Predator Page #2

SCHAEFER:

Go on.

Dillon goes to the map.

DILLON:

The set-up is simple, Dutch. One day job. We pick up their trail at the

chopper, run 'em down, grab the hostages and bounce back across the

border before anyone knows we were there. You've done it a hundred

times. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Schaefer considers this.

SCHAEFER:

And nothing we can't handle alone.

Philips breaks in.

PHILIPS:

I'm afraid those are your orders, Major. Once you reach your objective,

Dillon will evaluate the situation and take charge.

Schaefer looks from Philips to Dillon. He still doesn't like it.

DILLON:

Not to worry, Dutch. I haven't lost my edge. They've got a head start

on us in some real tough country, otherwise, believe me, it's a piece

of cake.

PHILIPS:

Gentlemen, we're losing time.

(to Schaefer)

You'd better get your men ready.

(pause)

Good luck, Major.

EXT. TWO ASSAULT HELICOPTERS - NIGHT

Burst over the top of a ridge. Rising up in silhouette they perform a

radical left bank turn and descend rapidly into an adjoining valley,

racing over the jungle at treetop level.

As the helicopters perform dizzying, high-speed maneuvers through the

winding canyon, the PILOT'S VOICES can be HEARD, coordinating their

operations.

PILOT ONE (V.O.)

Redbird Two, Two. Bearing south, three, five, zero, one o'clock on the

saddle ridge. Over.

PILOT TWO (V.O.)

Roger, Blue Leader. Three, five, zero, on your move. Over.

The helicopters rise in perfect coordination over another ridge and

bank sharply into the next valley, leveling out as they go.

INT. HELICOPTER - NIGHT

Illuminated by the eerie red glow of NIGHT LIGHTS, are SEVEN MEN,

dressed in jungle camouflage, soft hats and camouflage face-makeup.

They wear no identity badges or insignias. The man are checking their

WEAPONS, making last minute adjustments to their GEAR.

The compartment reverberates with the NOISE of the THUMPING ROTORS and

the ROAR of air from the open doors.

BLAIN, weapons and ordinance specialist, a frightening bull of a man, a

240 pound killer, removes from his shirtpocket a think PLUG OF TOBACCO.

He looks across at:

MAC, a huge bear of a man, black, holding am M-60 MACHINE GUN. Blain

holds out the tobacco to Mac who refuses with a gentle shake of the

head, a knowing smile, he knows what's coming.

Holding the plug between his teeth Blain yanks free from his shoulder

scabbard a wicked, ten inch COMBAT KNIFE. Placing the razor sharp blade

next to his lips he slices through the plug as if it were butter. He

chews thoughtfully.

Seated by the open doorway is RAMIREZ, a slight, angular man, an East

L.A. streetwise Chicano.

Adding a final piece of camouflage TAPE to his pack HARNESS, he looks

up and smiles, faking a throw and the bulleting the tape to:

HAWKINS, the radioman and medic, Irish, street-tough, reading a rolled-

up magazine, as if he were a rush hour commuter. He snags the tape with

an instinctual snap of the wrist, continuing to read for a moment

before looking up, grinning at Ramirez, his boyish, eager face belying

the rugged professional beneath. He turns his gaze to the man next to

him:

BILLY, the Kit Carson Scout, an American Indian, proud, stoic, a man of

quiet strength and simplicity, carefully replacing the FIRING MECHANISM

of his M-203, working its action several times. He looks up with a

smile at Hawkins.

HAWKINS:

(shouting)

Hey, Billy, how many marines does it take to eat a squirrel?

Billy looks back, shaking his head, uncomprehending.

HAWKINS:

Two. One to eat it and one to watch for cars.

Hawkins laughs heartily at his joke.

EXT. JUNGLE - NIGHT

Clearing another ridge, the helicopters plunge into a steep descent,

turning quickly into a DEEP-WALLED CANYON, the force of the turn

accentuated by the changing PITCH of the screaming turbines and the

biting of rotors into the air.

INT. HELICOPTER - NIGHT

The men, suspended in RESTRAINING HARNESSES from the bulkheads, lean

forward, nearly upside down in response to the radical maneuver,

handling the situation with ease.

Blain holds out the tobacco to Ramirez, who swats at the offending

object as if it were alive.

RAMIREZ:

(shouting)

Get that stinkin' thing out of my face, Blain!

Grinning, Blain proffers the plug to each man, each one refusing;

they've done it a thousand times. It's an old gag but they obviously

care for the man in a big way.

BLAIN:

... bunch of slack-jawed faggots around here...

(holds up plug)

... this stuff will put hair guaranteed...

(chewing)

... make you a God-damned sexual ty-ran-toe-sore-ass... just like me.

This brings a chorus of HOOTS and SHOUTS from the others.

The helicopter makes another radical turn.

Schaefer and Dillon, seated near the cockpit, communicate through

HEADSETS, also linked to the pilot. They consult a TOPOGRAPHICAL MAP by

RED PENLIGHTS.

DILLON:

(pointing to the map)

Our rendezvous points and radio freqs. are indicated and fixed. AWACS

contact on four hour intervals.

SCHAEFER:

Who's our back-up on this?

DILLON:

(grinning)

No such thing, old buddy. It's a one way ticket. Once we cross that

border, we're on our own.

SCHAEFER:

This gets better by the minute.

INT. COCKPIT - NIGHT

The PILOT and CO-PILOT are surrounded by an array of dimly lit GAUGES

and SWITCHES. Before the Co-Pilot is a RADAR SCREEN and an INFRA-RED

DISPLAY TERMINAL on which the TWO HELICOPTERS appear as HEAT SOURCES.

PILOT NUMBER ONE

... roger Bird Two, Two. Reconfirm insertion at Tango, Charlie, Delta

One, zero, niner on the grid at zero, two, two, mark four by zero.

Over.

PILOT NUMBER TWO (V.O.)

Two, Two, leader. Roger your insert coord. Over.

PILOT NUMBER ONE

Leader to Bird Two Two. I bear two minutes to Landing Zone.

The Pilot throws a SWITCH on the panel before him

INT. HELICOPTER - NIGHT

A BLUE LIGHT appears on the forward bulkhead. Schaefer is speaking over

a RADIO TELEPHONE. The Co-Pilot turns and hands him a clipboard.

Schaefer reads, notes his approval and hands it back.

EXT. HELICOPTER - NIGHT

Flares up into position over the jungle and hovers, as the SUPPORT

HELICOPTER holds in a protective position above.

INT. HELICOPTER - NIGHT

Dillon seems comfortable with the men, showing Ramirez a battered

CIGARETTE LIGHTER from a famed commando unit from the past.

But his ingratiating demeanor is not impressing Mac, who regards Dillon

with the cold suspicion reserved for an outsider. Mac looks up at

Blain, his eyes narrowing.

Blain's massive jaws roll as he masticates the chew. He pauses, eyes

moving downward, spotting his target.

He hocks a thick, vile stream of TOBACCO JUICE directly between

Dillon's legs and onto the floor, a gelatinous skein lacing across the

toe of one boot. Dillon looks up, his face goes cold and menacing.

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