G.I. Jane Page #12

SCOPE POV:
It's a women. Dressed in civilian clothes,

she collects firewood. And she's coming this way.

MCCOOL:

She part of the training?

JORDAN:

I don't know...

SLUTNIK:

"She?" There's another one?

McCool takes a second look.

SCOPE POV:
Of the women drawing closer... closer... and

finally looking dead-bang at us. She does an about-face

and walks away. Quickly.

MCCOOL:

Sh*t. Think we're had.

CORTEZ:

Smoke her.

MCCOOL:

I ain't gonna shoot her.

CORTEZ:

Only blanks. Lemme do it.

MCCOOL:

(pushing him away)

Hey. Ain't your call, man.

He looks to Jordan.

JORDAN:

Pri One is to protect the mission.

If she represents a real threat, we

have to do it.

Pleased, Cortez slips his rifle under a roof panel.

JORDAN:

(to McCool)

But did she see us? Do you know for

a fact that we are compromised?

McCool doesn't. Not for sure.

JORDAN:

If not, firing will only give away

our position to hostiles in the

area. Now how smart is that?

MCCOOL:

(a beat)

Mighta been civilian.

NEWBERRY:

They got regular peeps on this

island, don't they?

EXT. ROAD - SAN CLEMENTE ISLAND - DAY

The asphalt road shimmers with midday heat. Suddenly a

TROOP CARRIER ROARS over a rise.

INT. HIDE-SITE - SAN CLEMENTE ISLAND - DAY

SCOPE POV:
Of the troop carrier braking hard. "Hostiles"

spill out the rear -- and fan out all around us.

CORTEZ:

(at scope)

Banditos on the east perimeter! 150

yards! Sh*t, she was part of it!

MCCOOL:

F*** me.

FLEA:

What's the word, el-tee? We're

about one minute from a major take-

down here.

HOLD on Jordan, heart skipping. Did she really make the

wrong call?

JORDAN:

All right, fire-and-evade maneuvers.

Drop everything but weapons and the

PRC radio -- we're gonna be high

speed, low drag all the way to the

link-up site. Ready?

SLUTNIK:

Sure. Now she wants to shoot.

JORDAN:

MOVE!

EXT. SAN CLEMENTE ISLAND - DAY

They come out of the hide-site like atomic locusts,

splintering into three groups and laying down SUPPRESSIVE

FIRE as they blitz for...

The woodlands.

"Hostiles" FIRE and pursue.

Flea is running flat out when the ground vanishes beneath

him. He goes down like a doped race horse. Suddenly

exposed, another crew scrambles into daylight: Flea ran

right over their hide-site.

Slutnik yanks Flea out, gets him back on his feet.

EXT. WOODS - SAN CLEMENTE ISLAND - DAY

Breathing like asthmatics, Jordan's crew regroups at the

link-up site just inside the woods. Flea comes in

hobbling. Badly.

SLUTNIK:

This ain't workin' right!

MCCOOL:

What's our go-to-sh*t plan, O'Neil?

SLUTNIK:

This ain't even workin' wrong!

A beat as Jordan deliberates. She doesn't want to go out

like this.

FLEA:

Really don't wanna be captured, el-

tee. Heard some bad things.

JORDAN:

F***.

(snatching the radio)

Basher-Basher, this is Ground Crew

Six requesting emergency extraction.

Stand by for a PRC fix...

EXT. SKY - DAY

As a helo pirouettes in midair.

EXT. WOODS - SAN CLEMENTE ISLAND - DAY

Jordan's crew lopes through the woods, searching for a

place to bring the helo down. Right on their heels...

ARTILLERY SIMULATORS THUMP-THUMP-THUMP, illumination

GRENADES POP and flare. This may not be war, but it'll do

until the real thing comes along.

INT. HELO - DAY

PILOT'S POV:
Buzzing treetops, searching.

EXT. WOODS - SAN CLEMENTE ISLAND - DAY

On the run:

MCCOOL:

32 feet, six inches!

JORDAN:

I'm lookin', I'm lookin'!

