Angle on the deck, CREW moving to the lines in response to the order. Order is barely being maintained, here.
A FLYER is on approach, the BOMBARDIER visible, igniting his FIREPOT.
DRAKE is motionless, turning, his BURNT HAND against his chest. He’s looking at the FLYER.
1. WEST/off: Steady cannon!
2. WEST/off: Mind your lines!
3. TAILLESS: Get yer lines!
4. TAILLESS/small: She’s gone bloody mad—
On DRAKE, tight shot. Sergio Leone eyes.
5. TAILLESS/small: —she’ll kill us all—
CU on the FIREPOT in the BOMBARDIER’S HAND, now lit.
DRAKE, with his good hand, DRAWS and FIRES.
6. SFX: KRAK
The FIREPOT in the BOMBARDIER’S HAND, as it’s hit by Drake’s shot. The POT is EXPLODING in a cascade of shards and flame.
1. BOMBARDIER: GAHH!
Angle, on the FLYER, as BURNING SHARDS, PITCH, and OIL spatter the BOMBARDIER and PILOT, blown back along the Flyer. The FLYER is catching like it’s made of dried kindling. Because it kinda is.
2. TAILLESS: AHHHHH!!!
Looking at DRAKE. He’s not proud of that. Holstering his gun, still guarding his burnt hand, as the FLYER spins and burns, passing overhead.