As the population of the island increased, and now included more large coins like silver and half dollars, the old dusty field the coins previously trained on proved inadequate. Two Loons ordered Leo Lincoln and his Coin Army Corps of Engineers to construct a new facility that incorporated equipment and obstacle courses that benefited from lessons learned in dozens of operations on the mainland. The stadium also held a new wrestling ring and soccer field. Liking what she saw, Deirdre directed all the other bullion bases to refit their stadiums with new and better training facilities as well.
The chief, Two Loons, and Deirdre Dime determined that basic locomotion was no longer sufficient for field operatives. In the early days when coins first learned to buck ‘n’ roll, the feat was considered so astounding that no one thought anything else was needed, or even possible.
Certain coins—Ned, Pete, Darla, Hannah Half Dollar, Cody and Camille Quarters among them—achieved far more than the fundamentals, and their gymnastic expertise proved lifesaving in the field. Now, with the inception of the officer training program, island leadership dictated that all chosen members reach high levels of locomotive speed, nimbleness, and acrobatics.
The stadium’s main feature was its obstacle course, which was surrounded by shrubs and out of view from the rest of the island. The course included a variety of barriers and obstructions that operatives might encounter in the field.
Early on, as head of Coin Intelligence, Deirdre Dime insisted upon a detailed summary of every operation. She contacted each mission’s leader to pry from his or her experiences everything the coins encountered while in the field. From these interviews she built a list from which future operations could benefit. Her post-mission briefings resulted in a great deal of useful information.
After culling through the data in her prodigious memory, she offered her recommendations to Chief Iron Tail. The lessons learned in their discussions were then passed on to Two Loons and Leo Lincoln, who were instructed to incorporate them into the training center.
The obstacle course comprised dozens of barriers and threats that a coin operative might buck up against—walls, ledges, tight squeezes, broad jumps, ramps, and in the case of eagle-backed coins, short runways. Ned and Cody also taught the recruits the fine arts of stealth, evasion, and reconnaissance. The coins trained both in daylight and on dark, moonless nights when visibility was near zero.
Although the focus of training was on dexterity, balance, speed, reflexes, and special skills related to infiltration and recovery, the new training program also covered coin psychology, the building of core strength, and the focusing of one’s “inner wampum.”
Chief Iron Tail instructed the coins in the ways of wampum. He had long known about wampum, but it was only after arriving on Coin Island and receiving more teachings about it in a series of visions from the Coinim did he learn wampum’s true importance. He explained to the coins that each one of them contained great reserves of will—a kind of coiled, primal energy deep in their mintage that, if tapped, could greatly increase or enhance their abilities. A coin could even use his or her inner wampum to regenerate organic-based coin embossments such as wheat stocks, laurels, and certain injuries to a coin’s face, eagle, or bison.
A coin’s wampum, the chief taught, could be developed by the proper use of meditation, prayer, and yoga-like exercises that included holding strange postures and deep breathing. Every training day began and ended with these practices.
But it also meant that each coin needed to train both his obverse and reverse sides equally. Just as people tended to favor their right hand over their left, coins naturally relied on their obverse sides for most everything, except those with eagles or buffaloes on their backs. Even so, neither animal was living up to its true potential, and so they too gained considerably from the work.
At first the coins found this difficult, much like a right-handed person feels clumsy when using his left hand. As in writing, for instance, if the person were to persevere, eventually the brain adjusted and the person developed a knack for writing with either hand. It was the same with coins. Ned and the chief expected every coin to become ambidextrous, or as Ned came to call the ability, “ambiverstrous.” An ambiverstrous coin, in other words, could activate and use its obverse and reverse sides with equal skill.
By incorporating wampum and ambiversity into their training, not only did each coin’s overall performance improve significantly, but wampum and ambiversity also helped the coins to discover new uses for their different embossments. Inanimate objects were no longer useless appendages. A penny’s wheat stalks, a Roosevelt’s torch, or a Mercury dime’s fasces (her bundle of sticks with it’s protruding ax blade) could, with enough practice and dedication, animate in marvelous ways.
Deirdre and Darla bucked over to Chief Iron Tail to inquire if he thought the group of trainees were ready to move on to the next phase of their training: planning and executing a mission.
When they sidled up next to the chief they saw he was watching Ned below bark like a drill sergeant at a frightened-looking Washington quarter. The quarter had just fallen from a wire strung over a valley at the edge of the training field.
“What’s gotten into Ned?” Deirdre asked. “He’s ruthless out there.”
“I had a talk with him,” the chief answered.
“Well, it didn’t seem to do much good.”
“The heck it didn’t! Look at those guys. Have you ever seen a more disciplined lot?”
“You told him to be stricter?” Darla asked.
“He was treating this too much like a tryout for a cheerleading squad,” the chief answered gruffly. “The coins were walking all over him. I told him if he was ever to see his precious Franny again, to say nothing about save Coinworld, then he had better buck up and put the fear of God into these whiny flower petals.”
“But I liked the old Ned.”
“Pshaw,” the chief said, dismissing her regret with a roll of his eye, “it’s just for show. The Four is still a Boy Scout through and through.”
