Independence Day

AN AMERICAN FLAG

Oddly still, posted in gray dusty sand.

WIDEN TO REVEAL:

EXT. LUNAR SURFACE - THE MOON

One small step for man, one large pile of garbage for moon-

kind. Untouched for years, the flag stands next to the

castoff remains of the Apollo mission. Slowly the discarded

equipment begins to RATTLE and SHAKE.

AN ENORMOUS SHADOW creeps towards us blotting out the horizon,

a loud RUMBLE is heard.

Suddenly we are covered in DARKNESS as the SHADOW engulfs us.

Only the lonely image of our EARTH hangs in the air, until a

huge silhouetted OBJECT suddenly blocks our view.

CUT TO:

EXT. NEW MEXICO - RADIO TELESCOPE VALLEY - NIGHT

A field of large satellite dishes scan the skies.

Super up:
S.E.T.I. INSTITUTE, NEW MEXICO

INT. INSTITUTE - MONITORING CONTROL CENTER - SAME

A lone TECHNICIAN works on his putting skills. Behind him,

wall to wall technical equipment quietly sifts through data.

A RED LIGHT begins to flash.

The Technician turns and slowly walks towards the source. One

by one a series of LIGHTS turn on. The Technician (TECH ONE)

grabs a pair of headphones. His eyes widen.

INT. SLEEPING QUARTERS - SAME

Sleepily a SUPERVISOR picks up the phone.

SUPERVISOR:

If this isn't an insanely

beautiful woman, I'm hanging up.

INT. CONTROL CENTER - SAME

TECH ONE:

Shut up and listen.

He holds the phone up to a speaker, increases the volume. A

strange FLUCTUATING TONE plays out in sequential patterns.

INT. SLEEPING QUARTERS - SAME

HEARING it, the Supervisor BOLTS UP, banging his head on the

bunk above him.

INT. CONTROL CENTER - MOMENTS LATER

A pajama party on acid. Five other technicians, in various

states of undress, hover anxiously around the main console.

The Supervisor enters, tying his robe.

SUPERVISOR:

God, I hope it's not just another

damned Russian spy job.

TECH THREE:

(overlapping)

Negative. Computer affirms the

signal is unidentified.

TECH TWO:

(hanging up the phone)

The boy from Air Res Traffic say the

skies are clear. No terrestrial

launches.

TECH ONE:

It's the real thing. A radio

signal from another world.

The room becomes quiet as they realize that after years of

searching the heavens, they might have finally found

something.

SUPERVISOR:

Let's not jump the gun. Run a

trajectory source computation.

Tech Three slides over to another computer.

SUPERVISOR (cont'd)

I want to know exactly where it's

coming from.

TECH THREE:

This can't be right.

Tech Three just stares at his screen in disbelief.

SUPERVISOR:

What's wrong?

TECH THREE:

Calculated distance from source is

at three hundred and eight five

thousand kilometers.

(turning to Supervisor)

It's coming from the moon.

The Supervisor reaches over and turns up the volume on the

speaker. As they listen to the strange TONES we...

CUT TO:

INT. HALLWAY - PENTAGON - SAME

Elevator doors OPENS revealing four star GENERAL GREY,

Commander in Chief U.S. Space Command. Understandably

nervous, the COMMANDING OFFICER escorts him down the hall.

GENERAL GREY:

Who else knows about this?

COMMANDING OFFICER

S.E.T.I. in New Mexico identified a

signal but they're even more

confused than we are.

The General shoots him a disapproving glance.

COMMANDING OFFICER

Excuse me, Sir.

He slides his security card through the lock and the doors fly

open.

INT. SPACE COMMAND - THE PENTAGON - CONTINUOUS

Banks of computers, Technicians and assistants working

feverishly through the night. The Officers cross the room.

Super:
SPACE COMMAND - THE PENTAGON

COMMANDING OFFICER

Satellite reception has been

impaired but we were able to get

these.

