-
Notifications
You must be signed in to change notification settings - Fork 3
/
Copy pathAbyss,-The.txt
6149 lines (4311 loc) · 236 KB
/
Abyss,-The.txt
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
The Abyss - by James Cameron
THE ABYSS
AN ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY
BY
JAMES CAMERON
August 2, 1988
Director's Revision
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE ABYSS
OMITTED 1
OMITTED 2
TITLE: THE ABYSS -- ON BLACK, DISSOLVING TO COBALT BLUE
EXT. OCEAN/UNDERWATER -- DAY 3
Blue, deep and featureless, the twilight of five hundred feet down.
PROPELLER SOUND. Materializing out of the blue limbo is the enormous but
sleek form of an Ohio-class SSBN ballistic missile submarine.
INT. U.S.S. MONTANA -- DAY 4
In the attack center, darkened to womb-red, the crew's faces shine with sweat
in the glow of their instruments. The SKIPPER and his EXEC crowd around
BARNES, the sonarman.
CAPTAIN
Sixty knots? No way, Barnes... the reds don't
have anything that fast.
BARNES
Checked it twice, skipper. It's a real unique
signature. No cavitation, no reactor noise...
doesn't even sound like screws.
He puts the signal onto a speaker and everyone in the attack room listens to
the intruder's acoustic signature, a strange THRUMMING. The captain studies
the electronic position board, a graphic representation of the contours of
the steep-walled canyon, a symbol for the Montana, and converging with it, an
amorphous trace, representing the bogey.
CAPTAIN
What the hell is it?
EXEC
I'll tell you what it's not, it's not one of
ours.
BARNES
Sir! Contact changing heading to two-one-four,
diving. Speed eighty knots! Eighty knots!
EXEC
Eighty knots...
BARNES
Still diving, depth nine hundred feet. Port
clearance to cliff wall, one hundred fifty feet.
FRANK
(simultaneously)
Still diving, depth nine hundred feet. Port
clearance to cliff wall, one hundred fifty feet.
Tension builds in the attack room as the Montana surges to intercept the
intruder. The exec tensely watches the vector-graphic readout for the side-
scan sonar array. The sub is running uncomfortably close to the cliff walls.
EXEC
(low, to Captain)
It's getting tight in here.
CAPTAIN
We can still give him a haircut. Helm, come
right to oh six niner, down five degrees.
HELMSMAN
Coming right to oh six niner, sir. Down five
degrees.
NAVIGATOR
Port side clearance one hundred twenty feet
narrowing to seventy-five. Sir, we have a
proximity warning light.
EXEC
That's too damn close! We've gotta back off.
BARNES
Range to contact, two hundred. Contact junked to
bearing two six oh and accelerated to... one
hundred thirty knots, sir!
EXEC
(really freaked now)
Nothing goes one thirty!
Suddenly the control room lights dim almost to blackness.
EXT. U.S.S. MONTANA 5
We see only the effect, not the source, as a large diffuse light passes
rapidly under the sub's hull. Moments later a shockwave, like an underwater
sonic boom, impacts the sub, slamming it sideways.
INT. U.S.S. MONTANA 6
The bride crew are knocked off their feet, as the ship is buffeted.
EXEC
Turbulence! We're in its wake!
SIRENS. Everyone shouting at once. The power flickers low.
CAPTAIN
Helm, all stop! Full right rudder!
HELMSMAN
All stop. Full right rudder. Hydraulic failure.
Planes are not responding, sir!
Power returns in time for the sonarman to get a glimpse at the side-scan
display... AS THE SHEER CLIFF WALL LOOM BEFORE THEM.
HELMSMAN
Hydraulics restored, sir.
EXT. U.S.S. MONTANA 7
The cliff wall materializes out of the blue limbo off the port bow with
nightmarish slow-motion. The sub slams into it with horrific force, scraping
along and bouncing off. One tail stabilizer is sheared off and the big screw
prangs the wall with an earsplitting K-K-KWANG!
INT. PORT TO TORPEDO ROOM 8
With the outer tube-doors torn off, seawater slams in, busting the inner
hatches. Two-foot thick columns of water, like fire-hoses of the gods,
blast into the room. Everything vanishes instantly in white spray.
INT. CONTROL RM/ATTACK CENTER 9
Everyone is hurled off his feet. The planesman flights to recover control of
the yoke.