“Do you think the class is ready for phase two?” Deirdre asked.
“No, but we’re running out of time. We’ve hardly redeemed any coins for two months. We’re behind schedule.”
“Don’t worry, Chief,” Deirdre said. “Once this team completes its training, we’ll be able to disperse them to the different bullion bases to pick up where we left off. Doing so we ought to see more missions with better results in no time. Hopefully, there will be no more disasters like what happened this week in Albany.”
The chief grunted.
“Aw, c’mon, sourpuss,” Deirdre chided. “You know this crew is our best class ever, and they still have a month to go, so they will only improve more.”
“There’s a world of difference between here and,” the chief tossed a glance towards the mainland, “there.”
“No one is saying there isn’t, but we can only do so much. If we train them properly they will improve with each mission.”
The chief had stopped listening. His attention had turned to the figure of Hugh Stewards on the park bench.
The two dimes followed his eye’s trajectory. The man held up a newspaper, and although he was partially obscured by the bushes, they knew who it was. No one else ever sat there.
As if reading the chief’s mind, Deirdre said, “I spoke with Two Loons this morning and asked him for an update on The Hugh. Border Control says no change.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing that warrants any concern. Two Loons’ squad of patrolling Lincolns brief him daily, and they report The Hugh’s behavior hasn’t altered in any significant way.”
“He seems a little lighter on his feet these days, and in less pain,” the chief remarked.
“Probably the result of physical therapy.”
“It looks good on him,” Darla observed. “He looks younger.”
The chief said, “I heard that the man began dumping some kind of pink and blue pellets into the lake eve
ry now and then. What’s that about?”
Deirdre shrugged. “He’s been doing that for some time now. We think he likes feeding the fish. Some people feed pigeons; The Hugh feeds fish. It’s nothing that affects us.”
“He’s reading,” the chief said. “And he scribbles in a notebook too. That’s new.”
“The notebook isn’t,” Darla said. “I saw him doing that even before I left to open the Grand Canyon base. Besides, he’s probably just bored.”
Deirdre sighed. “I miss books.”
“I want to know what he’s reading,” the chief said.
“I can tell you,” Deirdre said, always eager to show how on top of things she was. “Newspapers, magazines, and the occasional book.”
“Not good enough,” the chief said. “I want to know what kind of papers, magazines, and books. I want specifics.”
Deirdre frowned. “We don’t know much about that. We can’t make them out from here. But why should that matter? Like Darla said, he’s probably bored. After all, staring at the island hour after hour must be like watching paint dry.”
“The eagles flying in and out of here ought to be able to tell us something,” the chief said.
“They pick up bits here and there. The Yankees just won the World Series.”
“Really?” Darla said, excited by the news. “Who’d they play?”
“The Milwaukee Braves.”
“They faced off last year too! The Yankees lost in seven.”
“Seven again. The Yankees came back from being down three games to one and became only the second team in World Series history to do so.”
The chief stared at the two gabby dimes and shook his head. “So, The Hugh reads the sports page?”
“He reads the paper front to back,” Deirdre clarified. “It’s just that Two Loons and his nickel braves have a soft spot for the Milwaukee Braves. I guess you can guess why. Plus, Two Loons likes a young slugger on the Braves named Hank Aaron. He said everyone should keep an eye on that kid.”
“You all have too much time on your hands,” the chief grumbled. “Front to back, you say? Maybe he’s looking for something.”
“Maybe he has nothing better to do,” Deirdre said.
“No, he’s looking for something.”
“Like what?” Darla asked.
“News.”
“Well, it is a newspaper, Chief,” Darla giggled.
“Specific news. News about us.”
“Coin Island?” Deirdre said. “People don’t even know we exist.”
“The Hugh man does.”
“We don’t really know what he knows,” Deirdre reminded the chief.
“He knows coins fly in and out of here,” Darla said. “That’s quite a bit. Maybe he thought he was losing his mind at first, but he seems to have accepted it. Do you think he’s told anyone?”
“We’ve seen no evidence of it,” Deirdre answered. “It appears that we’re still his own little secret.”
“You’re both forgetting something,” the chief said. “We aren’t the only coins moving about anymore. Across the country people have probably reported break-ins and thefts and other strange goings-on.”
“What are you saying, Chief?” Darla asked. “You think he’s looking for stories about such things?”
Deirdre said, “No matter his suspicions, he can’t possibly think we’re behind that. No one could.”
The chief smirked. “That collector fellow could, did, and does know, remember? He’s out there somewhere and we have to assume each day brings him a little closer to Coin Island. Him, and maybe others. Maybe others who aren’t…” The chief decided not to complete his thought.
Darla and Deirdre frowned and exchanged grimaces of concern. It was easy to think that coins operated completely under the radar; that human imaginations couldn’t possibly pick up their doings. But The Hugh and Monroe Stryker had proved them wrong. Clearly, some people’s boundaries to reality were more elastic than most.
“What’s he doing now?” the chief said with alarm. He turned to Deirdre. “Did Two Loons ever mention anything about scissors?”
