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Pilot Monitoring on their afternoon flight home to Limit Creek, Tamsin watched Diane's altitude drop one hundred feet. "Altitude," she called.

"Checked," Diane said. Lowering her nose, she surrendered another one hundred feet, building speed to reclaim her altitude, glancing to their south. A dazzling sun ray fired into her cockpit window, flaring into her eye. Refocusing on her instruments, she squeezed her eyes, clearing the white reflection disturbing her flight awareness. She'd ignored the initial blinding ray. Hundreds of feet further west, its repetition made little sense. "I'm getting blinded by a light from our south. It's happened twice."

Tamsin pivoted. Unable to see from her right seat, she said, "Shall we investigate?"

"Report fuel," Diane commanded.

Tamsin scanned her gauges, performing familiar calculations. "Ninety minutes extra."

Diane banked left, losing height in her turn. "I've got my eye on the approximate spot. It wasn't natural."

During their banking turn, Tamsin scoured the ground for anything ruining their repetitive desert bush landscape. Gazing across their instrument panel, she called, "Three thousand five hundred."

"Checked," Diane responded. "I'll take her to six hundred feet, turning right over the target area."

"Understood." Tamsin scrutinized the ground between instrument scans. Vast wilderness met her gaze. Shrubs spotted the red earth in every direction. Except behind their original flight path.

One mile east was an alternate landing strip. It wasn't an airfield. They'd mapped potential landing locations over months, often passing low, inspecting their surface for shrubs, roots, or dangers. Their Twin Otter handled short landing strips. Although its chunky tires could handle rough surfaces, they couldn't erase obstacles. Where the red packed earth was barren, landing was possible in theory.

Diane flew a figure of eight circuit south of their flight track. A brilliant light exploded on Tamsin's window. Blinded herself, Tamsin called, "Target, a quarter mile right."

Diane turned, holding her height with increased power. Distraction was easy, losing altitude dangerous. She banked around the approximate position, giving her co-pilot a clear ground view.

Tamsin spotted their quarry, a woman waving her arms in the universal distress signal. Stabbing the GPS system, she recorded their position. "A lone woman. In trouble. Signaling us. Her ute appears stuck in soft sand. Standby for situation report." Checking their altitude, engine gauges, and fuel, she reported their position, flight time to Limit Creek, and fuel remaining.

Diane flew perfect circuits overhead their target at six hundred feet. "Ground rescue is tomorrow, best case. Alternate Delta is a mile north east."

"Agreed," Tamsin said. They'd labeled their alternate landing sites, increasing phonetic letters from Alpha as distance grew from Limit Creek. "I'll signal her to walk that direction."

"Is she able?" Diane asked.

"She's waving, jumping."

"We can't toss her a VHF. It would break," Diane mused.

"Pass at two hundred feet. I'll wave her towards Alternate Delta."

Diane circled, losing height. "Next circuit. Standby."

Tamsin stabbed her arm forward as they passed low, praying the woman understood her gesture. Climbing away, towards Alternate Delta, Diane rocked her wings in the universal 'follow me' sign.

Heading North East, Tamsin set their destination, her fear building. They'd never landed in an unproven location.

Diane felt cockpit tension rising. Falling into her training, she said, "I'm heading towards a spot two miles north of Alternate Delta."

Tamsin reported. "We're at nine hundred feet. Level off at one thousand. I've set Alternate Delta as our destination."

Diane glanced at her screen, picturing her turns. "Alternate Delta landing briefing," she called.

Tamsin fixated on their routine. "We're landing at Alternate Delta southbound, into a five knot headwind. Best guess."

"Checked." Diane said.

"You fly a visual approach, descending three hundred feet per minute. Set your QNH to fifty feet above Limit Creek. We estimated elevation above sea level of this strip by calculation. We must consider our altimeters unreliable. I'll call altitudes, but your judgement rules."

"Judgement over altimeter. Checked."

"Regardless, you go around at two hundred feet, applying full power. I'll inspect the strip surface. You fly."

Diane appreciated her co-pilot's calm instructions.

Tamsin continued. "Climb out straight ahead to one thousand, turning left towards our start position."

Diane repeated her instructions, their routine soothing her mind into focus.

"Subject to my strip inspection," Tamsin said. "On the second circuit, we land."

"Checked."

"Two genuine landing attempts before aborting west to Limit Creek. We can return to drop emergency supplies."

"Agreed." Diane knew emotions mustn't rule their cockpit. Her Pilot Monitoring knew their remaining fuel. Killing themselves helped nobody.

"On final," Diane called, pointing their nose towards Alternate Delta, two miles distant. Watching her air speed, she called for flaps.

Tamsin responded, their altitude reduction in perfect line with her plan. "Six hundred approx," she called, reminding her captain her altitude calls were imperfect.