CAPTAIN
Collision alarm! Collision alarm! Lighten
her up, Charlie!
NAVIGATOR
The torpedo room is flooded, sir!
CAPTAIN
Blow all tanks! Blow everything!
HELMSMAN
Passing twelve hundred feet...
EXEC
Blowing main tanks!
HELMSMAN
Twelve hundred fifty feet...
EXT. MONTANA 10
The great sub is being hauled down by the mass of its flooded bow section,
its flanks rushing past us like a freight train headed for Hell.
INT. MONTANA CONTROL ROOM 11
The command crew fights futility for control, everyone shouting and terrified.
EXEC
Main forward tanks ruptured!
HELMSMAN
Passing thirteen hundred feet...
EXEC
Too deep to pump auxiliaries!
CAPTAIN
All back full! All back full!
HELMSMAN
Answering all back full. Passing thirteen hundred
fifty feet... fourteen hundred... fourteen
fifty...
The Captain locks eyes with the Exec amid the din...
CAPTAIN
We're losing her. Launch the buoy!
The Exec opens the door to a small box and punches a button. A red light
comes on. The Captains takes a deep breath.
EXT. MONTANA 12
A tiny transmitter is ejected from the sub's hell and begins its long ascent
to the surface. A second later the sub slams down like a piledriver onto a
ledge, tearing open its pressure hull.
INT. MONTANA 13
VARIOUS QUICK CUTS, just flashes and impressions, as...
Seawater blasts down the corridors --
Explodes across the control room, hurling men like dolls --
Floods the cavernous missile bay in seconds --
Bursts through hatches into the reactor room --
Blasts men OUT OF FRAME in a micro-second.
EXT. OCEAN/UNDERWATER 14
In the cobalt twilight we see the Montana slide down the sea cliff, its hull
SCREECHING like the death agonies of some marine dinosaur. Descending in an
avalanche of silt, it finally disappears into the blackness below... a
blackness which continues almost straight down, 20,000 feet to the bottom of
the Cayman Trough. The abyss.
EXT. OCEAN SURFACE -- DAY 15
Above, in the world, the Caribbean rolling gray under a stormy sky. The
Montana's emergency buoy pops to the surface, transmitting.
CUT TO:
EXT. OCEAN/20 MILES AWAY -- DAY 16
LONG LENS SHOT: three massive Navy Sea King helicopters thundering straight
at us, FILLING FRAME.
REVERSE, as they barrel OVER CAMERA toward a lone civilian ship... an ugly
but very sophisticated deep-sea drilling support ship, the BENTHIC EXPLORER.
It is a twin-hulled monstrosity with a central opening in its deck, around
which crouch enormous cranes, winches and other arcane equipment.
The first Sea King settles onto the helipad, disgorging a contingent of Naval
officers, technicians, and a squad of armed seamen. A pantomime in the
rotorwash, we see the Benthic Petroleum "company man" KIRKHILL greeting
COMMODORE DEMARCO, the on-scene commander.
INT. BENTHIC EXPLORER/BRIDGE -- DAY 17
The bridge is state-of-the-art, with computers and sophisticated navigation
and communications gear, looking like mission control with its bank of video
monitors. The Drilling Operations Supervisor, LELAND MCBRIDE, and BENDIX,
the crew chief, watch the invaders swarming the deck below.
MCBRIDE
Does not look good at all.
TIGHT ON VIDEO SCREEN (MINUTES LATER) showing divers working in total
blackness around some sort of installation on the bottom of the ocean. They
move through the harsh floodlights in dreamlike slow motion, looking like
space-suited figures with their helmets and umbilical hoses.
DEMARCO (V.O.)
No light from the surface. How deep are they?
MCBRIDE (V.O.)
Seventeen hundred feet.
WIDER, showing the Navy contingent crowding the control room. DeMarco is
hardcore military, brusque and efficient. Kirkhill is a small man with
pinched features, wearing a shirt and tie, which on a drill ship means
company man and/or dickhead.
DEMARCO
I need them to go to over two thousand.
KIRKHILL
They can do it.
(to McBride)
Get Brigman on the line.