Deirdre wagged her head, no. “Coupons?” she offered. “He doesn’t have much money, after all.”
“He doesn’t look like the coupon-clipping type to me,” Darla said.
The chief sucked on his lip and said, “The occasional eagle drifting past isn’t going to fly. And what I want to know isn’t going to be found in the sports page either.”
Darla gasped. “Chief, you’re not suggesting—?”
“Suggesting nothing. I’m ordering. We need a coin on the inside.”
“But it’s too dangerous.”
“So is not knowing. It’s time we take things to the next level. Deirdre, initiate Operation Cash Flow.”
“Understood, Chief,” Deirdre replied.
Darla swiveled her head between the two coins. “Operation Cash Flow?”
“Do you want to ask for a volunteer?” the chief asked Deirdre. “It has to be someone with wings.”
“I already have one.”
“Good gal. Cody?”
Deirdre nodded. “He jumped at the chance.”
“Quality quarter, that Cody, and fearless too.”
“You know this means he won’t be able to join the Memphis mission.”
“Camille will take his place.”
Darla nudged the chief and raised her dimpled chin towards The Hugh. The man was snipping out another block from his newspaper.
“How soon can Cody be ready?”
“I’ll brief him today and he’ll be in The Hugh’s pocket by tomorrow evening.”
“All right, now let’s go down and give Ned and the others a hand.”
Hugh Stewards held up the snippet of newsprint and reread the story he found buried in section B of the paper. The headline read: Top Coin Group Seeks Help from FBI on Rash of Mysterious Robberies.
He stuffed the article into his shirt pocket alongside two other pieces he had clipped that day, and stood. Cane in hand, Hugh walked to the edge of the lake and stared at Coin Island. Other than the rustle of leaves on the lone maple tree and the slight quiver of some bushes and weeds, the island looked as still as usual.
He pulled up his binoculars and scanned the small strip of land. He saw no movement, but he noticed that a group of coins he had spotted the previous day on the eastern shore was gone.
Hugh swept the binoculars towards the center of the island, to the spot where he had seen small silvery discs take off and land. He was used to seeing the flying objects come and go as often as three or four times a day, but for weeks now there had been a lull in the action emanating from behind the bushes that blocked his view.
He scratched his head and palmed his chin in consideration. Had the coins decided to fly primarily at night? If so, why? He had noticed that birds seemed to take an interest in the glittery discs. Once he even saw a crow swoop out of nowhere and carry away a quarter in mid-flight. Since that time, whenever he spotted a bird getting too close to the island he chased it away by throwing a stone at the predator, or by swatting at it with his cane. Hugh doubted it did much good, but while he was around the birds did seem to keep their distance. Maybe the birds were snatching up the coins while he was away?
Hugh Stewards chuckled and shook his head. Now and then his obsession with the tiny island did amuse him. Perhaps he was crazy after all. Perhaps he should be taking the medication his doctors were prescribing for him, instead of dumping the pills into the lake. If Katherine knew, she’d be furious. A working nurse, her faith in doctors was unshakable; his own not so much, especially when it came to tinkering with his mind.
8
tarred and feathered
November 1958 — New Mexico, Route 66
It had only rained once since Pete was dumped onto the side of the road, but the thirsty desert sucked up the water before any of it could form a puddle. He tried staring into the wet pavement at the time, hoping to make contact with CBS, bu
t the film of moisture was not enough to establish a connection.
Pete felt as trapped as a penny in a loafer. Worse than trapped, because he didn’t have to be sticking around if he didn’t want to. He knew he could upright at any time and roll away. Heck, he thought, if he had done that weeks ago he’d already have arrived at the promised gas station twenty miles down the road, and there perhaps have found a means for contacting home base.
Instead, he stuck with his cross-eyed companion and waited for rain. The vultures no longer circled above, having found more tempting meals elsewhere, but Pete didn’t have the heart to leave Sadie behind to fend for herself. If he ever made it to one of the bullion bases alive he’d have sent a team to rescue her, but Sadie’s pleas not to abandon her won the day.
The obvious solution to his dilemma evaded him for a week. Why it hadn’t occurred to him right away made him wonder if he hadn’t suffered brain damage from the multiple times he was hit on the highway.
In any case, there she sat, face-up on the road, half covered with black tar, and her crossed and googly eye nearly making him dizzy. He could never tell where she was looking, and often seemed to be gazing in the opposite direction he thought she was. He asked her about it.
“Now you know why they called me Wrong Way Sadie,” she answered.
She went on to explain that her eye was the result of a mint defect, and that for a time it actually made her more valuable. Then she sighed heavily and said now she was so worn and ugly from her cruel life that no person would want her anymore, not even a thief, and that her days of commerce were over.
“The only purchase I’ll ever know again,” she sniffled, “is for a ride to the mint’s recycling furnace.” With the words she fell into a shoulder-heaving sob.
Pete comforted her the best he could and told her that her condition wasn’t anything a little solvent couldn’t cure. He promised her that if they ever get out of there he’d help her get cleaned up. He didn’t know how he’d do it, but if saying so kept her from crying, that was good enough for now.
Coinworld [Book Two] Page 8