The TT4 began to stutter and slow; General J.W. Muller had wounded his prey. The shells had missed the TT4's caterpillar tracks, but some of the shrapnel from the explosion had torn through the machine's underbelly and pierced the engine, and the commandeered Syldavian tank was finally showing signs of slowing.

"Reload!" he barked to the crewman behind him, covering the microphone his headset. His Ziggler-TT40 was a unique specimen in more than just its gratuitous size; while crewmen toiled below in the engine and drivers compartment, the radio-set was located in the turret, allowing Muller total control over the demonic death-machine—the German had long-since learned the importance of taking pressing matters into your own hands. Private Hristic hurriedly loaded two new shells into the distinctive breeching mechanism and Muller again took aim through the mesh viewing screen. Was the cantankerous sea captain in the TT4 as well? He knew the two were inseparable to the end, which suited Muller just fine; Rastapopoulus would be pleased he could dispose of both of them in one tidy explosion.

He almost felt sorry that his patron could not witness the destruction himself—but only almost. Muller's desire to finish the Boy Report was not strictly-business; if it wasn't for Tintin, Muller would still be living as the enigmatic Mull Pasha, an extremely rich and influential Arab in Bab El Ehr's Khemed, after his Formula 14 sabotaged the oil pipelines of the previous ruler. Still, the position of Supreme Commander of the Syldavian Armed Forces suited him very comfortably. Rastapopoulus—a megalomaniac at best, psychopath at worst—had at least recognise his sizeable talents, and Muller would never again need live in the shadows as a mercenary or smuggler.

"Auf wiedersehen, Tintin," he said into the microphone. "Though perhaps I should say…"

The TT4 jerked to a sudden halt and began to roll backwards. It was going to reverse into him! Muller quickly jammed on the triggers in panic but both shells soared harmlessly overhead. He watched as the turret hatch of the TT4 flung open and an all-too-familiar face emerged—the Boy Reporter. But what on Earth was he doing?

Tintin stood atop the tank, holding onto to the barrel with one hand and grasping the heavy shell with the other. The monstrous TT40 hadn't slowed and a top speed-collision was imminent, so he gripped for dear life. It wasn't enough.

There was the sharp, grating sound of metal scraping against metal and the impact threw Tintin hard onto the steel armour. The shell slipped from his grasp and rolled towards the edge and he had to throw out his arm to stop it a split-second before it fell beneath the caterpillar tracks. The bigger of the two tanks was powerful enough to push along against the weight of the TT4 and the barrels crossed against each other like duelling swords. Tintin regained his footing in time to see two Syldavian soldiers clambering from a hatch at the rear of their tank, trying to remain steady as they fix bayonets to their rifles. One took aim, but quickly realised the fruitlessness and they both charged with a fierce battle-cry. Tintin imagined they were fuelled by patriotic fervour or fear of disappointing Muller—probably both.

The first lunged at his belly, but moved with such a flourish that Tintin had enough time to slip to the side and let the blade strike the turret. The second tried to slice at his shoulder but Tintin quickly dropped the shell once more—trapping it underfoot to stop it rolling—and caught the barrel, using it to parry another incoming attack from the first assailant. A shot fired off into the sky. With deft swiftness, Tintin released the rifle's magazine, wrenched it free of the soldier's grip and caught him hard upside the chin with the stock. He turned in time to see his partner taking aim…

There came a fuzzy, white blur as Snowy sprang from the turret and sank his jaws into the Syldavian's forearm, distracting him long enough for the Captain to emerge from the turret and smack him across the head with a wrench. His eyes rolled back and the assassin slumped into a heap beside his partner.

"Don't mention it," Haddock called over the wind.

Tintin proudly patted the canine and hurriedly handed him to the Captain before he picked up the shell and tried to reach for the TT40's conjoined cannons. If he could slot the shell down one of them, neither barrel would be able to fire without malfunction. Well, that was the theory at least; Tintin knew that brilliance mostly came from desperation and hoping for the best.

