It was late one night in the early summer of 2005 when good mate and Canadian filmmaker Paul Kimball, of Red Star Films, with who I had worked on a number of earlier projects, phoned me with a proposition.
His company, Paul explained, had just been commissioned by Canada’s Space Channel to make a documentary titled Fields of Fear, the subject of which would be animal mutilations: in the United States, in Canada, and on Puerto Rico.
Paul knew that I had been to the island previously, that I had established good contacts and leads there, and that I had written about official, FBI files on animal mutilations in my 2003 book, Strange Secrets: Real Government Files on the Unknown.
As a result, Paul hired me as both a consultant to, and a participant in, the show. And so, I was soon airborne once again for the island of mystery.
Paul, in an earnest, and presumably successful, effort to save a fistful of dollars, had me on a bizarre flight-path. In 2004, the Sci-Fi Channel had me flying on a sensible, direct journey from Texas, to Florida, and finally on to Puerto Rico. But that was not good enough for Paul: he apparently spent hours tirelessly burning the midnight oil and surfing the Internet to find the very best deal possible!
The result was a money-saving flight that took me from Dallas to Puerto Rico via, of all places, Chicago! But it was a journey that would not be without its curiosities.
As we sat on the tarmac, waiting for the Puerto Rico-bound plane to take off from Chicago’s airport, I got chatting with the guy who was sat next to me. It transpired that he served with the U.S. Army, and had a fiancé who lived on the island, who he was going to visit.
They were due to marry in 2006. Bob was his name and, after I told him of my reasons for traveling to Puerto Rico, we got into a brief, but deep and entertaining, discussion about all things paranormal and mysterious.
Bob told me that he had heard all sorts of odd stories on the island about the Chupacabras, about aliens, and about underground bases. He then asked me about my opinions on Roswell.
I told him that, in my view, Roswell may have had more to do with diabolical human experimentation than it did with aliens, and he listened intently. The always slightly paranoid part of me wondered if he was, perhaps, listening too intently. And, perhaps, the reason why he, a military man, was conveniently sat next to me was to pump me for information. I made sure he never had the opportunity to surreptitiously drop anything of a deadly nature into my whisky.
We were still sat on the runway when Bob asked me: “Wasn’t there a secret group that supposedly hid the Roswell story? And didn’t some files supposedly surface from them a few years back?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “It was called MJ12, which was supposed to be this group of high-fliers in the Government and the military who were keeping it all under wraps. But I think that the files were disinformation to hide the human experiment angle.”
I added: “The MJ12 researchers have got it all back-to-front.”
No word of a lie: at the exact moment that I uttered those words, an aircraft passed us slowly on an adjoining runway; and, out of the window, I could see that its tail-numbers ended: 12MJ. I stared, utterly startled.
12MJ: MJ12 back-to-front.
The gods of synchronicity were certainly playing strange mind-games with me that day...