground gleamed as if the entire
mountainside to the west and north was plated with silver.

“Rice paddies” she called
out.

Falstaff nodded. “I’ll carry on
westward and hope we cross the Wang Chu!”

“Wait, I remember.” Zam looked to
the south.

“Yeah, that sounds like a song
doesn’t it?” Falstaff repeated to himself.

“No, there on the other edge of
the mountain, there is a village! This area is Thimphu! The road
from India comes this way. It carries on along the Wang Chu!” Zam
squealed in delight.

Zam was no longer concerned about
flying. It occurred to her that there may be a slim chance Falstaff
would do something stupid and cause them to crash. But she no
longer cared if she died, at least now she was home.

“This is home! Home for me! Home
of the Thunder Dragon!” For a moment, she clapped her gloved hands
and forgot how cold she was.

Shivering Falstaff managed a
weary smile and gave a thumbs up to Zam from behind his scarf. He
turned north.

“There’s your river junction!” He
croaked his throat sore and dry. He tried to suck moisture from the
soaked scarf covering his face. It wet his lips but did not reach
his throat. His head was banging and he felt sick.

He checked their altitude; 6,500
feet. The ridges on either side were higher, he estimated 7,000
feet or more. They zig-zagged west following the Paro Chu River.
Their airspeed was down, Falstaff dipped their nose to keep them
from stalling.

Zam could barely contain herself.
“It’s over the next rise, Paro is over the next rise! Just a bit
further!!” She repeated joyfully over and over, each time they flew
over a new ridge, the prayer became a pleading. “Just a bit
further?”

The engines were revving, then
chugging unevenly. Falstaff cleared his mind and tried to think.
They were flying up river, rapidly climbing to avoid the steep
incline which was rearing up to meet them. They were back at ten
thousand feet approaching the cloud level again, the ground below
had steadily been climbing to meet them. They were losing speed too
fast. The ground was getting nearer each time Falstaff try to
correct their course.

Zam jumped up and down in her
seat. “It’s just a bit further!”

Falstaff’s temper snapped. “Oh,
shut up and sit still! you’ll have us smashed into the mountainside
you stupid bitch!”

A lump came to Zam’s throat, a
tear burst from the corner of her eye, but she said nothing. The
joy of coming home suddenly overwhelmed by the pain the cold
outburst had brought.

They veered to the left around
and over yet another ridge. Abruptly, Falstaff found a sheer wall
of a mountain rising up. He blinked, looking left and right, trying
to find the river. He pulled up sharply, just making the shoulder
of the ridge. Glancing to starboard, he was amazed to see the ridge
continue up and up, with more peaks swelling up thrusting through
the clouds. The mountain, dwarfed them, scaling heights the Caproni
never could reach.

Eighteen thousand feet he
speculated, “we’ll never get up there!” He shouted in surprise.

As they glided over the side of
the ridge, with relief, Falstaff saw the river below. He let the
Caproni stall as they went over the lowly foot of the gigantic
ridge that leading to the peak in the heavens above. They dipped
into a dive away from the ridge as he aimed down towards the river.
They were once again blasted by the westerly wind which had fought
against them all day.

Zam had described the scene below
to him so many times, there was the flat flood plain on the western
side and beyond Falstaff could see the town.

“We’re here!” Falstaff roared
exuberantly.

Zam scowled at Falstaff, she
hadn’t forgotten his words.

“Not yet, there!” She pointed
pouting like the bossy spoilt princess she was when they first met.
She was angry with him, for spoiling this moment. “There, further
north to the blue lake! Not here!”

Falstaff looked towards the north
where Zam pointed. “I’ll get as close as I can!”

They passed houses level with
them on the steep mountainsides barely a few hundred feet away from
the wing tips. They dropped towards the flood plain, the gorges
rising up on either side.