Predator

FADE IN:

EXT. OUTER SPACE

The infinite blackness punctuated by a billion stars. As we slowly

DESCEND through the varied shades of blue of the Earth's atmosphere, we

HEAR the first strains of a haunting, Central American FLUTE, joined by

a swelling background of JUNGLE SOUNDS. We descend further, through a

lush JUNGLE CANOPY, backlit by a setting sun.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. JUNGLE COASTLINE - DAY (MAGIC HOUR)

Through a collage of shimmering HEAT-WAVES, a dark, OTHER-WORLDLY

OBJECT drops INTO VIEW, backlit by the fiery, ORANGE-RED sphere of a

setting tropical SUN, heading slowly towards us, floating, as if

suspended by the rising heat of the jungle.

Continuing to approach, the shimmering object resolves into a MILITARY

ASSAULT HELICOPTER, its rotors strobing in the fading sunlight. Drawing

closer, the SOUND of powerful TURBINES, throbbing in the heavy air,

becomes dominant, overpowering.

Guided by COLORED SMOKE and LANDING LIGHTS, the chopper looms hard INTO

VIEW, pitching forward and settling to the ground, kicking up a

maelstrom of dust and vegetation.

INT. COMMAND POST - DAY (MAGIC HOUR)

Where a MAN wearing a military UNIFORM watches through the large open

windows the helicopter as it continues to approach. Before the skids

have even touched down he SEES the first of the MEN, dressed in

CIVILIAN CLOTHES but carrying full COMBAT GEAR, alight gracefully from

the chopper, double-timing in close order to one side, the orders

SHOUTED by one man lost in the ROAR of the chopper.

The man turns away from the window, to a FIGURE, hidden in the shadows.

MAN:

He's here.

He turns back, lowering a BAMBOO SHADE, obscuring the window.

EXT. HELICOPTER PAD - NIGHT

On adjoining PADS, two other HELICOPTERS are VISIBLE; in the b.g. can

be SEEN several concrete and THATCHWORK BUILDINGS, a secret command

post disguised as a COASTAL FISHING VILLAGE.

The post in a flurry of activity, AMERICAN ADVISORS shouting directions

to dozens of LATIN AMERICAN SOLDIERS who stand by to assist the landing

helicopter and to load EQUIPMENT into the other choppers.

Inside the chopper, one man remains, stretched out against the

bulkhead, as if asleep. He stirs, sits up, lighting up a CIGAR. With

fatigue showing in his motion, he leans forward, descending to the

ground.

A JEEP pulls to stop, the man swinging casually into the front seat,

tossing his GEAR into the rear. With a lurch the jeep heads out towards

the command post.

In the doorway TWO MEN solemnly watch as the jeep approaches. Reaching

the command post the man alights from the jeep, heading towards the two

men.

Into the pool of light cast by the fixture above the door steps MAJOR

ALAN SCHAEFER, the team leader, 38, an intelligent and intense man. He

informally salutes, GENERAL H.L. PHILIPS, 55, hardened, close-cropped

graying hair, his nameplate and insignia identifying him as a member of

an elite commando unit in the U.S. Army. He clasps Schaefer warmly on

the shoulder.

PHILIPS:

(with affection)

You're looking well, Dutch.

SCHAEFER:

It's been a long time, General.

They walk up the stairs, entering the palapa, leaving the other man on

guard.

INT. PALAPA - DAY

Large, two room concrete floor, thatched walls and roof. Behind a

partially drawn curtain in the kitchen, a naked lightbulb hung from the

rafters illuminates a bank of compact FIELD RADIO EQUIPMENT, MAPS and

AERIAL PHOTOGRAPHS. Otherwise the rooms are primitive and stand out in

stark contrast to this high-tech invasion.

Philips and Schaefer enter the room.

PHILIPS:

(growing serious)

We've got a real problem here, something right up your alley.

They cross to the center of the room to a folding table, covered with a

large TOPOGRAPHICAL MAP of the Central American highland jungle.

Philips leans over the table, circling a set of COORDINATES and a MARK

on the open map.

PHILIPS:

Eighteen hours ago I was informed that one of our choppers,

transporting three presidential cabinet members from this charming

little country, was shot down...

(point to the circled area)

... The pilots radioed from the ground that they were all alive. Their

position was fixed by the transponder beacon onboard the chopper.

(points)

Here.

Schaefer studies the map. He looks up at Philips.

SCHAEFER:

That's over the border, General.

PHILIPS:

(dead serious)

That's the problem. Apparently they strayed off course.

(pause)

We're certain they've been captured by the guerrillas.

Schaefer looks up, puffing lightly on the cigar.

SCHAEFER:

(quietly)

What have you got in mind, General.

PHILIPS:

We figure we've got less than twenty-four hours to catch up with them.

After that, there's not much hope. We want a rescue operation mounted

tonight. That doesn't give you much time.

Another puff on the cigar.

SCHAEFER:

What else it new? When do we leave?

Philips looks at his watch.

PHILIPS:

You lift off in three hours.

(pause)

There's one other thing.

SCHAEFER:

What's that, General?

PHILIPS:

Someone else will be going in with you.

Schaefer stubbs out his cigar in an ashtray.

SCHAEFER:

You know we don't work with outsiders, General.

VOICE (O.S.)

Who said anything about outsiders, Dutch?

Schaefer turns, SEEING the outline of a figure standing in the doorway

of the communications room, holding a sheaf of PAPERS.

Wearing pressed fatigues, DILLON, mid-thirties, black, walks into the

room.

Although as rugged looking as the others, his bearing and grooming

indicate he's been away from the business of soldiering for sometime.

His quick intelligent eyes reveal his current profession.

DILLON:

Last time we danced, it was Lieutenant, Schaefer.

A grin breaks out across Schaefer's face.

SCHAEFER:

Dillon, you son of a b*tch.

The two men step forward and simultaneous swing from the hip as it to

land a punch... but their hands SLAP together in a gesture of

friendship, their forearms bulging, testing each other's strength.

DILLON:

(warmly)

How you been, Dutch?

They continue the contest, Schaefer has the edge, forcing Dillon's arm

slowly downward.

SCHAEFER:

You've been pushing too many Pencils, Dillon. Had enough?

DILLON:

(grinning)

No way, old buddy.

SCHAEFER:

You never did know when to quit.

They look into each other's faces, each remembering something from the

past. A moment's hesitation and they quit the contest. They laugh,

Dillon slapping Schaefer on the shoulder.

DILLON:

That piece of work you guys pulled off at the Berlin embassy last week

was really something. Blew the entry points on three floors and

neutralized the opposition in eight seconds flat. Beautiful.

SCHAEFER:

Like the old days, Dillon.

DILLON:

Also heard that you passed on that little job in Libya.

Schaefer looks at Dillon, quietly considering him.

SCHAEFER:

Wasn't my style. We're a rescue unit, not assassins.

(smiles)

This must be good. Big shot from the CIA, leaves his desk to come back

to the bush. What's so important?

DILLON:

Those cabinet members are very important to our scope of operations in

this part of the world. They're about to get squeezed. We can't let

that happen. I needed someone who could get the job done, quick and

quiet... no screw-ups. I needed the best. The best. So, I pulled a few

strings at the State Department... and here we are.

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