"Airfield in sight," Diane said, concentrated on their short, red-dirt zone, aligned left of center, providing Tamsin a clear view.

"Checked," Tamsin said, Alternate Delta in her view. "Three hundred," she called.

Diane said, "Stabilized." At her best estimate of two hundred feet, she arrested their descent, passing alongside Alternate Delta at one hundred knots.

Tamsin examined the earth, laser focused. Her brain assimilated square feet in hundredths of seconds, forming a mental map. Their lives depended on her accuracy.

Climbing away at maximum power, Diane remained silent, giving her co-pilot peace to decide.

Tamsin said, "Surface dry. Camber insignificant. Land left of center, fewer stones."

Their decision made, silence consumed their small space as Diane flew their Twin Otter towards their first real landing attempt.

Bleeding off speed, Diane repeated her measured descent. Their altitude readings more accurate than she'd expected.

Tamsin obeyed flaps calls, watching their airspeed, altitude, and engine gauges. She called, "Three hundred approx."

"Checked," Diane said, her eyes aligned left on her new imaginary center line.

Fifty feet inside Alternate Delta, Diane set their rear wheels on the rough surface, retarding power when her nose wheel touched. Their flaps at the limit, she applied max manual braking.

Tamsin watched red ground disappear as they ate up their airstrip, her covering hand dropping from their ceiling-mounted throttle levers as they halted.

Exhaling, Diane said, "Welcome to Alternate Delta. I hope you enjoyed your flight."

Laughing, Tamsin relaxed.

Climbing down, Diane said, "We need to depart soon. Four hours until sundown."

Tamsin watched her captain rummage in their baggage compartment, removing their emergency supplies box. Black plastic, it contained bottled water, biscuits, medical kit, sleeping bags, a tent, a clear plastic compass, and matches.

Handing Tamsin a liter bottle of water and the compass, Diane said, "Walk to meet her with water. Maintain reverse compass bearings towards our plane. Before you lose sight, return unless you've made contact."

Her orange emergency locator beacon clipped to her belt, Tamsin scooped up her sat phone, heading southwest, tracking a reverse bearing of forty-five degrees to their bright white aircraft. The flat environment gave her almost half a mile in sight of their plane.

Extending her sat phone aerial, Diane called Jake, reporting their situation. Without air traffic control to monitor their flight, someone should know they'd landed at Alternate Delta. She kept her call short, promising they'd report their safe departure.

Tamsin trekked southwest across their arid landscape, sun beating down on her white uniform shirt, scanning her horizon. Every thirty steps, she corrected her path, matching her compass bearing, hoping the woman had understood her arm signal. In their remote area, you didn't ignore a stranger in danger. You also didn't endanger yourself in futile rescue attempts. Poor decisions turned ugly fast in their harsh environment. After twenty minutes, she paused, checking her forty-five degree bearing towards her almost invisible aircraft. She scoured each direction for movement. Assuming she'd outpaced the woman, she waited six whole minutes, continuing her visual surveillance. Disappointed she'd failed to signal their intent, she faced her distant white airplane. Glancing over her shoulder once more, she spotted movement north of her precise track. Eyes glued to the spot, a human shape moved slow. Waving her arms, she attempted to divert the woman towards her, refusing to give up sight of her plane. Rushing from visual references could get her lost.

Undeterred, the woman maintained her determined course.

Wetting her lips, Tamsin joined her thumb and index finger, placing them in her mouth. Rolling her tongue, she blew a fierce, piercing whistle.

Her whistle worked, changing the woman's tack, her white uniform shirt a beacon in the red landscape. Keeping her plane in view, Tamsin waited. Disheveled dirty blonde hair accompanied a black tee, straight-legged crumpled jeans, and a grateful expression as Tamsin passed her open water bottle to the fortyish woman.

Glugging, the woman drank half their supply.

"Steady," Tamsin said. "Sip it." She studied the woman's flushed skin. Alongside her rapid breathing, it suggested heatstroke. Guiding them towards her plane, she began walking, her pace reduced, keeping her eye on the woman's state. "Tell me your name."

"Margaret," the exhausted woman gasped.

Introducing herself, Tamsin monitored her charge, water improving Margaret's alertness. "When did your ute get stuck?"

"Three days ago. I saw you flying yesterday. I couldn't make my compact mirror generate signals."

"You've done well," Tamsin said.

Upon arrival, Diane supported Margaret up the five steps into their Twin Otter. Two seating rows served their occasional construction worker passengers bound for Ruby Downs Cattle Station.

Tamsin replaced vital lost fluids, while her captain strapped Margaret into her front-row seat, serving biscuits, water, and introducing herself.

Securing the passenger door, they met in the cockpit. Diane said, "Hospital in Nullabull."