CUT TO:
EXT. UNDERWATER -- DAY (TOTAL DARKNESS) 18
1700 FEET BELOW. A submersible oil-drilling platform, DEEPCORE II, an island
of light in the vast blackness. Its main framework connects two "tri-
modules" consisting of three cylinders each. These contain living and work
areas in a pressurized environment. An umbilical cable, thick as a man's
thigh, runs up from the oil rig into the darkness, to the Benthic Explorer
at the surface. In a bubble-like dome port window we see the rig foreman, or
"toolpusher," BUD BRIGMAN. He's talking (via headset) with two divers
working outside... 'CATFISH' DE VRIES, AND LEW 'BIRD-DOG' FINLER.
BUD
Hey, you guys are milking that job.
CATFISH
(Kentucky drawl)
That's cause we love freezin' our butts off out
here sooo much, boss.
OMITTED 19
INT. DRILL ROOM 20
Bud turns from the window and crosses the drill floor. The working heart of
the rig. THUNDEROUS MECHANICAL ROAR. The drill crew, in hardhats and mud-
plastered overalls, tend the massive spinning turn-table in the center of the
chamber. The semi-automated system requires only five men to operate. The
others are LUPTON MCWHIRTER, DWIGHT PERRY, JAMMER WILLIS, and TOMMY RAY
DIETZ. Bud hears his names called above the din by Jammer, a massive
roughneck/diver who stands a good head taller than the rest.
JAMMER
(yelling)
Bud! Hippy's on the bitch-box. It's a call
from topside. That new company man.
BUD
Kirkhill? That guy doesn't know his butt from
a rathole. Hey, Perry!
One of the roustabouts, a wiry Texan, turns to him.
BUD
Do me a favor and square away the mud hose and
those cable slings. This place is starting to
look like my apartment.
Perry chuckles and sets to the task cheerfully. Bud EXITS, ducking his head
through a low watertight hatch.
INT. CORRIDOR/TOOLPUSHER'S OFFICE 21
Bud tromps down the narrow corridor, his work boots gonging on steel.
P.A. (HIPPY'S VOICE)
BUD, PICK UP THE TOPSIDE LINE URGENT.
BUD
I'm coming. Keep your pantyhose on.
He enters his office, a tiny cubicle with stacks of paperwork, dust-
gathering tech manuals and waterstained Penthouse fold-outs. He picks up the
phone... punches down a line.
BUD
Brigman here. Kirkhill? What's going on?
(pause)
I am calm. I'm a calm person. Is there some
reason why I shouldn't be calm?
HOLD ON Bud's expression, darkening, as he listens.
INT. CORRIDOR/CONTROL MODULE 22
The control module is a long narrow cabin like the inside of a Winnebago,
packed with instrumentation. At the end is a small bay with multiple
viewports. Outside, at a 'Christmas tree' pipe installation, a lone diver
can be seen welding. He is accompanied by a large submersible, FLATBED, and
by a Remotely Operated Vehicle, or ROV, call LITTLE GEEK. Little Geek is an
underwater robot which operated on the end of a cable-like control TETHER.
It has a single video 'eye' in front, by which the operator pilots the little
machine. The rig's ROV pilots is ALLEN 'HIPPY' CARNES, who stands by the
window twiddling his joysticks and drinking coffee. His pet white rat,
BEANY, crawls contentedly around his shoulders. The door BANGS OPEN.
Hippy jumps, slops his coffee. Bud strides in. Not calm.
BUD
Son of a bitch.
He kicks a chair out of the way and slams his palm down on a switch marked
DIVER RECALL. A SIREN, blasting through the water from a big hydrophone
loudspeaker.
BUD
All divers. Drop what you're doing. Everybody
out of the pool.
EXT. DEEPCORE/CHRISTMAS TREE A22
Flatbed's pilot, LISA 'ONE NIGHT' STANDING, can be clearly seen behind a
bubble canopy. She is a no-nonsense lady who holds her own in the mostly
male environment by being one of the best submersible drivers in the
business. She controls a hydraulic manipulator arm, assisting the diver,
ARLISS 'SONNY' DAWSON, in his work. Little Geek hovers around them like a
tiny helicopter. One Night moves the Flatbed arm to Sonny and hands him the
pipe.
ONE NIGHT
Here you go, hon'.
SONNY
Just in time, sugar.
They react to Bud's recall, looking toward him up in the control module.
ONE NIGHT
Dammit, we just got out here.
