But I'm Still a Pilot

The cold metal control stick stayed perfectly still in Lin Mo's palm, like a frozen layer of Arctic rock. He sat in the left seat of a Boeing 737 simulator. Across his retinas, streams of blue data flowed silently, constructing a battlefield beyond reality. Violent clear-air turbulence tore at the virtual aircraft like leaves in a gale. Warnings of all three engines failing flashed glaringly, while the synthesized female voice shrieked, “Stall! Stall!” so sharply it could pierce his eardrums. Outside the window, digitally generated clouds churned and roared, simulating the entrance to hell. The instructor's icy voice came through his headset. “Lin Mo, altitude 28,000 feet. Both engines out, severe wind shear. You have one chance.” Sweat slid down his temple and soaked into the collar of his flight suit. Lin Mo's gaze cut through the wildly shaking instrument panel and the layer of blue interface, fixing firmly on the chaotic storm beyond the cockpit window. His fingertips made minute adjustments to the control stick, each input precise to the millimeter, like the most dangerous ballet danced on the edge of a cliff. He didn't need to look at the system parameters streaming down the screen. They had long since become part of his nerve endings. This wasn't a simulation. It was instinct, hammered into his bones through four years in hell. The simulator jolted violently, then settled into calm. Every alarm went silent, and a cold green word appeared on the screen: [LANDED]. “Time: a record.” No emotion could be heard in the instructor's voice, only the faintest hint of approval. “Lin Mo, prepare to transfer. You'll be flying Lingyun 001. It's the real thing, so don't screw up.” Four years. Since Su Wan had carried him off like a sack of sand from the moldy welfare home...