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Simulation For Real: Air Combat USA
by Bob "Groucho" MarksThe Dream Becomes Reality
I woke up far too early after a sleep that was fitful at best. Rolling over to get a look at the clock, I blinked to get my eyes to focus. The red LED segments finally resolved well enough to allow me to read the time- 4:13 a.m. Geez—ten more hours. The voice of Doug Shane, a test pilot at work, rang in my still clouded head. "The Marchetti is sorta underpowered. When they call 'Fight's On' go vertical and keep your canopy on the other guy. You can't lose, as long as you don't waste your potential energy; remember---you can't motor your way outta trouble. And I don't know how you tolerate Dramamine, but when I went I took half of one. Gets pretty gnarly up there. But, oh man, you'll have fun-- packin' wood the whole time."
Wonderful. Doug is a Society of Experimental Test Pilots (SETP) Ivan Kincheloe Award-winning no-kidding test pilot; the sort of guy who definitely is one of the highest qualified experts in (and above) the world at keeping the pointy end of an airplane going forward. His thinly veiled counsel to imbibe medication to stave off motion sickness—coming from a guy with over thirty-three hundred hours logged in everything from our weird Burt Rutan designed aerial hallucinations to every currently inventoried ‘Teen Series fighter except for the Tomcat—was not something to blow off lightly.
I let those sage words of advice rattle around in my skull, and swung my legs over the side of the bed. What the hell, I conferred with myself; I'm awake now- might as well get up. Stepping carefully as to not trip over anything in the dark bedroom, I muttered a silent prayer that I'm sure has been muttered by thousands of fighter pilots over this past century of aerial warfare: "Please, God-- don't let me screw up." Or throw up, for that matter.
I'll be just fine, I reason. I've spent many hours in the air, often while doing some fairly radical stuff. As long as I'm doing the flying and not just the self-loading ballast, everything will be peachy. My stomach will not revolt. Besides, Dramamine had an effect on me similar to that of a solid blow to my temple with a two-by-four. As far as engaging my opponent in aerial battle goes, I was strangely confident—--I sim, therefore I am. Welcome to your mindset before entering the world of Air Combat USA.
Setting the cruise control speed to just barely over the flow of post-morning rush hour traffic on the San Diego Freeway---usually around 75 or 80 MPH---I sliced my way through Darkest Los Angeles to my destination with an occasional wary eye on the Whistler radar detector. The two hours of driving in a generally southern direction gave me plenty of time to consider what I was about to do. I had heard of Air Combat USA through some media outlet; I was still not quite sure where that was. What I did know is that someday, sometime, I would be all over that. Hey, maybe I'm not focused, tough, smart, or talented enough to be a real fighter pilot, but for just under a grand in United States dollars I could play one.
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