Muller must have caught wise; the twin barrels began to slowly move away from the cliff face. Tintin took his chance and leaped, hooking onto the barrels with one arm and gripping the shell with his free hand. His legs dangled as he clung for dear life; the Algrudic Valley rolled on infinitely beneath him, picturesque but presumably not as easy on the back as it was on the eyes.

"Blue blistering bell-bottomed barbecuedbarnacles!" yelled Haddock, while Snowy barked a canine equivalent. "Be careful, you fool!"

"Don't worry!" he called. "I know exactly—hey!" The barrels began to swing again, back and forth this time. The turret could only turn slowly, but this high up it was enough to make Tintin's frame flail wildly. Muller was trying to shake him loose, as if he were an irritating insect. The shell was impossibly heavy in one hand and both of his arms strained, knuckles tensed and white.

"So that's how you want to play, do you?" Haddock yelled at the enemy tank before disappearing inside his turret. Slowly, the TT4's singular barrel began to move as well. Tintin swung back and forth, back, forth…

And stopped; the Captain had swung his barrel around to block Muller's and brought it to a halt—a parry in the absurdly-scaled swordfight. The mighty cannons strained against each other as both vehicles rolled along at a constant pace; Muller had twice the weight behind but Haddock had twice the strength. It gave Tintin the chance he needed, and with one mighty effort he pulled his arm up and slotted the shell inside the muzzle. The Captain's guard broke and Muller's cannon's swung the Boy Reporter back out over the cliff face, but by that time he had pulled himself up into a crouching position atop the barrels; marginally safer, if far from safety.

The display must have been too much to bear for the TT40's commander. The black turret hatch swung open and an enraged J.W. Muller emerged, facial hair once more groomed short and neat now that he had abandoned his Arabic persona. Without a word, he climbed atop his the tank and drew an ornate officer's sword from the scabbard at his belt. He had the stance of an expert and advanced without hesitation, stepping atop the tanks weaponry while it continued to grind along. Tintin could only watch, still crouched atop the twin-muzzles, as the General approached, swinging the sabre in long, deadly loops,

"I do hate to kill an unarmed foe in battle…" Muller growled as his blade continued to trace a razor-sharp figure-eight.

"Not from what I've heard…"

"—But, there is a difference between battle and—how would you say—pest-control. You are vermin, my boy—pure vermin, and like all vermin you must be—"

"Tintin—catch!" the Captain called as he threw one of the soldier's rifles from the other tank. There was no magazine—Tintin had ejected it in the scuffle before—but the bayonet gleamed in the sunlight as it travelled through the air. He grabbed the weapon in time to catch a downward swing of Muller's sabre in the wooden forestock.

The General swung again, but Tintin was on his feet now and parried the blow with the stock and swiped back with the blade. Muller stepped-back with expertise and countered. They duelled viciously, attacking and counterattacking atop the barrels, which remained perilously poised over the cliff face; just one slip-up would send him on a very long and very painful trip to the bottom of the valley. Muller was a skilled swordsman and it was all the Boy Reporter could do to remain on two feet and in one piece.

But it was about to get harder. They were churning along to a dangerous fork in the road ahead; the right path continued to follow around the mountain, while straight ahead lay a narrow track that sloped deep into the Algrudic Valley—too steep for anything but pack-donkeys, let alone the cumbersome TT4. With the engine spluttering to a painful death below them, Klumsy would not be able to make the turn—in less than a minute the TT40 would drive Haddock and the Bordurians straight over the edge!

Victory gleamed behind the grey eyes of Muller. He lashed out suddenly with his foot, trying to throw Tintin off his balance. He retained his footing but a powerful slash from Muller almost came down on his hand, forcing him to drop the rifle off the edge, where it quickly disappeared into the mass of green below. He looked back helplessly at the sneering General while the two tanks drew ever closer to the perilous slope.

"Consider this thanks for ruining my sizable pension in Khemed;" he declared as he wound back his blade. "A quick end is more mercy than your friends are about to enjoy."

There was a sharp crack behind his head a blast of heat across the side of his face. Muller ducked in time for something red and burning to fly over his head, leaving a trail of coloured smoke. The flare gun Haddock had fired had missed its target but it gave Tintin the distraction he needed, and he hurled his body off the twin barrels and caught hold of the TT4's. Muller cursed angrily in German.

