by

David Twohy

FIRST DRAFT

August 6, 1995

FADE IN:

INT. SENATE HEARING ROOM - CAPITOL BLDG. - DAY

Blinding in their white uniforms, naval flag officers sit

in the audience, showing their support for THEODORE HAYES,

a 50-year-old civilian. This is his confirmation hearing.

Reading from prepared material:

HAYES

... last few years have brought many

advances in the interests of women

in naval service, particularly in

the land-based maritime specialties.

What's more, the Navy has instituted

special sensitivity courses with an

eye on --

DEHAVEN

Whoa, whoa, whoa. "Land-based

maritime specialties." Gimme a

second here to de-euphemize that...

At the center of a dais, LILLIAN DEHAVEN leans back to

ponder the ceiling of the hearing room. Her plaque card

reads "CHAIRPERSON -- SENATE ARMS COMMITTEE." DeHaven is a

tough-hided old Southern belle, Scarlett O'Hara at 60.

In her arsenal she carries conversational hand-grenades --

and she's apt to pull a pin at the slightest whim.

DEHAVEN

Would that be anything like

"typing"? "Restocking the

cupboards"? That sort of thing, Mr.

Hayes?

CHUCKLES from the packed gallery. The flag officers go

stone-faced. Hayes forces a smile.

HAYES

Hardly the case, Senator.

DEHAVEN

Well, I'm just an old dame without

much time left, so you'll pardon me

if I jump right in here before they

discontinue my blood-type. I am

deeply concerned over the Navy's

seemingly incontrovertible attitude

toward women in the military. Case

in point...

On cue, aides begin distributing reports to other members

of the dais. Hayes gets a copy, too. And it jars him.

DEHAVEN

"The Lark Report."

HAYES

Madam Senator... this is an internal

document of the U.S. Navy. I must

seriously question whether --

DEHAVEN

(to others on panel)

The Navy's conclusion regarding the

crash of an F-14 aboard an aircraft

carrier. Female aviator, it just so

happens.

(to Hayes)

You're familiar with this report and

its conclusion, am I right?

HAYES

I was one member of the investigating

commission.

DEHAVEN

Yes, I see your signature right here

-- twice the size of everyone

else's. And your conclusion was

"pilot error," hmm?

HAYES

I'm really not prepared for any kind

of in-depth review of --

DEHAVEN

I'd like to think our next Secretary

of the Navy would be prepared for

anything, Mr. Hayes.

A humorless smile. She's roasting his nuts over an open

fire, and everyone knows it.

HAYES

The commission concluded that the

aviator in question failed to

execute a proper approach to the

carrier.

DEHAVEN

That aside for the moment, I'm

struck by the tenor, the ill-spirit

of your report... the degrading

remarks by other aviators...

innuendo about her performance in

unrelated situations... even a

reference to her sexual activity the

weekend prior.

(closing report)

In my seven years on this committee,

I've never seen a downed aviator

treated like this. Never. I'm

deeply disturbed by this report, Mr.

Hayes. Not just what it bodes for

women in the military -- but for

your own confirmation as well.

INT. CORRIDOR - CAPITOL BLDG. - DAY

Heading for her office, DeHaven is escorted by a small

PRESS RETINUE.

DEHAVEN

... a full 35 percent of all jobs in

the U.S. military are still, to this

day, off-limits to women. And

that's simply gotta change.

PRESS #1

What about those who say women

aren't suited for all jobs? That

they're physically weaker... they

have less stamina...

DEHAVEN

Sure. And we're gonna hog the

bathroom, too.

DEHAVEN'S AIDE catches up, pulls her aside.

DEHAVEN'S AIDE

White House boys want a private

meeting.

DEHAVEN

I'll act surprised.

INT. DEHAVEN'S OFFICE - CAPITOL BLDG. - DAY

Shoes dumped on her desk, DeHaven changes out knee-high

stockings while devoting one ear to...

WHITE HOUSE #1

... to reassure you that he has

every faith in the ability of Mr.

Hayes to guide the Navy into the

next century. The task, as the

Administration sees it, is to

acknowledge changing realities

without losing traditional values.

A beat. DeHaven looks between the two WHITE HOUSE boys --

#1 young and eager, #2 older and cagier.

DEHAVEN

'Zat it? Ten minutes, nothin' on

the table? Sweetcakes, you best go

back to the President and tell him

to open up the phone book and start

lookin' for his next nominee.