SONNY
There was a time when I would have asked why.
One Night makes a grab for his butt with the manipulator claw, which he
narrowly avoids.
CUT TO:
EXT. DEEPCORE/UNDER SUB-BAY 23
Flatbed moves underneath the rig, a few feet above the seafloor, with Sonny
riding on its top deck. It passes under a lit opening and rises toward the
surface of the water in the chamber above. Little Geek follows like an
obedient dog.
INT. SUB-BAY/MOONPOOL 24
The opening is called the moonpool, and Deepcore's submersibles are launched
through it. From inside the sub-bay it looks just like a swimming pool.
Flatbed surfaces, nearly filling it. The chamber also contains CAB ONE, a
similar submersible. Jammer, Perry, and some of the other drill-room boys
are helping the divers out of the water. The water at this depth is only
about six degrees above freezing, and these folks are cold and prune-
fingered. Finler pulls off his demand-helmet, revealing a round, boyish
face.
FINLER
What's goin' on? How come we got recalled?
SONNY
Hell is I know.
One Night jumps 'ashore' from Flatbed's broad deck and joins them. Catfish
is unzipping his bulky dry-suit.
CATFISH
Just follow standard procedure, will ya...
flog the dog till somebody tells us what's
happening.
JAMMER
Hey, Catfish, I'll sell you my October Penthouse
for twenty bucks.
ONE NIGHT
Save you money, darlin'... the pages are all
stuck together by now.
Bud enters, approaching the group.
JAMMER
What's goin' on, Boss?
BUD
Folks, I've just been told to shut down the hole
and prepare to move the rig.
SONNY
She-hit.
BUD
We're being asked to cooperate in a matter of
national security. Now you know exactly as much
as I do. So just get your gear off and get up to
control. There's some kind of briefing in ten
minutes.
CUT TO:
INT. DEEPCORE/COMMAND MODULE 25
The whole rig crew is somehow jammed into the room for the video briefing.
DeMarco is on the main monitor, with his aides and Kirkhill visible b.g.
DEMARCO
At 09:22 local time this morning, an American
nuclear submarine, the USS Montana, with 156 men
aboard, went down 22 miles from here. There has
been no contact with the sub since then. The
cause of the incident is not known.
PAN AROUND the reactions of the various drill crew members... shocked,
hushed, curious.
DEMARCO
Your company has authorized the Navy's use of
this facility for a rescue operation. The code
name is Operation Salvor.
ONE NIGHT
You want us to search for the sub?
DEMARCO
No. We know where it is. But she's in 2000 feet
of water and we can't reach her. We need divers
to enter the sub and search for survivors, if
any.
Bud's scowl has been deepening since DeMarco started to talk.
BUD
Don't you guys have your own stuff for this type
of thing?
DEMARCO
By the time we get our rescue submersible here
the storm front will be right on us. But you
can get your rig in under the storm and be on-
site in fifteen hours. That makes you our best
option right now.
Hippy, born suspicious and recently graduated to paranoid, leans forward...
HIPPY
Why should we risk our butts on a job like this?
KIRKHILL
I have been authorized to offer you all special-
duty bonuses equivalent to three times normal
dive pay.
CATFISH
Hell, for triple time I'd crawl through razor
blades and shower off with lime juice.
FINLER
I'm here to tell ya', you could set me on fire
and call me names.
BUD
Look, I don't know what kind of a deal you guys
worked out with the company, but my people are
not qualified for this... they're oil workers.
DEMARCO
A four-man SEAL team will transfer down to you
to supervise the operation.
BUD
You can send down whoever you like, but I'm the
toolpusher on this rig, and when it comes to the
safety of these people, there's me... then
there's God. Understand? If things get dicey,
I'm pulling the plug.
KIRKHILL
I think we're all on the same wavelength,
Brigman. Now let's get the wellhead uncoupled,
shall we?
CUT TO:
INT. DEEPCORE/COMMAND MODULE AND CORRIDOR 26
Bud stands beside the hatchway as the others file out toward their tasks.
They comment gravely as they pass...
JAMMER
When Lindsey finds out about this, it's not
gonna be a pretty sight.
ONE NIGHT
They're going to have to shoot her with a
tranquilizer gun.
