The Flight of the Gobi
The International School of Macao, Jamie Alexander Clarke, Fiction: Group 2
I
t was 8:00 am on January 28th, 2013, in Paris Charles de Gaulle International Airport, where
I was sitting in my seat on flight QR1, waiting for take off. Suddenly, the plane’s loudspeaker
boomed out. “Welcome aboard flight QR1, direct to Beijing. We will be taking off shortly. My
name is Captain Jack.” The engines roared. As we lifted into the air, I looked out the window,
and watched the Eiffel Tower fade away in the distance.
When we got into airspace, I started to think, “Right! 15 minutes gone, 660 minutes to go.
Time to get out my book.” It was called Legends, and it was by, well, me! Jason des Voeux! Yes, I’m
an author! The whole reason of me going to Beijing was to get ideas for my new book, Adventures
of the Great Wall.
About 9 hours later, I looked at the plane’s map. We were just going over the Gobi Desert!
Suddenly, without warning, the 875,000-pound Boeing 747 shuddered and dropped towards the
ground. Before I knew what was happening, the plane burst into a blazing inferno on the sand
dunes of the Gobi.
When I became conscious again, I felt unbelievably cold. But it was hot when the plane
crashed! Then I saw the plane’s wreckage was covered with ice! Was I hallucinating? Where was I?
“Help!” I heard someone cry out. I tried to get up to figure out where the sound was coming
from. My ankle was throbbing. I dragged myself towards what was left of the cockpit, and saw a
person there.
“I’m Jack, the captain of this plane,” he said, “I’m stuck behind this broken bit of machinery,
so do you mind helping me out?” Using all the strength I had, I pushed the wreckage aside.
“Thanks!” Jack said. “Who are you?”
“I’m Jason des Voeux,” I explained.
“The Jason des Voeux?” The pilot asked, bewildered. “The author?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Now how are we going to get out of this mess? I hurt my ankle, so I won’t be
able to walk far.”
“There’s a first-aid kit in the cockpit,” he said. He led me to the inside of the big pile of burnt
metal and pointed at a box. I put some medicine on my ankle.
Jack sat down muttering. “What have I gotten myself into?” We grabbed pieces off the
smashed Boeing 747 to make a small tent for the night.
I did not have a good sleep, and neither did Jack. I kept having nightmares about when the
plane crashed. The next day, we grabbed a bottle of water each from the plane’s galley, and set
off in the snow-covered desert. We were going to try and look for civilization. Along the way,
we saw camels eating snow! I guess it was their only source of water. Just thinking about water
was making me dizzy. We had already finished off our bottles of water, and I was starting to
dehydrate. We tried to go back to the plane, but we couldn’t find it. Just as my eyes landed on a
snow leopard, I collapsed with dehydration.
The pilot shook me awake. He said he saw a car in the distance. I asked him how long I had
been out for, and he said about 5 hours. I sat up. A navy-blue Jeep was heading in our direction. It
pulled up in front of us, and a tall, black haired man in an orange jacket jumped out.
“Are you lost?” he asked.
