Predator Page #3

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.

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