Alien Genesis

3. Trees, Gold, and LSD-1

CHAPTER THREE

TREES, GOLD, AND LSD

Two days later FedEx delivered an envelope with two $1500 First Citizens Bank prepaid Visa debit cards. The return address was the International Foundation for Sustainable Agriculture, 128 S. Tryon Street, Charlotte, North Carolina. The enclosed note was brief:

This should help with incidental costs you may have related to your trip to Puerto Rico. See you soon. – Frank Williams

The same day we received an email from Mr. Williams with our itinerary and flight confirmation. We would leave the following Thursday at 8:30 am from Albuquerque International Sunport, making connections in Atlanta and arriving in Miami at 5:00 pm. The return flight date was left “open.”

We deplaned and got to the luggage carousel at about 5:20 pm. A strikingly handsome man with grey-green eyes, olive skin and lightly salted dark hair walked directly up to us and extended his hand. “I’m assuming you are the Beenes.”

“Yes we are, but how did you know that?”

Grinning, “No other couples among the escalator stampede seemed to fit the bill. I’m Chris Roibal. If you’ll follow me we’ll fast forward to the next leg of your adventure.”

Confused by how it was we looked like the couple that ‘fit the bill’, I asked, “But what about our luggage?”

“Oh, I took the liberty of having the Delta people transfer your bags directly to our shuttle—saves a lot of time. If we hurry we can still get to Havana in time for dinner with the boss.”

In sync, if not harmony, Carla and I exclaimed, “Havana!?”

“Yeah, the admiral had a meeting with the Minister of Antiquities and some oceanographers from the University. He wants to mount another deep-water survey of ruins found some six hundred meters below the surface a few miles west of the Guanahacabibes Peninsula. He’s convinced that site is much more mysterious than anyone imagines. Over the years his insights have proven uncanny time and again.”

Carla looked at Chris for a long moment, then shifted her gaze to me, “Fortunately I remembered to grab our passports.”

“Ye-ah!” Chris drawled. “When you come to see Admiral Cortell always, and I do mean always, bring your passport. You never know from one morning to the next where on this planet you might find yourself."

After the twenty-minute shuttle to the Airport General Aviation Center, the terminal used by business jets and small aircraft, Captain Roibal led us out onto the tarmac and directly to a Hawker Beechcraft King Air 250 with an off-white fuselage and a bright green tree painted on the tail. This was a good deal smaller plane than fit neatly into Carla’s comfort zone, but the captain’s businesslike demeanor during the preflight check bolstered her confidence – somewhat. I, on the other hand, was thrilled with the prospect of flight in this sleek twin-engine workhorse.

Once aboard we were feeling quite heady with the prospect of being the only passengers in the luxurious eight-seat cabin – and we were going to Cuba! We’re old enough to have ambiguous childhood memories of Castro’s revolution, the Bay of Pigs fiasco, and the Cuban missile crisis. Never had we dreamed that we might someday visit our closest island-nation neighbor.

Captain Roibal explained that we’d arrive at the Playa Baracoa Airport in under an hour. Only fourteen miles from Havana, the facility was a former airbase for the Cuban Revolutionary Armed Forces. Now it is used primarily as a VIP easy egress airport.

Chris, Carla, and I were met at the airport by a six-door “taxi” that had been fabricated by cutting two old 1960s era Russian Lada cars and welding the two pieces together into what came to be known as “embargo limousines.” The ride, sans modern suspension, was a good deal rougher than our flight over the Straits of Florida.

After a few minutes bumping westward on the Carr Panamericana Highway, the Lada “limo” deposited us at the estate of Ricardo Gomez y Davila. We arrived just as dinner was being served. Señor Gomez y Davila jumped to his feet and waved us into the room. Arrayed down the length of a cherry wood banquet table was a buffet of seafood, green salad, red beans and rice.

Before we had taken even three steps into the room the spry eighty-eight-year-old Admiral Cortell had reached us. Captain Roibal stepped into our midst and adroitly made the introductions. “Sheesh, I wish I could do that.” I joked. “I get up in the morning and check my driver’s license to remember my own name!”

A quirk tugged the corners of the admiral’s mouth. He turned to Carla and said, “Then it’s good he has you around to keep him headed in the right direction.”

The ice was broken and over the course of that dinner relationships were germinated that would lead all of us on a journey of exploration; a transformative adventure into the prehistoric past.

The following morning we were woken early and served a light breakfast and dark coffee in our room. Within an hour we were loaded in a Lincoln Town Car L and on our way to the airport. The admiral apologized for the early hour, explaining that he was a morning person and didn’t like returning late in the day to the farm near Ponce, Puerto Rico.

Soon we were once again aboard the King Air 250, seated in plush leather seats on either side of a small fold-out table. Within minutes of takeoff, the admiral struck up the conversation. Carla said, “Hold on a second, Admiral. Would it be okay for me to move over and sit beside you? With this much engine noise, Gary’s hearing aid is pretty much useless. I can use Sign Language to interpret for you when he doesn’t understand.”

“Of course, I’d be a fool to turn down an offer like that,” the admiral replied, chuckling.

When Carla was buckled in her new seat, Cortell began again, “So, Mr. Beene, I understand you believe in angels.”

My expression must have looked something like a video freeze-frame.

