The Abyss Page #6

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She closes the watertight door, forcing him out. Locks it. She turns and

throws her shoe hard against the far wall.

LINDSEY:

AAAARRRGGH!

She flops down on the bed, sitting... staring at the wall. Her armor is

gone. She looks small and vulnerable. A long beat. She reaches over to the

tiny sink. Amid the clutter is a bottle of Bud's aftershave. She unscrews

it and takes a sniff. Catches herself. Tosses it.

LINDSEY:

Sh*t.

INT. QUARTERS/HEAD 56

Bud barges into the tiny head and puts some soap on his ring finger. He pulls

the ring off roughly and throws it into the toilet. He reaches forward to

flush. Can't do it. Now really pissed off at himself, he reaches into the

toilet bowl, wrist deep in the chemical-blue water, and salvages the ring.

He puts it on and washes his hands. The right hand stays faintly blue no

matter how hard he scrubs.

BUD:

Sh*t.

CUT TO:

EXT. DEEPCORE 57

The platform is stopped, hovering in place. Like a great spacecraft setting

down on a barren planet, the rig settles into the bottom ooze. Flatbed

releases its tow lines and heads back to its berth inside.

CUT TO:

INT. SUB-BAY58

CLOSE ON A PHOTOGRAPH, actually a computer-composited down-looking scan from

a towed LIDAR (laser imaging sonar) rig. It shows a faint, blurry outline of

the Montana lying on her side on a ledge part-way down the canyon wall. There

is no detail. A finger points to a flat ledge nearby. An "X" has been put

on with a grease pencil.

COFFEY (V.O.)

This is us. We're just on the edge of the Cayman

Trough. The Montana is here, on its side, 300

meters away and 70 meters below us. We think she

slid down the wall, and lodged against this

outcropping.

CUT WIDE, showing the rig crew gathered around a worktable in the sub-bay.

The divers, Bud, Catfish, Sonny, Finler, Jammer, and the four SEALs have

their dry-suits on. The pre-dive briefing. Lindsey, One Night, and Hippy

will crew the submersibles. Wilhite is going around clipping DOSIMETER

BADGES on everybody.

SONNY:

This tells us how much radiation we get?

HIPPY:

Hey, whoah... I can't handle no radiation, man.

Forget it! Include me out.

CATFISH:

Hippy, you p*ssy.

HIPPY:

What good's the money if your dick drops off in

six months?

COFFEY:

We'll take reading as we go. If the reactor's

breached or the warheads have released

radioactive debris, we'll back away. Simple.

BUD:

Okay... Hippy's not going... McWhirter, you

can run Little Geek.

Bud pats the top of a small ROV, sitting next to its larger brother, Big

Geek.

HIPPY:

No way! No way! He can't fly an ROV worth

sh*t. I'll go. Sh*t!

COFFEY:

(to all)

On the dive, you will do absolutely nothing

without direct orders from me, and you will

follow my instructions without discussion. Is

this clear? Alright, I want everyone finished

prep and ready to get wet in fifteen minutes.

The rig crew disperses, picking up helmets and diving gear. Some are studying

the diagrams of the Montana's interior layout. Bud takes Coffey aside as

the others prepare.

BUD:

Look, it's three AM. These guys are running on

bad coffee and four hours sleep. You better

start cutting them some slack.

COFFEY:

I can't afford slack, Brigman.

BUD:

Hey, you come on my rig, you don't talk to me,

you start ordering my guys around. It won't

work. You gotta know how to handle these

people... we have a certain way of doing things

here.

COFFEY:

I'm not interested in your way of doing things.

Just get your team ready to dive.

End of discussion. Coffey is walking away. Burning, Bud crosses to his gear

locker. Picks up his helmet. Finler is suiting out next to him.

FINLER:

Hey, you know your hand is blue?

BUD:

Shut up and get your gear on.

NEARBY, Monk comes over to pick his helmet up off the worktable. Hippy

points to the heavy equipment case that says F.B.S. DEEP SUIT/MARK IV.

HIPPY:

I've been meaning to ask you what this thing is.

Mink opens the case and shows them an unfamiliar diving suit, what looks like

a space helmet, and a large backpack.

MONK:

Fluid breathing system. We just got them. We

use it if we need to go really deep.

HIPPY:

How deep?

MONK:

Deep.

(shrugs)

It's classified... you know. Anyway, you

breathe liquid, so you can't be compressed.

Pressure doesn't get to you.

Catfish is grappling with the concept.

CATFISH:

You're saying you get liquid in your lungs?

MONK:

Oxygenated fluorocarbon emulsion.

Monk take a clear plastic box full of O-rings off the shelf and dumps them

out. He opens a valve on the backpack and allows some of the fluid inside

it to drain into the box. Then he take Beany by the tail off Hippy's

shoulder.

HIPPY:

Hey!

MONK:

Check this out.

He drops Beany in the box and, before Hippy can protest, closes the lid.

Beany is forced under the surface. He struggled for a second, and bubbles

come out of his mouth. Then he casually swims around in there, completely

submerged... breathing liquid. Catfish and the others stare into the box,

amazed.

MONK:

See? He's diggin' it.

Monk takes Beany out and hold him by the tail for a few seconds to drain his

lungs. Then hands him back to Hippy. The rat is annoyed, but otherwise

alright.

CATFISH:

This is no bullshit hands down the goddamnedest

thing I ever saw.

CUT TO:

EXT. DEEPCORE/DROPOFF 59

Three sets of moving lights move outward from Deepcore. Cab One and Three,

with Lindsey and Hippy at the controls respectively, and One Night in the

Flatbed. Lindsey is in the lead. She approaches the cliff-like drop-off

and starts to descend.

LINDSEY:

Com-check, everybody. Flatbed, you on line?

ONE NIGHT:

Ten-four, Lindsey, read you loud and clear.

LINDSEY:

Cab Three?

HIPPY:

Cab Three, check. Right behind you.

LINDSEY (V.O.)

What's you depth, Cab Three?

HIPPY:

1840... 50... 60... 70...

LINDSEY:

Going over the wall. Coming to bearing 065.

Everybody stay tight and in sight.

ONE NIGHT:

Starting out descent. Divers, how're you doing?

EXT. FLATBED60

Eight divers ride the back of Flatbed like itinerant workers on the way to

the fields. Bud and his civilian crew, Catfish, Finler, and Jammer... sit

across from the SEALs. They are in their gear and breathing from umbilical

hooked in Flatbed's low-pressure manifold.

BUD:

Okay so far.

JAMMER:

How deep's the drop-off here?

CATFISH:

This here's the bottomless pit, baby. Two and

a half miles straight down.

COFFEY:

Knock off the chatter. Cab One, you getting

anything?

INT./EXT. CAB ONE61

Lindsey consults her array of instruments.

COFFEY:

Cab One, do you see it yet?

LINDSEY:

The magnetometer is pegged. Side-scan is showing

a big return, but I don't see anything yet. Are

you sure you got the depth right on this?

BUD (V.O., filtered)

You should be almost to it, ace.

She turns the submersible and...

The spotlight flares back from the great brass screw of the Montana. It

dwarfs Cab One, FILLING FRAME.

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