"The steering's shot," Haddock said as he reached to help Tintin. He pulled his friend aboard and began to load another flare into the bulky, orange pistol. "They're going to push us onto the slope!"

"I know, I know…" Tintin said. Snowy barked his concern. Muller had hastily retreated back inside his own turret, perhaps anticipating shooting down the enemy crew if they tried to bail. There was little point; there was insurmountable mountain to their right and deathly drop to their left.

Kronic called, his anxious face visible from the driver's cabin, "Stuck between a rock and a difficult place?"

"A rock and a hard place," Haddock said.

"We're about to die, man!" said Kronic. "Would you really like to spend your last moments on Earth talking about metaphors?"

"We'll have to jump off the tank before it rolls," Tintin declared. "It will be the last thing they expect. Kronic, Klumsy—get ready to move."

"That's you plan?" Kronic asked, though began to clamber from the driver's cabin all the same. "If we survive the jump, they'll gun us all down just the same."

"Not if they guns don't work. Captain, how many flares do we have left?" Tintin asked.

"Just the one," Haddock said, solemnly handing the pistol over. "Make it count, lad."

The Bodurians moved to the cramp confines of the TT4's turret, but the tank rolled on just the same. The slope was mere meters away and Muller was jamming down on the throttle, probably cackling with laughter.

Tintin took the flare gun. "I always do."

The tank began to tilt…

Tintin took aim and fired. There was another plume of red smoke as the flare show at a flat trajectory into straight into one of the TT40's twin muzzles. There was a only a moment's pause before the flare reacted with the shell Tintin had slotted in before, and mighty 75mm twins exploded brilliantly from the inside, jagged shrapnel soaring out in a thick burst of red and jutting into the metal hide of the TT4, narrowly avoiding Tintin. The smoke quickly became a misty red wall, completely cloaking the TT4 from view as it tilted over the edge and rapidly—far too rapidly—picked up speed as it skidded down the slope with no breaks to stop it.

"Come on!" Tintin called over the sound of the metal scraping across stone and scooping up Snowy into his arms. Not needing another word of encouragement, Klumsy took two mighty steps and fearlessly hurled himself into the canopy of trees below.

Kronic, conversely, seemed unwilling or unable to let go of the tank's railing. His face was sheet-white and mouth hung agape. "I—I—"

"Come on, lad!" Haddock said. "For the glory of the fatherland, or for the father of the glory-land—for anything you like, but you have to jump!"

"I—" Kronic swallowed hard and nodded. "For the glory of Borduria!"

The agent rose to his feet proudly, before the TT4 jolted on the slope and sent him sprawling on his backside. Haddock groaned and pulled the Bordurian to his feet before jumping with him into the greenery.

The tank's balance was shifting back and forth and the wind whipped furiously through Tintin's hair. The TT40 was still perched atop the edge of the slope, unmoving since its barrels exploded and shrouded by the flare that continued to burn vividly. The disabled TT4 jerked again; it wouldn't stay upright for much longer.

The Boy Reporter clutched Snowy to his chest with one arm and moved to the edge of the runaway vehicle. "Now, isn't this more fun than chasing mice at Marlinspike?"

Snowy gave a short, but definite growl that could only mean no and Tintin jumped. He cradled the pet as tightly as he could as the thick branches tore through his clothes and scraped at his face. There was a crashing sound and he felt a searing wave of heat above him; something had ignited inside the TT4's engine as it tumbled down the slope and it had gone up in flames. He didn't dare open his eyes for fear of losing them. The ground would be rushing up to greet him any second now.

He doubted they would escape the fall unharmed. Their little group would find themselves bleeding, bruised, probably nursing more than one broken bone. They had less than twelve hours to stop the most devastating act of war in history and save millions of innocent lives, with no assistance and no plan on how to proceed. Yet, Tintin couldn't help but smile as his body bounced off a thick branch and he thudded to the dirt; they were alive. They were alive—bruised and broken but alive, against all odds. They were alive.

That was the only luck Tintin needed.