Finally they break into a clearing. Is it big enough?

JORDAN:

'Cool?

MCCOOL:

(doesn't care)

Smoke it!

Jordan chucks a smoke grenade.

INT. HELO - DAY

PILOT'S POV:
Yellow smoke rises from the woods. We swoop

toward it.

EXT. CLEARING IN WOODS - SAN CLEMENTE ISLAND - DAY

Whirling smoke, the helo descends. Jordan's crew breaks

early, trying to get there the instant it touches down.

But before they can...

An FAV crashes through the underbrush, M-60s BARKING in

the helo's direction. The helo bounds away.

Jordan's crew tries to retreat -- but a second FAV cuts

them off.

INT. HELO - DAY

PILOT'S POV:
Of the action below, growing smaller and

smaller:
Jordan's crew. Surrounded. Laying down

weapons. Captured.

EXT. WOODS - SAN CLEMENTE ISLAND - DAY

JORDAN'S POV:
Brush slapping her face.

Crew Six is being hauled through the woods, hands tied

back, boots around their necks, pulled along by...

The captors. We assume they're instructors in camouflage

paint -- but we're moving so fast it's impossible to be

sure.

EXT. P.O.W. CAMP - SAN CLEMENTE ISLAND - DAY

A P.O.W. camp, disturbingly authentic. A dozen trainees

are already here, held in pens of bamboo and barbed-wire.

Flea, McCool, Slutnik, Cortez, Newberry -- all five get

tossed into a pen. Jordan is pulled away.

FLEA:

Where are you... HEY! Where are you

taking her?

EXT. BOXES - P.O.W. CAMP - SAN CLEMENTE ISLAND - DAY

Jordan is thrown to the ground. Her eyes go wide when she

sees a row of steel boxes nearby. They're scarcely larger

then coffins.

INT. BOX - P.O.W. CAMP - DAY

Hands push Jordan inside the box. She has to curl up

fetally just to fit.

JORDAN:

How long?

(no answer)

Please, HOW LONG?

The LID BANGS closed. A LOCK RATCHETS, FOOTSTEPS RETREAT.

Daylight sheets in through ventilation slats.

When her eyes adjust, Jordan finds markings on the lid and

walls. Scratchings made with a nail. The memoirs of

previous tenants.

JORDAN:

"Don't know how much I can take"...

"A little taste of death"... "Save

the nail"...

(then the real kick-

in-the-teeth)

"It's been three days now"...

EXT. P.O.W. CAMP - SAN CLEMENTE ISLAND - NIGHT

As "hostiles" pull Flea out of the pen.

INT. BOX - P.O.W. CAMP - NIGHT

A BANGING wakes Jordan. Are they coming for her? But

FOOTSTEPS LEAVE. A GROAN from the adjacent box.

JORDAN:

Who is it?

WICKWIRE (O.S.)

(a beat)

You know, I had an apartment about

this size once.

JORDAN:

Wick. They got your crew, too?

WICKWIRE (O.S.)

Intagliata was out chasing

breakfast. They found his tracks.

Well, sh*t.

A beat.

JORDAN:

You really came back for more? Of

this?

WICKWIRE (O.S.)

When I was sittin' behind a desk in

Washington, it made sense, somehow.

Blame it on my big brother. He was

Spec-Recon. And the stories he used

to tell...

JORDAN:

If you got a good one, Wick...

Anything to get her mind off this box. Out of this box.

Now INTERCUT Jordan and Wickwire, lying like fraternal

twins in their wombs of steel:

WICKWIRE:

One time he was doing a rekkie of

the Libyan coastline. This is,

like, right before we bombed

Khadaffi into the past tense. So

his crew does a nighttime infil,

maps all the big artillery

placements and stuff, then turns

around to get the hell gone. But

between them and the water are five

Libyan guards, all armed to the

nuts.

JORDAN:

They had to kill 'em?

WICKWIRE:

Nah, they were dead-ass asleep. But

on every guard's chest,they left one

Marlboro cigarette. Just a little

calling card to say they'd been

there -- and could come back any

time they wanted.

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