The Abyss Page #4

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BUD:

Bye.

Hippy looks over him, trying very hard not to crack up.

HIPPY:

Virgil?

BUD:

God, I hate that b*tch.

HIPPY:

Yeah, well you never should have married her then.

Bud nods fatalistically.

CUT TO:

EXT. EXPLORER DECK/LAUNCH WELL 34

Ten foot waves crash through the launch-well, sending up geysers of spray.

Next to the launch-well, crewman have attached a lifting cable to CAB THREE,

eighteen feet of ugly yellow submersible. It slams violently in its steel

cradle as the drill-ship rolls. Coffey and Schoenick hand the gear bags in

to Wilhite and Monk though the hatch under the rear of the submersible.

Lindsey approaches, wearing a borrowed roustabout's coverall.

She looks down at the larger of the two equipment cases brought by the SEALs,

lying on the deck. Stenciled on it are the words: F.B.S./DEEP SUIT/MARK IV.

Coffey and Schoenick push past her to pick it up.

LINDSEY:

Let's go, gentlemen! We either launch now or

we don't launch.

Coffey looks up in surprise as she nimbly climbs the side of Cab Three and

grabs the lifting shackle, circling her raised hand to signal the crane man.

LINDSEY:

Take her up, Byron!

Cab Three, with Lindsey riding its back, is pulled up out its cradle and

starts to swing violently as Explorer pitches. The submersible is then

swung out to the center of the launch well. It sways and gyrates above the

furious water below. Lindsey drops into the upper hatch.

INT. EXPLORER BRIDGE/D.O.C.35

Kirkhill leans suddenly over the console to look out the window.

KIRKHILL:

What the hell is she doing out there? Son of a

b*tch...

(into microphone)

Lindsey... get out of Cab Three. Bates is taking

her down.

INT. CAB THREE 36

Lindsey pulls her headset as she dogs down the inside locking levers of the

hatch.

LINDSEY:

Bates is sick. Besides I've got more hours in

this thing than he does.

(to Coffey)

A little change of plan.

The little sub is swinging like a pendulum on the cable, and the SEALs,

jammed in with their equipment in the tiny space, are getting slammed into

the walls. Lindsey is calmly flipping switches as she talks.

COFFEY:

Lady, we better fish or cut bait.

LINDSEY:

Just hold your water, okay?

(to Kirkhill)

So Kirkhill, we gonna do this or we gonna talk

about it?

INT. EXPLORER BRIDGE/D.O.C.37

The plug is pulled on DeMarco's patience.

DEMARCO:

I don't care who drives the damn thing. Just get

my team in the water.

KIRKHILL:

Alright, alright. Christ Almighty!

He gestured dismissively to McBride.

MCBRIDE:

Cab Three, you are clear to launch.

INT./EXT. CAB THREE 38

Lindsey reaches up a grabs a red lever.

LINDSEY:

Roger.

(to Coffey)

There's only one way it's going to happen...

She pulls the lever hard. CLUNK-CLANG! The shackle-release drops the sub.

It freefalls ten feet to the water with an enormous splash and keeps right

on going after Lindsey floods the trim tanks. Coffey et al have been slammed

hard.

LINDSEY:

Touchdown. The crowd goes wild. Explorer...

Cab Three. We are styling.

MCBRIDE (filtered)

Roger, Cab Three.

Lindsey cuts on the floodlights and maneuvers the descending submersible so

that the umbilical cable is a few feet ahead on her front port. Moving up

through her lights, it will guide her down to the rig. Cab Three free-falls

into increasing darkness. Soon it is a candle below us in the indigo.

EXT./INT. FLATBED39

One Night is driving the tug one-handed, pouring coffee from a thermos and

rocking out to the great truck-driving song "Willing" on the beat-box she's

got propped up on the sonar rig. Fighting white-line fever in the best

tradition.

INT. CONTROL MODULE 40

Bud and Hippy come in for a rousing chorus.

BUD/HIPPY

... I've been driving every kinda rig that's

ever been maaaaade...

EXT. DEEPCORE 41

Lit up like a proud Peterbilt, the rig crossed the trackless wastes. We

hear them singing, carried OVER.

EXT. OCEAN DEPTHS/CAB THREE42

In total blackness, the submersible descends along the rigorous line of the

umbilical cable. Two hundred feet below it, the lights of Deepcore resolve

out of the darkness. Now we can see the rig crawling over the ocean bottom

like some monster lawnmower.

LINDSEY (V.O.)

Deepcore, Deepcore... this is Cab Three on

final approach.

HIPPY (V.O.)

Gotcha, Cab Three. Who is that? That You,

Lindsey?

INT. DEEPCORE/CONTROL MODULE 43

Bud stop singing and snaps around at the mention of her name.

LINDSEY (V.O.)

None other.

Bud's expression is nothing less than stricken.

BUD:

Oh no... you gotta be kidding me.

EXT./CAB THREE/DEEP CORE 44

Lindsey executes a 180 degree turn and cruises over the control module, back

through the A-frame toward the docking hatch. The flange of Cab Three's

lockout hatch settles over the pressure collar on the rig's back. There is

a CLUNK as it mates up.

INT. DEEPCORE/COMPRESSION CHAMBER/GAS CONTROL STATION 45

Lindsey drops down from the hatch into the small cylindrical pressure chamber.

The SEALs drop down behind her, passing their gear through hand-over-hand.

The chamber is spartan, with steel benches, a folding card table, breathing

masks, and medical supplies. Catfish greets them through the tiny porthole

at one end.

CATFISH:

Howdy, y'all. Hey, Lindsey! I'll be damned!

You shouldn't be down here sweet thing, ya'll

might run ya stockings.

LINDSEY:

Couldn't stay away. You running mixture for us?

Good. Couldn't ask for better.

CATFISH:

Okay, here we go. Start equalizing, y'all.

HISSSS of inrushing compressed gas. The pressure in the chamber rises. The

breathing mixture is composed of helium, oxygen and nitrogen. Catfish

monitors it carefully from a station outside the chamber, watching the

gauges with a practiced eye. Lindsey and the SEALs all grab their noses

and start making funny faces... popping their ears with the familiar diver's

'equalization' technique. They continue as:

LINDSEY:

Get comfortable. The bad news is we got six

hours in this can, blowing down. The worse news

is it's gonna take us three weeks to decompress

back to the surface later.

COFFEY:

We've been fully briefed, Mrs. Brigman.

LINDSEY:

Don't call me that, okay... I hate that. Alright,

from now on we watch each other closely for

signs of HPNS...

MONK:

(as if by rote)

High-Pressure Nervous Syndrome. Muscle tremors,

usually in the hands first. Nausea, increased

excitability, disorientation.

LINDSEY:

Very good. About one person in twenty just can't

handle it. They go buggo. They're no way to

predict who's susceptible, so stay alert.

COFFEY:

Look, we've all made chamber runs to this depth.

We're checked out.

LINDSEY:

Oh... chamber runs. Uh huh, that's good.

(Coffey turn away)

Well, hey... you guys know any songs?

They ignore her. Start going over some diagrams of the Montana's interior.

It's going to be a long six hours.

INT. GAS CONTROL STATION -- HOURS LATER 46

Catfish checks his watch, then reaches over and adjusts a value on the tri-

mix manifold, watching the gauges. Satisfied, he leans over to the pressure

window in the door, checking out the SEALs. Hippy has come down from the

control deck for an advanced look are the interlopers. Jammer is in a chair,

reading a Louis L'Amour paperback.

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