The cold metal joystick remained motionless in the palm of my hand, like frozen arctic rock formations. Lin Mo was sitting in the left seat of the Boeing 737 simulator. On his retinas, a stream of blue data flowed silently, creating a battlefield beyond reality. The violent clear-air turbulence tore the virtual fuselage apart like fallen leaves in the wind. The three engine failure warnings flashed dazzlingly, and the synthetic female voice's "Stall! Stall!" Alarm was so sharp that it could pierce the eardrum. Outside the window, a sea of digitally generated clouds rolled and roared, simulating the entrance to hell.
The instructor's cold voice came from the headset: "Lin Mo, the altitude is 28,000 feet, both engines have failed, and there is strong convective shear. You only have one chance."
Sweat slid down his temples and seeped into the collar of his flight suit. Lin Mo's gaze passed through the wildly shaking dashboard, through the blue interface, and was firmly fixed on the violent and disorderly chaos outside the porthole. The fingertips adjust slightly on the joystick, and every input is accurate to the millimeter, like dancing the most dangerous ballet on the edge of a cliff. He doesn't need to look at the system parameters that refresh like a waterfall, they have already been integrated into his nerve endings. This is not a simulation. This was an instinct carved into his bones after four years of hell.
The simulated cabin shook violently and returned to calm. All alarms went off, and a cold green word popped up on the screen: [LANDED].
"Take the time and record it." There was no emotion in the instructor's voice, only a faint hint of recognition, "Lin Mo, prepare to transition and fly Lingyun No. 001. Real guy, don't let your guard down."
Four years. From that time when Su Wan was like a sandbag, to the orphanage in the orphanage
