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To Dream, to fly - adventures in flight simming
1992 - A Harried flight It was a dark starry night near the Pacific coast of Sydney, Australia. The two men made their way up a winding path, dry leaves crackling underfoot. Nestled on the cliff face they reached their destination and made their way cautiously down a broken stairway hewn from the living rock. Arriving at a door they entered without knocking. The leader, shorter and with thinning hair, strode confidently forward. His companion, tall and dark - a Morrocan by birth, followed more hesitantly, his eyes still adjusting to the pitch blackness of the concrete bunker. Ahead, up the hallway, he saw a red glow emanating from a side room. They padded past the first room. The Morrocan glanced in and saw what looked like a military briefing room, with aircraft models, charts, maps and what looked to be a scale models of an airbase. He had seen MiG's in Africa, he recognised them. The next room seemed to be their destination. As they approached it a whistling sound grew louder, then it resolved into the sound of a jet engine... and a voice. "Roger, proceeding to target". They entered the room. The walls were rough, unfinished stone and a they stood on a bare wooden floor. In the centre, a lone figure sat in what looked like a aircraft, or part of an aircraft. An aircraft withoout wings or wheels of course, but recognisable as an aircraft. The lone cocupant was dressed in a flight suit, helmet and gloves. His hands were occupied moving between a joystick and a confusing array of buttons and switches dotted around the interior. There was a map to one side. The visitor picked it up... some kind of military map obviously... ahh... East Timor! The two visitors seated themselves behind the cockpit and watched the drama unfold on the small monitor.
There was a whooshing sound and a missile streaked into the distance. The plane was obviously flying low and the visitors flinched as the screen filled with a wooden hut and palm trees. The leader admonished the pilot "Hey, you're flying pretty low!!" "He he he..." was the only reply from the pilot, then "hang on... bogies inbound ! There he is... 10 o'oclock high!" The pilot's voice had gone up a few tones in pitch. "Here he comes.... yeeeeow.... head on pass!" Everyone had ducked. The Moroccan got up off the floor. This was absorbing! "Goin' high.... thrust vector, 10 degrees.... 20 degrees... over we go... there he is. FOX 2 FOX 2 !" |
Two sidewinder missiles streaked away from the cockpit and down below, over the
village, their was a flash and a streak of oily smoke, followed by another flash and a
bang as the bandit came down to earth."
"That's enough, heading home" said the pilot as he flew past the smoking wreckage and down a road to the coast, past columns of arour heading North. Everybody jumped a few inches at a loud BANG! "Don't worry" the pilot said "that's just the ground pounders slugging it out. Never quite get used to it though. Anyway, time to concentrate... now comes the really hard part!"
"Hey, good flying!" the Morrocan said. "Yeah well, thanks. I've been putting the hours in so it should be. It all comes down to practice. Anyone for coffee?" |
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