CUT TO:
EXT. OCEAN -- DAY 27
A single Navy Sea King churns through the rain under massive thunderheads.
The sea below is whipped by the storm.
INT./EXT. SEA KING 28
PANNING ALONG BOOTED FEET, four pairs of black military size twelves line
up, onto... a pair of Charles Jourdans fives under shapely ankles.
WIDER, revealing the four-man team of Navy SEALs. And a slender woman in
her early thirties. She's attractive, if a bit hardened, dressed
conservatively in a skirt and jacket. Meet LINDSEY. Project Engineer for
Deepcore. She's a pain in the ass, but you'll like her. Eventually.
She's holding on grimly, sitting crammed in with the SEALs and a bunch of
gear, getting tossed around by the storm. The SEALs are dressed alike in
black fatigues. They are muscular, finely-tuned and extremely dangerous
special-forces types. The leader of the SEAL team, LIEUTENANT COFFEY, makes
his way forward to the cockpit.
The pilot is white-knuckling his stick, trying to hold the great beast of a
helicopter in position. Through the windshield, the deck of the Benthic
Explorer can be seen below, pitching in a violent sea.
PILOT
No way I'm putting her down. I shouldn't even
be flying in this shit.
COFFEY
(cool)
Just hold it over the deck.
Coffey goes back to the crew deck, moving easily in the bucking craft. He
nods to the others SEALs, MONK, WILHITE, and SCHOENICK. In the open side
door, Wilhite clips a 100 foot nylon rope to the airframe and throws out the
coil. One by one the shoulder the gear-bags, grab the rope, and step out.
Lindsey stands swaying in the chopper door, watching the SEALs fast-roping
to the deck. One, two, three. Coffey looks at her.
COFFEY
You want to be on that ship, there's only one
way it's going to happen.
He's sure she won't go for it. It's his certainty that gets her. She sets
her jaw. Opening her purse she takes out a small plastic bag, puts her
shoes and purse in the bag, and grips the bag in her teeth. Then grabs
the rope and slides down.
EXT. BENTHIC EXPLORER/HELIPAD 29
Swinging wildly in the wind like a human pendulum, Lindsey fast-ropes forty
feet to the deck. She steps away an instant before Coffey hits behind her.
Lindsey crosses the rainswept deck with athletic strides. Her nylons are
ruined. An air-crewman in the chopper lowers two additional equipment cases
using the rescue sling. The SEALs catch them as they swing radically across
the deck. They Navy chopper banks and seems to scurry away before the
mounting storm.
CUT TO:
EXT. OCEAN BOTTOM 30
BLACKNESS. Then shafts of light become visible, above a ridge of rock.
Flatbed appears, trailing two heavy two cables. Behind it, the mass of
Deepcore emerges from the darkness, its forward lighting array blazing.
Flatbed is towing it like a tug, aided by Deepcore's own mighty stern
thrusters.
INT. DEEPCORE/CONTROL MODULE 31
Bud, his feet propped up, uses joystick controls to 'fly' Deepcore,
maneuvering against currents and around seafloor obstacles. He is guided
by the side-scan sonar display, with Hippy assisting in the sonar shack.
Through the front viewport, Flatbed can be seen out ahead.
McBride appears on the bridge monitor, holding a sheet of weather-fax.
MCBRIDE (on screen)
Well, it's official, sportsfans. They're calling
it Hurricane Frederick, and it's going to be
making our lives real interesting in a few hours.
INT. EXPLORER BRIDGE -- DAY 32
Bud responds via video.
BUD
Fred, huh? I don't know. Hurricanes should be
named after women.
McBride looks up as the bridge door opens. Lindsey enters in a blast of wind,
wet as a wharf rat and twice as pissed off. Maybe Bud is right.
CUT TO:
INT. DEEPCORE/CONTROL MODULE 33
Bud is surprised to see Lindsey's face appear on the monitor screen.
LINDSEY
I can't believe you let them do this!
BUD
(unpreturbed, almost cheerful)
Hi, Lins. I thought you were in Houston.
LINDSEY
I was, but I managed to bum a ride on the last
flight out here. Only here isn't where I left
it, is it, Bud?
BUD
Wasn't up to me.
LINDSEY
We were that close to proving a submersible
drilling platform could work. We had over seven
thousand feet of hole down for Chrissake. I
can't believe you let them grab my rig!
