I wrote this short story back in 2005 as a potential contribution to WIRED Magazine. When they passed on it, I submitted a shortened version to PC Gamer for my Sim Column where it was published in the March '06 issue.

 

I also decided to submit it to the Surrey International Writer's Conference where it went up against scores of short story entries from throughout North America. It won Honourable Mention in the Non-Fiction category (basically 2nd place) producing my first professional writing award. Enjoy.

The Man With the Flying Notebook

“We’re off course,” the big guy in the window seat announced.

 

I looked up from my book. This was the first time he’d spoken to me all flight. “I beg your pardon?”

 

He tapped the 17-inch LCD screen on his Alienware 7700 notebook. The computer took up most of his available folding tray space. “We were supposed to follow the J7 airway all the way south from Reno and hook up with the J1 at DERBB. The pilot turned too soon.”

 

“DERBB?” We were on a direct flight from Vancouver to LAX and – while I knew a little about en route jetways – DERBB wasn’t ringing any bells.

 

“It’s an intersection.” He actually spoke in italics. “A navaid reference point for high altitude navigation.”

 

I glanced over his shoulder and peered out the window. The muddled-brown expanse of southern California peered back. “LA’s a pretty big place,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll find it okay.”

 

“That’s not the point!” A vein in his neck started pulsating. “They’re not following the flight plan!”

 

I looked at his computer screen. He’d been using one of those polymer 3M Privacy Filters to conceal his ‘work’ earlier but he peeled it off as we spoke. “What are you running there?”

 

“Microsoft Flight Simulator 2004,” he said, almost protectively. “With a few mods.”

 

“That doesn’t look anything like the FlightSim I have on my PC,” I offered an appreciative nod at the high resolution Boeing 737-400 flight deck. I could even make out a ‘no smoking’ switch in the upper panel.

 

“You’re into flight sims?” His face brightened. The neck vein picked up a few rpm’s.

 

“I review them for a living. Mostly flight and racing sims.”

 

“No shit. What’s your name?”

 

I told him.

 

“I know you.” I couldn’t tell if he was impressed or pissed off. Maybe I’d once panned a game he liked.

 

“That’s some wicked cockpit artwork you’ve got there,” I pointed at his notebook to change the subject. “Is it freeware or payware?”

 

“Freeware,” he said. “I downloaded it from FlightSim.com. The stock MS FlightSim 737 panel is way too generic. Microsoft got all Homeland Security after 9/11 and ordered the programmers not to get too specific on the details. They don’t want anyone accusing them of teaching terrorists how to fly big jets.” He paused. “Bastards.”

 

I wasn’t sure if he meant the programmers or the terrorists.

 

“This one’s a beauty though,” he continued. “Every switch, lever and dial is exactly where it’s supposed to be.”

 

“Where are you flying it to?” His on-screen 737 was moving. I could see clouds passing under the virtual windshield.

 

“LAX,” he looked surprised at the question. “It’s this plane.” He pointed at the floor, which I took to mean the 737 we were currently riding in. The one that was off course. “I even downloaded today’s weather conditions from Jeppeson before we took off.” Real-world weather was one of MS FlightSim’s coolest features. You could also update it every fifteen minutes over a live Internet connection (not legally permissible from the belly of a real jetliner in flight). 

 

 “You’re mimicking our flight plan?” I could see a pop-up GPS display on his screen now. FS2004 features a mock Garmin 500 receiver – the same $25,000 panel-mount GPS you’ll find in many commercial aircraft.

 

“I was. At least until those fuckwads up there decided to turn south fifty miles too soon.” He pointed his chin aggressively toward the front of the plane. It was nice to see his italics directed at someone else for a change.

 

“Well, it’s just a computer game. Maybe we’re not exactly where you think we are.”

 

His neck vein went into overdrive at that. “I thought you were a sim guy?” He tapped the Garmin 500 GPS on his screen. “We are right here. And we’re not supposed to pick up the J1 airway until here.” He moved his finger over to DERBB. The intersection.

 

“But that’s just a simulated GPS. A stiff tail wind could’ve pushed us to the turn point faster.” His argument wasn’t rational. “You could be off by a hundred miles and never know it.”

 

My traveling companion reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a small, Blackberry-sized device. He pointed defiantly at the color screen. “I don’t think so.”

 

He was holding up a real GPS receiver. One of those little PDA jobs.

 

 “It’s the Garmin iQue 3600,” he stated proudly. “Six hundred bucks at Best Buy.” He paused for effect. “And, we are 50 miles off course. See.” He positioned the real GPS alongside the simulated one. I studied them for a few seconds and tried to make like I knew what I was looking at.

 

“Impressive,” I said. We’d just reached a critical juncture in our conversation. The point where I wanted it to end. Moving to another seat was a no-go though because, not only was our plane off course, it was also full.

 

As he placed the iQue 3600 back in his pocket, I saw something curious happening with the plane – the simulated one. The big guy must have touched a key he shouldn’t have.

 

I spoke a little louder than normal, to draw his eyes away from the computer. “I hear Microsoft’s next FlightSim will feature a photorealistic A380 Airbus glass cockpit, seatbelt switches and all.”

 

His face went sort of pinkish at that announcement, the neck vein in full flutter. “No way!”

 

“It’s true,” I lied. I really didn’t have a clue what features were going to be in FlightSim 2006. Hell, I didn’t even know if the Redmond gang was planning to release a new version of the game anytime soon – their Edelman PR guys are pretty tight-lipped about stuff like that with the gaming press. The big man with the little laptop didn’t know that though, and I didn’t want him looking down at the LCD screen for a few more seconds. “Better yet, Microsoft’s gonna implement full crash effects into the game. Explosions, fireballs, everything.”

 

“No fucking way!” He repeated, full italics and an expletive. I had him now. Microsoft really had removed all crash and damage effects from the simulation following the 9/11 hijackings. Smashing planes into buildings was bad form.

 

“And, it’ll have a proper 500-page printed manual,” I added. I figured I might as well go the distance on this. Since the advent of PDF, hardcopy manuals were like Cartier diamonds to hardcore flight simmers.

 

“I don’t believe that,” he said. But I could tell from the way he was studying my face that he wanted to. Badly.

 

I glanced down at his Alienware 7700 notebook. Time was up.

 

“I think something’s wrong with your plane.”

 

He followed my gaze. His on-screen 737 was no longer at 26,000 feet. More like 26 feet.

 

“Shit!” His big, sausage-like fingers flew to the small keyboard in a panic and performed a hurried Flamenco on the cursor keys. If he’d had a joystick, he might have saved it but he didn’t, and the plane augured in. No crash, no fireball, just a brief outside view of his 70-ton lawn dart followed by a loading screen as the simulator reset itself – back to YVR.

 

“Sunnuvabitch!” He slumped back into his seat. “I must have accidentally touched the ‘Z’ key and turned off the autopilot.” His right hand absent-mindedly fiddled with the earphones he’d removed a few minutes earlier. Had he left them in, he would have heard a lot of high-pitched alarms as the plane was going down.

 

“That sucks,” I said. “Can you slew it back to where you were?”

 

“Nah, there’s no point. Those guys up front aren’t following the proper flight plan anyway.” He was still pretty pissed at them for that.

 

“Well, you’ll get ’em next time,” I picked up my book. There was time to get another chapter in before we landed.

 

My seatmate tapped away morosely at some keys while we descended into Los Angeles. He also stared out the window a lot.

 

We eventually touched down at LAX three minutes ahead of schedule. As I stood to retrieve my bag from the overhead compartment, I paused to consider that.

 

Maybe those fuckwads had turned fifty miles too early.