White House #1 looks spanked. Taking over, #2 pops a

briefcase. An inch-think report appears before DeHaven.

WHITE HOUSE #2

Administration's plan for 100

percent integration. If female

candidates measure up in a series of

test cases, the President will

support full integration within

three years' time.

Surprised -- maybe even startled -- DeHaven flips through

the report, absorbing by osmosis.

WHITE HOUSE #2

It's your gender-blind Navy,

Senator. Surely you're not going to

balk now.

DEHAVEN

Well, it's just that askin' you all

to integrate the Navy is like

sending a man to do a woman's job.

(a beat)

How do you propose to handle the

Combat Exclusion Laws?

WHITE HOUSE #2

Keep narrowing the definitions.

Keep redefining.

WHITE HOUSE #1

We got around it in Saudi Arabia.

DEHAVEN

By calling women "Honorary Men."

Ingenious.

WHITE HOUSE #2

C'mon, Senator, President's pitchin'

right down the center of your plate.

If women measure up to men, they've

got the job. You going to take a

swing? Or step out of the box?

DeHaven riffles the edges of the report, thinking it over.

Thinking light years ahead.

EXT. CAPITOL BLDG. - DAY

Buttoning up topcoats, the White House boys move down

marble steps to reach a pair of limousines. Hayes and two

FLAG OFFICERS wait.

HAYES

Well?

WHITE HOUSE #2

(shaking hand)

Congratulations, Mr. Secretary.

INT. HAYES' LIMOUSINE - DAY

Inside the moving car:

HAYES

So she picks the women, we pick the

programs. Seals?

FLAG OFFICER #1

I'd go Special Reconnaissance.

Every bit as tough -- and we have a

60 percent drop-out rate among the

men.

HAYES

Then I suggest we start there.

FLAG OFFICER #1

Doesn't matter who she picks. No

woman is going to last one week in a

commando training course. And I

don't care who it is.

EXT. POTOMAC RIVER - WASHINGTON D.C. - DAY

Winterscape: Dotted with ice floes, the Potomac wends

through the capitol city, banks iridescent with snow,

morning water calm. There's an almost hallowed beauty to

it all. Soon we pick out...

A spot of day-glo. Coming out of the mouth of morning.

Overtaking the floes.

CLOSER on JORDAN O'NEIL. She pushes her flat-water kayak

downriver, paddling hard and clean, making good time.

Gliding through the graceful arches of the Arlington

bridge, she passes...

Cars overhead. Grid-locked by snow conditions.

In seconds Jordan paddles clear, leaving the traffic

behind as she heads toward the Washington Monument.

Something BURRS from a life-vest pocket. She rips through

velcro to free a cell phone.

JORDAN

Lieutenant O'Neil.

ROYCE (V.O.)

Gotta situation here. Where are

you? Stuck in traffic?

JORDAN

(checking dive watch)

Not due in for 22 minutes, sir.

Watcha got?

INT. SITUATION ROOM - N.I.C. - DAY

ROYCE

All right, stand by, we're going to

switch over to COMSAT...

A TACTICAL OFFICER reroutes the call via defense

satellite, cryptography flashing on terminals. Lieutenant

Commander ROBERT ROYCE joins other Intel officers at a

conference table. They're pouring over weather charts,

navigation logs, high-altitude NRO video.

TACTICAL OFFICER

Voice-system now secure...

ROYCE

(into speaker)

Okay, fresh stuff: Lost a NATO

plane over the Sea of Japan. ELB

signals leads us to believe the

pilot is alive and has made his way

to the North Korean shore, near a

fishing village, "Tamyung."

JORDAN (V.O.)

Do we know it's him using the

beacon? Not a decoy?

ROYCE

Signals received only sparingly, in

such a pattern that leads us to

conclude it is a downed aviator

trying to conserve his batteries.

JORDAN (V.O.)

Chances of recovery?

ROYCE

You're the analyst for East China,

O'Neil. Analyze.

EXT. POTOMAC RIVER - WASHINGTON D.C. - DAY

Riding the current, Jordan blows a troubled sigh as she

accesses the file of her brain. Drifting past the

Jefferson Memorial:

JORDAN

North Korean beaches are the best

protected, most heavily monitored in

the world. The civilian population

is so propagandized that it acts as

an Early Warning system. Extraction

team has to be small and silent --

I'd go with Seals over Delta Force.

