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.
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.
Schaefer studies the map. He looks up at Philips.
That's over the border, General.
That's the problem. Apparently they strayed off course.
We're certain they've been captured by the guerrillas.
Schaefer looks up, puffing lightly on the cigar.
What have you got in mind, General.
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.
What else it new? When do we leave?
Philips looks at his watch.
You lift off in three hours.
There's one other thing.
What's that, General?
Someone else will be going in with you.
Schaefer stubbs out his cigar in an ashtray.
You know we don't work with outsiders, General.
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