EXT. OUTER SPACE
The infinite blackness punctuated by a billion stars. As we slowly
DESCEND through the varied shades of blue of the Earth's atmosphere, we
HEAR the first strains of a haunting, Central American FLUTE, joined by
a swelling background of JUNGLE SOUNDS. We descend further, through a
lush JUNGLE CANOPY, backlit by a setting sun.
EXT. JUNGLE COASTLINE - DAY (MAGIC HOUR)
Through a collage of shimmering HEAT-WAVES, a dark, OTHER-WORLDLY
OBJECT drops INTO VIEW, backlit by the fiery, ORANGE-RED sphere of a
setting tropical SUN, heading slowly towards us, floating, as if
suspended by the rising heat of the jungle.
Continuing to approach, the shimmering object resolves into a MILITARY
ASSAULT HELICOPTER, its rotors strobing in the fading sunlight. Drawing
closer, the SOUND of powerful TURBINES, throbbing in the heavy air,
becomes dominant, overpowering.
Guided by COLORED SMOKE and LANDING LIGHTS, the chopper looms hard INTO
VIEW, pitching forward and settling to the ground, kicking up a
maelstrom of dust and vegetation.
INT. COMMAND POST - DAY (MAGIC HOUR)
Where a MAN wearing a military UNIFORM watches through the large open
windows the helicopter as it continues to approach. Before the skids
have even touched down he SEES the first of the MEN, dressed in
CIVILIAN CLOTHES but carrying full COMBAT GEAR, alight gracefully from
the chopper, double-timing in close order to one side, the orders
SHOUTED by one man lost in the ROAR of the chopper.
The man turns away from the window, to a FIGURE, hidden in the shadows.
He turns back, lowering a BAMBOO SHADE, obscuring the window.
EXT. HELICOPTER PAD - NIGHT
On adjoining PADS, two other HELICOPTERS are VISIBLE; in the b.g. can
be SEEN several concrete and THATCHWORK BUILDINGS, a secret command
post disguised as a COASTAL FISHING VILLAGE.
The post in a flurry of activity, AMERICAN ADVISORS shouting directions
to dozens of LATIN AMERICAN SOLDIERS who stand by to assist the landing
helicopter and to load EQUIPMENT into the other choppers.
Inside the chopper, one man remains, stretched out against the
bulkhead, as if asleep. He stirs, sits up, lighting up a CIGAR. With
fatigue showing in his motion, he leans forward, descending to the
A JEEP pulls to stop, the man swinging casually into the front seat,
tossing his GEAR into the rear. With a lurch the jeep heads out towards
the command post.
In the doorway TWO MEN solemnly watch as the jeep approaches. Reaching
the command post the man alights from the jeep, heading towards the two
Into the pool of light cast by the fixture above the door steps MAJOR
ALAN SCHAEFER, the team leader, 38, an intelligent and intense man. He
informally salutes, GENERAL H.L. PHILIPS, 55, hardened, close-cropped
graying hair, his nameplate and insignia identifying him as a member of
an elite commando unit in the U.S. Army. He clasps Schaefer warmly on
You're looking well, Dutch.
It's been a long time, General.
They walk up the stairs, entering the palapa, leaving the other man on
INT. PALAPA - DAY
Large, two room concrete floor, thatched walls and roof. Behind a
partially drawn curtain in the kitchen, a naked lightbulb hung from the
rafters illuminates a bank of compact FIELD RADIO EQUIPMENT, MAPS and
AERIAL PHOTOGRAPHS. Otherwise the rooms are primitive and stand out in
stark contrast to this high-tech invasion.
Philips and Schaefer enter the room.
We've got a real problem here, something right up your alley.