Mirth etched the admiral’s crinkled face. “Okay, but you did write this article didn’t you?” From his valise he pulled a copy of a 2009 “My View” article I had written for the Santa Fe New Mexican. One paragraph screamed from the page with neon HI-LITER. Pinning the sheet to the table with an index finger, Admiral Cortell spun it around and slid it toward me.

The paragraph read:

“The manifestation of the decision to embrace kindness as an attitude toward the world can be expressed only by our actions. The decision to be kind is the most powerful decision a person can ever make. Because of the butterfly effect, every individual act of kindness is passed and enhanced across generations. There are those who simply come to this life understanding this reality. They embody kindness intuitively. They are remarkable people. They are the angels who walk among us.”

I looked up and said, “Yeah—I guess I was speaking metaphorically though.”

“Suppose I told you a story that proves angels are quite real—that they do indeed walk among us and have been among us for many thousands of years. I’ve brought you here to determine if we might be able to do some work together. I’m contemplating writing about the history of those angels—more specifically a history of some fallen angels.”

I glanced at Carla. Her expression was unreadable. Turning back to our host, I stammered, “I, uhm, I don’t even know what to say.”

“Hey, I’m an old man and you need to know I’m not a senile old man. I, on the other hand, need to know if you have the personality to take on a project like this. I’ve read your books. You have the capability, but there’s a lot of distance between ‘can do’, ‘want to’, and ‘will do.’ That’s not meant to be pejorative. It’s a statement of fact.”

“Well, the sales of my books wouldn’t support the notion that I’ve nocked the ‘can do’ arrow,” I replied.

“Nah, sales were not a factor in our deliberations. Anyway, there’s a whole lot of crap that sells quite well and a lot of good writing that never gets discovered among sss’s many millions of titles.” The admiral grinned sheepishly and added, “But let’s not sully our relationship this early with talk of money.”

“Okay but let me ask a question. How did you find us, and why would you even consider us for this project?”

Sitting across the table from him I noted how the sandy blond locks of his youth had given way to the wispy white hair that now covered his head except for a bald spot on the crown. The admiral was not a large man. He may have been one of those men who had shrunk a bit with age. One thing that was striking was the size of his hands. They were much larger than one would expect on a man his size.

He leaned back in his seat and looked out the window, drew in a deep breath and said, “It would be true, but not the whole truth, if I said your style is what we’ve been looking for. It’s more than just that. We’ve followed you on f*******: and read articles you’ve written for newspapers and journals. We’ve interviewed people you have worked for and people who have worked for you. I apologize for that breach of privacy, but we had to feel comfortable that we could trust you in terms of the confidential nature of what we have in mind.

“We’ve invited you to spend a week or so with us at the tree farm in order to gauge your interest and to determine whether you have the temperament necessary for this utterly implausible project.”

The admiral stood and stepped aft to the refreshment center. “What would you like? We have tea, a few sodas, and some fresh hot coffee.” With a proud grin he said, “I love this plane!”

The next morning we found ourselves in a spacious, modestly furnished hacienda. The front door opened onto a wide veranda appointed with swivel porch chairs. Carla and I found Admiral Cortell and another gentleman sitting quietly sipping coffee and watching the sunrise. When they heard the screen door close they spun their chairs toward us and rose to their feet.

With long arms that matched his 6’4” frame, the tall black man’s proffered handshake extended several inches beyond the admiral’s. “Hello Gary, Carla, I’m Frank Williams. We spoke on the phone a few days ago. How was your trip?”

“Hello, Mr. Williams.”

“Nope, Mr. Williams was my father. You must call me Frank.”

Grinning I replied, “Well okay then, Frank. I suspect due to your efforts, our trip was seamless.”

“We were shocked, in a good kinda way, about our Cuban detour,” Carla added.

Casting a sideways glance at Cortell, Frank responded, “Uhm, that was not on the itinerary I had arranged.”

“Hey, I’m a child of a twentieth-century military-industrial complex—you can’t have a good adventure without throwing in a few communists,” Cortell quipped.

“It seemed Señor Gomez’s villa was a bit too bourgeois for a communist,” I commented.

Turning to Frank, Carla said, “The Communist aristocracy notwithstanding, we do appreciate your efforts to get us here. Though we’re not exactly sure where ‘here’ is.”

Cortell said, “Just relax and let the experience wash over you. Soon enough you’ll understand our purposes—or not. If you do come to understand what we have in mind, you can decide if you want to join our little project—or not. Either way, be our guests and enjoy your stay.”

Just then a lady rolled a cart onto the porch with a platter of steaming scrambled eggs, a bowl of papas fritas, a platter of tropical fruits, and a pot of coffee. Cheerfully the admiral commented, “Ahh, nothing like the arrival of food and coffee to punctuate a ‘make yourselves at home’ moment. Lupita, your timing is impeccable.” Taking Carla by the elbow he guided her toward the veranda’s oval table.

We were unfolding napkins when Captain Roibal walked onto the porch sniffing like a hunting hound and following his nose to the food cart. I couldn’t help but think how unfair life is. A man should not be that good looking at any time, much less early morning. His charm and likeability were irresistible. I said, “Buenos días, Capitán. Quisieras café?” He held out a mug, which I filled from the thermos carafe.