Problem is, don't want to hold a

conventional sub off-shore for

target practice. Where's The Polk?

INTERCUTTING:

ROYCE

Halfway 'round the world. So that's

the problem -- we can get the team

in, just not out.

JORDAN

(an inspired beat)

Unless you Whiskey Run.

ROYCE

Blank faces here, O'Neil.

JORDAN

Quick-hit technique used by Capone.

Rigged a getaway car with running

boards and handles. All his guys

had to do was jump on and take a

ride. Check the files -- DPRK-57 --

I doped it out as a contingency

plan: Seal Team infiltrates, picks

up the package, links up with

recovery sub. But don't waste time

opening and closing hatches. They

just grab the periscope and hang on

for neutral waters.

A dubious beat.

ROYCE

You expect the extraction team to

ride the sub bare-back? Is that

correct, O'Neil?

JORDAN

Only four minutes to neutral waters,

sir. Why not?

Silence on the radio: They're discussing her scenario

privately. During, Jordan's kayak reaches the junction of

the Potomac and the Anacostia rivers. On the far bank

lies...

Naval Intel Center (N.I.C.), bristling with communication

antennae.

Jordan stares at the complex, waiting for a response.

ROYCE

All right, sending the

recommendation across the river.

Royce out.

The phone goes dead.

JORDAN

No, thank you, sir.

EXT. SECURITY STATION - N.I.C. - DAY

Bundled in topcoat and scarves, military and civilian

employees transit a security station on their way inside.

Presently Jordan appears -- wearing a wetsuit and

balancing a collapsed kayak on her head. She flashes a

photo-badge and double-times inside.

INT. CORRIDOR - N.I.C. - DAY

Jordan exits a locker room. Smoothing out her Khaki

uniform, she heads down a broad corridor with cipher-lock

doors. Falling in step:

ROYCE

That was good headwork, lieutenant.

JORDAN

Thank you, sir. We hear back from

the Pentagon?

ROYCE

(scoffing)

Probably hear back from CNN first.

JORDAN

Hate this part. Just sweating it

out on the sidelines.

ROYCE

Intel has its own glory, lieutenant

-- no matter how subtle.

Now they reach...

INT. BULLPEN - N.I.C. - DAY

A circular chamber. Dominating the ground floor is the

bullpen, a hive of cubicles an computer stations. On the

second floor are executive offices, ringing the bullpen.

ROYCE

By the way, I'll need that option

paper by 11-hundred today so I can

review it with Admiral Hanover. And

do we have any of that breakfast tea

around here?

JORDAN

(with a look)

Is this my glory, sir?

On the upper walkway, a frazzled N.I.C. SECRETARY

appears. She spots Royce and Jordan below.

N.I.C. SECRETARY

Excuse me, but I have Senator

DeHaven on the line for you.

ROYCE

Jesus God, what now?

He bounds up the stairs toward his office.

N.I.C. SECRETARY

I'm sorry, sir no -- she asked to

speak with Lieutenant O'Neil.

Royce turns back and gives Jordan a hall-of-fame look.

"Oh, really?"

INT. DEHAVEN'S OFFICE - CAPITOL BLDG. - DAY

DEHAVEN

(into phone)

So everyone I talk to says you're

top drawer with silk stockings

inside.

JORDAN (V.O.)

Thank you, ma'am. Um, may I ask

what this is regarding?

DEHAVEN

(reading file)

High-school pentathlete... ROTC

scholarship, graduated with

honors... top marks in Basic

Training... and, as it just so

happens, a constituent of my home

state of Virginia. Oh, the things

I'll do for one extra vote.

INT. BULLPEN - N.I.C. - DAY

On the phone, Jordan glances around. Co-workers mull

within earshot. Those out of earshot post E-mail memos on

Jordan's computer: "Moving up in life." "I want a full

report." "Don't tell her who you really voted for."

DEHAVEN

Lieutenant O'Neil, I am prepared to

nominate you for the Navy's Special

Reconnaissance program. Should you

accept, you'll ship out to Coronado

next week and join in the big

testosterone festival. Complete the

course, and you'll have a fast

ticket to any assignment you want.

That's my personal promise to you.