They arrive at a glass table. The surrounding officers snap

to attention as a SECOND OFFICER quickly brings over a large

transparency. We SEE a grainy image of a large vague OBJECT.

GENERAL GREY:

Looks like a big turd.

The two Officers exchange a glance.

COMMANDING OFFICER

We estimate it has a diameter of

over five hundred and fifty

kilometers and a mass roughly one

fourth the size of our moon.

The General turns to the Second Officer, concerned.

GENERAL GREY:

A meteor?

SECOND OFFICER:

No Sir. Definitely not.

GENERAL GREY:

How do you know?

SECOND OFFICER:

Well, er... it's slowing down.

GENERAL GREY:

It's doing what?

SECOND OFFICER:

It's... slowing down, Sir.

The General walks over to a phone, picks it up.

GENERAL GREY:

Get me the Secretary of Defense.

(pause)

Then wake him up.

CUT TO:

INT. WHITMORE'S BEDROOM - FRE-DAWN

Laying in bed THOMAS J. WHITMORE reads a stack of papers. The

phone RINGS.

WOMAN'S VOICE

(filtering through phone)

Hi. It's me.

The warm look on Whitmore's face tells us everything about how

he feels about the woman on the other end.

WHITMORE:

Hi honey. What time is it there?

INT. HOTEL ROOM - NIGHT

Dressed in a night gown, MRS. MARGARET WHITMORE unpacks her

briefing papers lays them out on a small desk as she talks.

Through the window we SEE Los Angeles at night.

MARGARET:

Two in the morning. I know I

didn't wake you?

WHITMORE:

(filtered)

As a matter of fact you did.

MARGARET:

(smiles)

Liar.

INT. WHITMORE BEDROOM - SAME

Whitmore sits up.

WHITMORE:

I have a confession to make.

There's a beautiful young blonde

sleeping next to me.

Sleeping next to him, his six-year-old daughter, PATRICIA.

MARGARET:

(filtered)

You didn't let her stay up

watching T.V. all night?

WHITMORE:

Of course not.

The little girl stirs awake, looks up.

PATRICIA:

Mommy?

WHITMORE:

You're flying back right after the

luncheon? Okay, here she is.

Whitmore hands her the phone and gets out of bed. Habitably

he turns on the television.

T.V. - NEWS PROGRAM

Several "Pundits" sit around a MaLaughlin-type news discussion

program. The picture quality is snowy, static ridden.

PUNDIT #1

... the inexperience in public

office was inevitably going to

catch up with him. He's

scarified his ideals for

"politics as usual."

Whitmore ties on his robe as he adjusts the picture quality.

PUNDIT #2

...I said this during the

campaign. Leadership as a pilot

in the Gulf War has no

relationship to political

leadership. It's a different

animal...

Suddenly the channel changes. A cartoon comes on. Whitmore

turns to his daughter who holds he remote.

PATRICIA:

(into phone)

Daddy let me watch Letterman.

WHITMORE:

Traitor.

Whitmore exits the room.

INT. HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS

As Whitmore steps out of his bedroom, a Security guard snaps

to attention. Someone hidden behind a newspaper, sits on a

bench.

SECURITY GUARD:

Good morning, Mr. President.

WHITMORE:

Good morning, George.

The paper is dropped revealing CONSTANCE HALBROOK, mid-

thirties, aggressive, sharp, the President's communications

director. Quickly she gathers her things and follows

Whitmore.

INT. BREAKFAST TABLE - CONTINUOUS

Two servants are preparing breakfast as Whitmore and Constance

enter. Whitmore sits down, grabs a coffee.

WHITMORE:

You're up early this morning,

Connie.

She tosses him one of the many newspapers in her hands.

CONSTANCE:

They're not attacking your

policies, they're attacking your

age.

(another paper; reading)

"...addressing Congress, Whitmore

seems less like the President and

more like the orphan child Oliver

asking, 'please sir, I'd like some

more.'"

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