Deep Rising Page #2

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The Captain barks commands. The Crew leaps into high gear. Then the

Captain reverses the trottle, and petal-to-the-metal he starts to back

out. The inky blood swirls past the plexi-dome.

Then suddenly, and impossibly, the SUBMERSIBLE JERKS TO A HALT.

Everybody goes ass-over-teacups. EQUIPMENT SHATTERS. SPARKS FLY. GLASS

BREAKS. Lots of YELLING in Japanese.

The SHINKAI starts to ROCK and SHAKE. Something has a hold on it. More

EQUIPMENT SHATTERS. Men are thrown about.

Then it stops rocking. The Sailors stop yelling. Everything goes dead

quiet. Frightened eyes share terror-filled looks. A SOUND is HEARD

coming from the exterior of the ship, like feet runing across the

outside of the hull. Very creepy. The HULL starts to MOAN and CREAK

from an UNSEEN PRESSURE.

And then the sub begins to be crushed like it's a beer can.

The metal HULL TORQUES on all sides. RIVETS POP and SNAP. WATER SPRAYS

and SHOOTS. More SPARKS FLY. The STEEL PLATING DIMPLES, CRUMBLES and

SCREAMS in agony. CHAOS. PANDEMONIUM. And then the SHINKAI IMPLODES. A

massive CHURNING SWIRL of water, metal and men.

SMASH CUT TO:

14EXT. SOUTH CHINA SEA - SUNSET

THE SAIPAN, a tricked out Jet Foil, built for speed not looks,

gunmetal blue, lean and mean, rips across the choppy water. The

Rolling Stones STREETFIGHTING MAN pours out of the jet foil,

reverberating over the waves, as the CAMERA rushes right at the

windsheild and into...

CUT TO:

15INT. PILOT HOUSE - SUNSET

Stripped down, low frills, high tech...

...where JOHN T. FINNEGAN, bathed in the last light of day, all taut

muscle and sinew, all business, with every one of his 38 years etched

on his rugged, good looking face, is harnessed into the steering

pylon, wrestling with his steering-sticks, holding the bouncing

jetfoil steady as he can, hauling ass, propelled, it seems, by the

music blasting out of four state of the art speakers bolted to the

metal walls.

Light from the laser imagers plays across Finnegan's face. The face of

a man in his element, on the edge, in control. He barks commands into

his RADIO HEADSET.

FINNEGAN:

How we doing out there?

THROUGH THE WINDSHEILD we see LEILA, a muscular Filipina clambering

over the foredeck. She's dripping wet. Tough as nails. She turns to

Finnegan and "mouths" something into her headset. Finnegan flashes her

his most charming smile.

FINNEGAN:

Yes, I'm very warm and dry in here,

thank you for your concern.

His HEADSET comes alive withe the SOUND of LEILA bitching in an

unitelligible foreign tounge.

FINNEGAN:

A raise? I already pay you two bucks

a day.

He watches as Leila fights the WIND and SEASPRAY and dogs-tight a

series of hatch-latches across the foredeck.

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