On an autumn morn in Wichita town,
A Russian pilot came around.
Sergey Galitzky, aged fifty-four,
Walked through a flight simulator’s door.
With translator close, he sought that day,
To train on a Cessna and earn his pay.
Inside the building, vast and wide,
Where mock jets soared and screens collide.
They met with Jay, aged seventy-eight,
An instructor seasoned, calm and great.
Handshakes done, they took a tour,
Past gear and pods on the simulator floor.
They stopped before a pod so grand,
A white round shell on a metal stand.
To some, it looked like a theme park ride—
But pilots knew what lay inside.
Jay opened the hatch, the trio stepped in,
To mimic the skies where real flights begin.
The cockpit mirrored a Cessna’s grace,
From blinking lights to its cozy space.
Sergey sat, the captain proud,
Jay beside him, instructions loud.
They ran pre-checks, precise and neat,
Every dial, every light, every seat.
Jay hit a switch—the engines roared,
The pod now trembled, sim-flight soared.
Sergey gripped the yoke just right,
And turned the craft toward simulated flight.
He throttled up, the pod did shake,
As runway lines began to break.
Then off they went into the sky,
A digital plane that seemed to fly.
He circled clouds, found his flow,
Though Cessnas moved with twitchy woe.
But soon he soared with practiced hand,
As Jay gave nods to where he’d land.
They looped around to touch the ground,
A smooth descent with barely sound.
The wheels then kissed the virtual strip—
But then the day took a fatal flip.
A crash! A roar! A flash of flame,
As all went dark inside that frame.
Outside, folks turned at the blast,
Smoke and fire rising fast.
Calls were made, alarms rang out,
As rescue teams rushed all about.
And there they found, to deep dismay,
Wreckage strewn in black and gray.
Another plane had met its doom,
A real one lost in a fiery plume.
Mark Goldstein flew that fateful flight,
But moments in, he lost his might.
His plane, a six-seat metal shell,
Struck the sim where the others fell.
Jay, Sergey, the aide—and Mark—
All were gone in that burning spark.
A training flight that felt so true,
Was shattered by a sky so blue.
And in that pod designed to teach,
The hands of fate reached out of reach.