I hop on the bike and start the engine. A bullet strikes the pavement ahead of me as somebody realizes I'm about to get the hell out of Dodge.
I gun the accelerator and peel out, flying away from them at full speed and twist around the jet, putting it between us.
Red and blue police lights flash somewhere behind me. I just keep going and take the bike across the tarmac.
Full throttle, I race down the taxi-way. Straight ahead there's a landing light of a jet as it rolls towards me.
I take the bike onto the grass island and blow past the wing tip. Stealing a glance behind me, there's three or four police cars with their lights on.
I don't know if they're after me or responding to the shooting, it really doesn't matter because there's also a pair of headlights belonging to the SUV, charging towards me.
Think, David.
You're trapped in an airport with fences all the way around. There's no way I'm going to pull a Steve McQueen and jump my way out. And there's no way this bike is going to knock down the fence.
While you might be able to evade the Russians by whizzing around in circles, the Brazilian police are going to catch you sooner than later if you can't get out.
BANG! Someone tries to shoot at me from all the way back there.
I glance behind me; all the way back there is a lot closer… That SUV is tearing it up. So are the police cars in hot pursuit.
This is going to be a god damn blood bath.
The Russians already had a gun battle with one cop.
BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP
Automatic gun fire! Shit! They're shooting machine guns now!
Two police cars appear out of nowhere in front of me and blow past, heading to intercept the SUV.
BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP
There's a crash behind me as a police cruiser smashes into the front landing gear of a plane when it gets hit by automatic gunfire.
The SUV swerves as the other police car plays chicken.
BANG!!! BANG!!! BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP Christ, there's a full on gun battle behind me.
It slows the Russians down and helps me a little.
Maybe there is a way out of here…
And there it is…
I think I found a way over the fence after all.
It weighs 80,000 pounds and already has a staircase waiting for me.
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.