G.I. Jane Page #4

Jordan finds her room at the far corner of the building:

She's got the entire floor to herself. With a last look

over her shoulder, Jordan vanishes inside.

EXT. THE GRINDER - CORONADO NAVAL BASE - DAY

C.O.

Special Reconnaissance. Here you

will be trained to infiltrate

hostile territory... to be the real-

time eyes on the ground... to

recover assigned targets and, if

need be, to fight your way out under

adverse conditions.

CAMERA SURVEYS faces of the trainees: MILLER, MCCOOL,

SLUTNIK, CORTEZ, FLEA, STAMM, ENGLAND, NEWBERRY, WICKWIRE.

We'll get to know them later. Dressed in Navy greens,

they stand in formation -- ten rows, ten deep, helmets in

hand. Pacing before them:

C.O.

That is all that will be said about

the special nature of this class --

by us or by you. Many of you have

waited years for admission to this

program. Opportunities like this

are rare -- and those who seize upon

them are rarer still.

He approaches Jordan. We can tell what she's thinking.

"Just keep moving. Don't single me out."

C.O.

Other than that, there is little to

be said but "Good luck, gentleman."

(correcting)

"Gentlepersons."

Jordan flinches.

C.O.

Now I turn you over to the chief

training officer. He has earned six

naval commendations, the purple

heart, and the Navy Cross for

heroism and valor. I give you

Master Chief John James Urgayle.

Taking over, THE CHIEF stands before the class a moment,

sizing them up while giving them -- get an eyeload of him,

too:
His body is 30 years old, his face 40, his eyes 50.

An ageless warrior. Somewhere, the blood of Ulysses runs

in this guy's veins.

The Chief lifts a bullhorn to deliver his opening salvo --

and it's anything but the kick-ass rant the class is

expecting:

THE CHIEF:

The sun and moon... the ebb and flow

of the Pacific tides... global

warming... the very angle of the

Earth upon its axis... these are

just some of the things I control in

my world.

Trainees swap private looks.

MCCOOL:

We're f***ed.

SLUTNIK:

Darth Vader reads poetry...

MCCOOL:

We are so f***ed.

EXT. BEACH - CORONADO NAVAL STATION - DAY

START on boots, crashing through shallow surf, spraying

water. We assume this is a routine beach run -- until

VIEW RISES to reveal...

Telephone poles on their shoulder. Working in groups of

10, trainees labor under 300-pound poles. Jordan, six

inches shorter than most, looks like Atlas carrying the

weight of the world. But she's doing it.

INSTRUCTOR:

Count down... one, two... count

down... three, four...

CLASS CADENCE:

One, two, three, four... One, two,

three, four...

An ambulance shadows the class. Perched on the front

bumper like an hood-ornament, the Chief keeps working his

bullhorn:

THE CHIEF:

You may think that you are the

brightest, the best, the strongest.

I assure you, that is a total

delusion on your part. It is my job

to show you just how weak human

beings can truly be. 60 percent of

you will not finish this course.

How do I know? Because that is an

historical fact.

It's also intimidating sh*t.

THE CHIEF:

Poles down.

The earth literally shakes as the phone poles hit the damp

sand. Approaching on foot, the Chief loads fresh

batteries into his bullhorn. He does it like a man

thumbing rounds into a shotgun.

THE CHIEF:

Now for the bad new: I always like

to get one quitter on the first day.

And until I do, the first day does

not end. So look around right now

-- go on, do it. I wonder who it's

gonna be...

He passes right by Jordan, never meeting her eyes.

INSTRUCTOR PYRO steps up. He's the Chief's bulldog.

INSTRUCTOR PYRO:

Down to BVDs!

The guys strip down to boxers. Jordan settles for boxers

and jog bra.

INSTRUCTOR PYRO:

Now face the Pacific... link arms...

and take a stroll!

The class wades in. The first wave takes Jordan's breath

away:
It's February, and the water is cold. When they

move out of instructors' earshot:

STAMM:

What is it with the damn phone

poles? We sign up for Spec-Recon or

GTE?

WICKWIRE:

Just trying to thin the herd.

That's all they want to do right

now.

Some of the guys are glancing Jordan's way, cashing in on

a cheap wet T-shirt contest. Jordan covers herself

instinctively -- and hates the instinct. Modesty isn't

going to get her through this.

SLUTNIK:

Man. Doesn't she know it's rude to

point?

NEWBERRY:

Wow. You see that girl?

WICKWIRE:

I got eyes, Newberry.

SLUTNIK:

One night. Just one night in my

room, she'd forget all about playin'

commando.

ENGLAND:

Tone that sh*t down, Slutnik. You

heard with they said.

INSTRUCTOR PYRO:

Out of the water!

The class breaks for the beach.

THE CHIEF:

Now make like sugar cookies and roll

in the sand for me.

The trainees hit their bellies and roll. Indeed, they

look like sugar cookies.

THE CHIEF:

Collect those poles, gentlemen.

Still a lotta beachfront you haven't

seen...

Groaning, the trainees grab poles. Jordan's pole, wet

slips from their collective grasp...

And bangs Stamm's ankle. He HOWLS through his teeth.

ENGLAND:

How bad? Stamm?

JORDAN:

We better get a medic over --

STAMM:

No, goddamnit. No.

INSTRUCTOR:

Up! Up! Up! Up!

Stamm swallows the pain. Poles go back on shoulders.

Looking like drunk centipedes, the class staggers off down

the beach.

EXT. MUD PIT - CORONADO NAVAL BASE - DAY

Wallowing in mud, the class does belly-busters, atomic

sit-ups -- and the sadistic reverse push-up, where

trainees lie of their backs, place hands under shoulder

blades and push their crotches skyward.

THE CHIEF:

Pain is your friend. You ally. It

will keep you awake in times of

emergency... it will tell you when

you are seriously injured... it will

keep you angry and remind you to

finish the job and get the hell

home. But you know the best thing

about pain?

CLASS:

No, sir!

THE CHIEF:

It lets you know that you aren't

dead yet.

Instructors roam, RASPING ORDERS, kicking students into

proper position. Jordan struggles with the reverses.

INSTRUCTOR PYRO:

Go regulation if you can't do the

reverses, O'Neil.

She looks around. A lot of the guys are having trouble

with the reverses, not just her.

JORDAN:

Thank you, sir. But I like these

just fine.

INSTRUCTOR PYRO:

Not doin' them very fine, O'Neil.

JORDAN:

I'll try anyway, sir.

INSTRUCTOR PYRO:

You'll try what we tell you to try,

O'Neil. Go regulation.

She switches to standard push-ups, her face disappearing

into the ooze with every downstroke. Soon the Chief's

boots slosh into FRAME. He's still looking for his human

sacrifice.

THE CHIEF:

Who's it gonna be. I just wonder,

who is it gonna be...

EXT. BEACH - CORONADO NAVAL STATION - SUNSET

INSTRUCTOR JOHNS

On your belly... on your back... on

your feet... on your belly... on

your back... on your feet...

Whistle-drills. Silhouetted against a lowering sun, the

students flop around like docked fish.

INT. ADMINISTRATION - CORONADO NAVAL BASE - NIGHT

Blondell is ending her shift. She shoulders a purse and

pauses at a window, seeing...

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