BUD
Your rig?
LINDSEY
My rig. I designed the damn thing.
BUD
Yup, a Benthic Petroleum paid for it. So as long
as they're hold the pink slip, I go where they
tell me.
LINDSEY
You wimp. I had a lot riding on this. They
bought you... more like least rented you cheap--
BUD
I'm switching off now.
LINDSEY
Virgil, you wiener! You never could stand up
to fight. You--
Bud hits the switch and the screen goes dead.
BUD
Bye.
Hippy looks over him, trying very hard not to crack up.
HIPPY
Virgil?
BUD
God, I hate that bitch.
HIPPY
Yeah, well you never should have married her then.
Bud nods fatalistically.
CUT TO:
EXT. EXPLORER DECK/LAUNCH WELL 34
Ten foot waves crash through the launch-well, sending up geysers of spray.
Next to the launch-well, crewman have attached a lifting cable to CAB THREE,
eighteen feet of ugly yellow submersible. It slams violently in its steel
cradle as the drill-ship rolls. Coffey and Schoenick hand the gear bags in
to Wilhite and Monk though the hatch under the rear of the submersible.
Lindsey approaches, wearing a borrowed roustabout's coverall.
She looks down at the larger of the two equipment cases brought by the SEALs,
lying on the deck. Stenciled on it are the words: F.B.S./DEEP SUIT/MARK IV.
Coffey and Schoenick push past her to pick it up.
LINDSEY
Let's go, gentlemen! We either launch now or
we don't launch.
Coffey looks up in surprise as she nimbly climbs the side of Cab Three and
grabs the lifting shackle, circling her raised hand to signal the crane man.
LINDSEY
Take her up, Byron!
Cab Three, with Lindsey riding its back, is pulled up out its cradle and
starts to swing violently as Explorer pitches. The submersible is then
swung out to the center of the launch well. It sways and gyrates above the
furious water below. Lindsey drops into the upper hatch.
INT. EXPLORER BRIDGE/D.O.C. 35
Kirkhill leans suddenly over the console to look out the window.
KIRKHILL
What the hell is she doing out there? Son of a
bitch...
(into microphone)
Lindsey... get out of Cab Three. Bates is taking
her down.
INT. CAB THREE 36
Lindsey pulls her headset as she dogs down the inside locking levers of the
hatch.
LINDSEY
Bates is sick. Besides I've got more hours in
this thing than he does.
(to Coffey)
A little change of plan.
The little sub is swinging like a pendulum on the cable, and the SEALs,
jammed in with their equipment in the tiny space, are getting slammed into
the walls. Lindsey is calmly flipping switches as she talks.
COFFEY
Lady, we better fish or cut bait.
LINDSEY
Just hold your water, okay?
(to Kirkhill)
So Kirkhill, we gonna do this or we gonna talk
about it?
INT. EXPLORER BRIDGE/D.O.C. 37
The plug is pulled on DeMarco's patience.
DEMARCO
I don't care who drives the damn thing. Just get
my team in the water.
KIRKHILL
Alright, alright. Christ Almighty!
He gestured dismissively to McBride.
MCBRIDE
Cab Three, you are clear to launch.
INT./EXT. CAB THREE 38
Lindsey reaches up a grabs a red lever.
LINDSEY
Roger.
(to Coffey)
There's only one way it's going to happen...
She pulls the lever hard. CLUNK-CLANG! The shackle-release drops the sub.
It freefalls ten feet to the water with an enormous splash and keeps right
on going after Lindsey floods the trim tanks. Coffey et al have been slammed
hard.
LINDSEY
Touchdown. The crowd goes wild. Explorer...
Cab Three. We are styling.
MCBRIDE (filtered)
Roger, Cab Three.
Lindsey cuts on the floodlights and maneuvers the descending submersible so
that the umbilical cable is a few feet ahead on her front port. Moving up
through her lights, it will guide her down to the rig. Cab Three free-falls
into increasing darkness. Soon it is a candle below us in the indigo.
EXT./INT. FLATBED 39
One Night is driving the tug one-handed, pouring coffee from a thermos and
rocking out to the great truck-driving song "Willing" on the beat-box she's
got propped up on the sonar rig. Fighting white-line fever in the best
tradition.
INT. CONTROL MODULE 40
Bud and Hippy come in for a rousing chorus.