"Agreed," Tamsin said, reading their awakening avionics, calculating their remaining fuel. "We'd arrive with thirty minutes of fuel."

Starting their engines, they performed their checklists and briefed their departure. Diane turned the Twin Otter in their limited space, ready to depart. Tamsin checked on their passenger. Alert, in shaded comfort, Margaret appeared better. She passed her a headset on an extended wire they sometimes used for passengers.

"Hi Margaret, I'll switch you off while we depart. We'll chat in the air."

"Thanks, Tamsin."

Their twin propellors screamed as Diane commanded maximum power, her feet on the brakes. Tamsin covered Diane's throttle hand, feeling the instant surge as her captain plunged their aircraft forward.

"Airspeed alive," Tamsin called.

Diane rotated. Lightness gifted them comfort as their Twin Otter climbed.

"Positive rate," Diane said.

Monitoring their climb, Tamsin observed one thousand feet, their return to prudent flight calming her. At four thousand feet, she called Jake, as per Diane's briefing, advising him they were flying to Nullabull. She cherished his crisp, affirmative response. He never wasted a word during flight operations.

"Margaret, you okay?" She asked.

"Thank you, Tamsin. Biscuits never tasted this good."

"You may need a hospital. We're taking you to Nullabull. It's one hour thirty."

"I'm beyond grateful you spotted me."

"What happened?"

"I argued with my husband, a real screaming humdinger. Rushing to my sister's, angry, I didn't plan. She lives in Limit Creek. I'm from Nullabull. In pitch black, I lost the road, driving miles wrong. Sand caught my ute. That was three days ago."

"I'll give you coordinates for your ute. You were hours east of Limit Creek."

"I'm a fool. Without you, I'd have died."

Tamsin didn't disagree.

Diane said, "A search for you may be underway, Margaret."

"I prayed he'd reported me missing. I didn't tell my sister I was coming."

"Give me your last name," Tamsin said.

Keeping their wings level, Diane admired her professional partner. Uncommanded, her co-pilot switched from intercom to radio, attempting to raise Nullabull. Crisp in her ears, she heard Tamsin announce their approaching flight, providing their passenger name, summarizing their circumstances, and requesting medical help.

Thirty minutes later, she set their wheels on Nullabull's large red dirt airstrip, following tower guidance to the general aviation hangar. Shutting down their engines, they waved a waiting ambulance crew forward, running down their checklists as the medics disembarked their passenger.

Their plane secure, Tamsin approached the ambulance team caring for Margaret. She identified Margaret's relieved husband. Drawing him aside, she gave him the ute's coordinates. His effusive gratitude embarrassed her.

"It's our duty," she replied. "Can I offer you some advice?"

He nodded.

"Spank her. I'm a girl, I understand stress. She's stuffed herself with guilt over her stupidity. Bend her over your bed, belt her bottom, hard. Don't ask permission. Hold her to account. Spankings work wonders on a relationship. I know. My boyfriend Jake punishes me. It hurts like crazy, but I love his strictness. We don't argue."

"You're serious?"

"You almost lost Margaret. Establish new rules. Trust me."

He considered the young pilot. Beautiful, nobody would imagine her boyfriend belted her bottom. In their strange circumstances, the younger girl's unexpected relationship advice provided a fresh perspective. "I'm not sure I could hurt her."

"Try it," Tamsin grinned. "Belt her hard. A stinging butt doesn't upset a girl. In fact, I guarantee you'll rediscover extraordinary intimacy."

Refueled under Diane's watchful eye, they inspected their aircraft for damage from Alternate Delta's rough surface. Finding their rugged plane reliable, they shot into the sky, bound for home, racing remaining daylight to Limit Creek.

Tamsin told of her impromptu relationship advice.

Diane grinned. "I bet he doesn't act."

"He might," Tamsin said. She'd felt her advice hadn't fallen on deaf ears.

In Limit Creek, Jake left both doors open on his garden shed listening for his sat phone placed against the cream corrugated iron wall in case Tamsin called. He tapped his keyboard, waking fourteen screens. On the central pair, he connected to a virtual private network service. He used their secure network to reach his own remote servers in a Swiss bunker, leased to his British Virgin Islands company. Multiple virtual private network services routed his onward connection through Europe, Estonia, and Russia, his last link landing on a Cayman Islands bank website. Checking his balance, he saw only payments he expected, funding the British Virgin Islands company, among others.

Disconnecting his sophisticated protection, he revisited the same Cayman bank direct from his satellite connection, revealing his Limit Creek location to anyone inspecting the bank's internet traffic. Logging into a different bank account, disappointment merged with irritation as he saw the stubborn four-year-old six million dollar balance. Bait, designed to trap his ex-girlfriend, the tripwire would alert him to her approaching digital presence. Within her capabilities, he'd expected her to steal it years ago. It was her ill-gotten gains.