Station Breaker

33 Pilot

In 1976 a University of Illinois graduate named Bruce Artwick started publishing articles on using computers for the novel application of 3D graphics. The editor of one of the magazines that published his work advised Artwick to take his ideas one step further. So he quit his job working for Hughes Aircraft and created a company called SubLOGIC.

SubLOGIC created a number of different software titles, but the one near and dear to my heart is what he sold to Microsoft in 1982 when Bill Gates came calling: Flight Simulator.

More than a game, Flight Simulator was based on actual instrumentation and flight physics. Artwick and the other programmers were pilots who endeavored to create a degree of realism unheard of in simulations until this point.

Because of Flight Simulator, I learned to fly a Boeing 777 when I was ten years old.

I'd take my plane out of LAX, land at JFK, refuel as I got another bowl of Cap'n Crunch then head on over to England and land at Heathrow — the world's busiest airport. After I ate a hotdog and microwave French fries — my approximation to bangers and mash — I'd fly to Istanbul, Tokyo and then back to LAX, having circumnavigated the world, taking off and landing at all the major airports.

I'd try landing with engine fires, no landing gear, bad rudders. I even managed to flip the plane in a barrel roll others told me was impossible.

I logged more hours flying passenger jets than I did in any class in school. Granted, it was another decade before I got to fly a real one — and even then under the watchful eye of an instructor, but all the gauges and controls were where they were supposed to be. It was like coming home.

With flashing red lights behind me and the sound of BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP gunfire echoing off the walls of the terminal and hangars, nothing sounds more soothing than the calming cockpit of a jet-airliner.

I ditch the bike, run up the stairs and race inside. Thankfully, the passenger seats are empty. Immediately to my left I spot the open cockpit door and two pilots anxiously talking to air traffic control as they try to figure out what the hell is going on.

The co-pilot spins around and sees me standing in the doorway. "Who the hell are you?" he demands with a French accent.

"Get out!" I hesitate to think of what to say next. "They are coming for this plane!"

"We'll shut the door," says the pilot.

"They're going to try to blow it up!"

"What?"

The men are clearly confused. As am I. All I can do is just keep escalating the threat until they get up and leave.

"YOU HAVE TO GO NOW!" I scream.

BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP

The distant spray of machine gun fire reinforces the urgency of the situation.

The co-pilot looks to the captain, who nods to him. They both get up and I back out of the way.

I follow them outside and go halfway down the steps. At the bottom, the two men make a run for the terminal.

When the captain stops to look back, I'm already shutting the door.

I race back to the cockpit and do a quick check of everything. It appears that they were in the process of taxiing the plane from a hangar. The fuel gauges indicate full tanks — which is what I'll need to get this bird out of South America.

Since there's no ground crew to pull the stairs out of the way, I use the plane's reverse thrust to back away.

While I can't actually see the steps, the jet is far enough away from everything else that I can do a wide spin that brings me clear.

The gun shots are a faint popping sound from the inside of the cockpit. Which I guess is good, but I have no idea if anybody is shooting at me.

Right now the pilot is probably screaming at air traffic control — having realized what just happened.

And what did just happen?

Ninety seconds ago I was waiting for a free ride back to the United States. Now I'm stealing a $400 million-dollar passenger jet.

What the hell am I doing?

BANG!!! BANG!!! BANG!!! Another police car blows by me, oblivious to the fact that I'm about to steal something kind of valuable.

From the sound of things, the Russians are more than able to hold their own.

I crane my head and spot the latest police car charging right towards another marked cruiser. At first I think it's to provide back up, then I see someone open fire on the other car.

Jesus. The Russians have got the police shooting at each other.

Let's not stick around to see who's the winner.

I push the throttle forward and take the jet across the tarmac.

There are other planes on the taxi-way, but they're not moving. Air traffic control has probably ordered everyone to stay put — and hopefully having the passengers stay clear of the windows in case of stray gunfire.

The upside is that I'm pretty sure I have the runway all to myself.

Are you going to do this, David?

Seriously?

Are you going to steal a god damn passenger jet?

I check my flaps and my gauges, making sure everything is doing what it's supposed to be doing, then nudge the throttle.

The plane taxis to the end of the runway and I turn around, lining the nose up with the stripes.

This thing in my pocket better be damn worth it. I'm about to add a 777 to the list of things I've stolen in the last twelve hours, including a spaceship.

This has got to be some kind of record.

I do a last minute check. Flashing blue and red lights are starting to race down the taxiing lane.

I think everything is fine — on the inside. Out there, not so much.

It's time to go before some macho cop or kill-crazy Russian decides to play chicken with me.

I pull back the throttle and listen to the engines roar.

It's a good sound.

A reassuring sound.

I forget the world around me and pretend I'm sitting at our old computer hutch about to take to the sky.