BUD/HIPPY
... I've been driving every kinda rig that's
ever been maaaaade...
EXT. DEEPCORE 41
Lit up like a proud Peterbilt, the rig crossed the trackless wastes. We
hear them singing, carried OVER.
EXT. OCEAN DEPTHS/CAB THREE 42
In total blackness, the submersible descends along the rigorous line of the
umbilical cable. Two hundred feet below it, the lights of Deepcore resolve
out of the darkness. Now we can see the rig crawling over the ocean bottom
like some monster lawnmower.
LINDSEY (V.O.)
Deepcore, Deepcore... this is Cab Three on
final approach.
HIPPY (V.O.)
Gotcha, Cab Three. Who is that? That You,
Lindsey?
INT. DEEPCORE/CONTROL MODULE 43
Bud stop singing and snaps around at the mention of her name.
LINDSEY (V.O.)
None other.
Bud's expression is nothing less than stricken.
BUD
Oh no... you gotta be kidding me.
EXT./CAB THREE/DEEP CORE 44
Lindsey executes a 180 degree turn and cruises over the control module, back
through the A-frame toward the docking hatch. The flange of Cab Three's
lockout hatch settles over the pressure collar on the rig's back. There is
a CLUNK as it mates up.
INT. DEEPCORE/COMPRESSION CHAMBER/GAS CONTROL STATION 45
Lindsey drops down from the hatch into the small cylindrical pressure chamber.
The SEALs drop down behind her, passing their gear through hand-over-hand.
The chamber is spartan, with steel benches, a folding card table, breathing
masks, and medical supplies. Catfish greets them through the tiny porthole
at one end.
CATFISH
Howdy, y'all. Hey, Lindsey! I'll be damned!
You shouldn't be down here sweet thing, ya'll
might run ya stockings.
LINDSEY
Couldn't stay away. You running mixture for us?
Good. Couldn't ask for better.
CATFISH
Okay, here we go. Start equalizing, y'all.
HISSSS of inrushing compressed gas. The pressure in the chamber rises. The
breathing mixture is composed of helium, oxygen and nitrogen. Catfish
monitors it carefully from a station outside the chamber, watching the
gauges with a practiced eye. Lindsey and the SEALs all grab their noses
and start making funny faces... popping their ears with the familiar diver's
'equalization' technique. They continue as:
LINDSEY
Get comfortable. The bad news is we got six
hours in this can, blowing down. The worse news
is it's gonna take us three weeks to decompress
back to the surface later.
COFFEY
We've been fully briefed, Mrs. Brigman.
LINDSEY
Don't call me that, okay... I hate that. Alright,
from now on we watch each other closely for
signs of HPNS...
MONK
(as if by rote)
High-Pressure Nervous Syndrome. Muscle tremors,
usually in the hands first. Nausea, increased
excitability, disorientation.
LINDSEY
Very good. About one person in twenty just can't
handle it. They go buggo. They're no way to
predict who's susceptible, so stay alert.
COFFEY
Look, we've all made chamber runs to this depth.
We're checked out.
LINDSEY
Oh... chamber runs. Uh huh, that's good.
(Coffey turn away)
Well, hey... you guys know any songs?
They ignore her. Start going over some diagrams of the Montana's interior.
It's going to be a long six hours.
INT. GAS CONTROL STATION -- HOURS LATER 46
Catfish checks his watch, then reaches over and adjusts a value on the tri-
mix manifold, watching the gauges. Satisfied, he leans over to the pressure
window in the door, checking out the SEALs. Hippy has come down from the
control deck for an advanced look are the interlopers. Jammer is in a chair,
reading a Louis L'Amour paperback.
CATFISH
Those guys ain't so tough. I fought plenty of
guys tougher'n them.
HIPPY
Now we get to hear about how he used to be a
contender.
Catfish hold up one calloused fist up in front of Hippy's face.
CATFISH
You see this? They used to call this the Hammer.
JAMMER
Hippy wasn't born then.
INT. PRESSURE CHAMBER 47
It looks like the end of a long bus trip. Everyone silent... leafing
through beat-to-hell magazines or just staring. Lindsey has her feet propped
up on the smaller of the SEALs' two equipment cases. She casually toes open
one of the latches, then the other. Glances at Coffey. He's reading. She