A beat as Jordan's mind catches up to her ears. Now

INTERRCUTTING the two:

JORDAN

"Coronado."

DEHAVEN

California.

JORDAN

I know that, sir. Ma'am. It's just

that... Beggin' your pardon,

Senator, but... do you understand

that this involves combat training?

DEHAVEN

This is just a test case, O'Neil.

But if it works out -- if you work

out -- it could well change the

Navy's official policy on women in

combat. Or, actually, its official

non-policy. Now who's your

immediate superior there?

JORDAN

Captain Dwyer. Technically.

DEHAVEN

My office will fill him in and help

expedite. Look forward to meeting

you at the proper time. Jumping off

now...

JORDAN

Uh, question, ma'am.

DEHAVEN

Yes, dear.

JORDAN

Would I be the only one? The only

woman?

DEHAVEN

There'll be more to follow -- but

yes, dear, right now you're the pick

of a very large litter. And your

success would mean a lot. Jumping,

now...

The line goes dead. Jordan hangs up catatonically.

JORDAN

Well, shit-a-doodle-do...

EXT. GUNKHOLE HARBOR - POTOMAC - NIGHT

A small gunkhole harbor up the Potomac. Snow falls thick

and silent on overturned canoes, stored for the winter.

Beyond stands a clapboard rental house.

INT. JORDAN'S HOUSE - NIGHT

It's not so much furnished as equipped -- scuba gear and

wetsuits in the mud room, life vests on coat racks, a

training bag and boxing gloves hanging in the living room.

In the kitchen we find...

A naked man. He's steeping tea.

JORDAN (O.S.)

... well, I survived Basic Training

and three brothers -- so I know how

to fight. What scares me are the

sexual politics. I don't want to be

turned into some poster girl for

women's rights.

CAMERA FOLLOWS as the naked man carries a steaming mug

through the house...

INT. BATHROOM - JORDAN'S HOUSE - NIGHT

... and sets it down beside Jordan, languishing in a tub.

Snow builds on a window sill. Facing Jordan, the man

slides into the tub.

ROYCE

So why're you even considering it?

Are you?

JORDAN

Just like you would be.

ROYCE

Spec-Recon. Those guys are world-

class warriors. And they will not

want you there, Jordan.

JORDAN

I take it you don't either. Feet.

Dutifully, Royce massages her feet.

ROYCE

Well, you're doin' shit-hot at

Intel.

JORDAN

Royce. We're the same age, we

started the same time -- and now

you're sitting in the upperdecks

while I'm still down in the bullpen.

What does that tell you about the

Navy?

ROYCE

(shaking head)

She's haze grey and underway...

JORDAN

You need operational duty to really

advance... you need combat training

to go operational... yet combat

training is off-limits to people

with tits. I'm topped out at Intel.

Forget the glass ceiling -- I'm

beating my head on a big brass

ceiling.

ROYCE

So dump on me.

JORDAN

This has nothing to do with you.

ROYCE

(getting out)

Well, guess I don't even need to be

here...

JORDAN

Get your dick back here. It has

everything to do with you.

ROYCE

You're such a ball-breaker

sometimes. Especially at night.

JORDAN

Sorry. But after our days...

(a thoughtful sip)

So if I try this thing... if I ship

out to Coronado... what happens

here?

ROYCE

I'll try to keep the door open. If

you wash out, I make it so that --

JORDAN

Wai', wait. What happens if it

works? Four months of training,

three years of operational duty.

What then?

ROYCE

(blowing a sigh)

I don't feel like doing an option

paper on the rest of my life,

Jordan. Maybe we should just let it

happen.

JORDAN

Which is guy-speak for...

ROYCE

(conceding)

Sounded lame as soon as it came out

of my mouth. But I'm trying to be

honest, okay? Three years is a long

time. Don't ask me to predict how

I'll feel then, Jordan, because I

don't know. And either do you.

JORDAN

You know, right up until you said

that -- I thought I did know.

Wounded, she gets out.

ROYCE

Jordan...

JORDAN

Thank you, Royce. It was shaping up

like such a tough call -- and then

you go and make it so goddamn easy.

Really, thank you so much.

She punches into a robe and leaves. Royce considers

drowning himself in the tub.

EXT. CORONADO BRIDGE - SAN DIEGO - DAY

Jordan drives a top-down Mustang across the sweeping

Coronado Bridge, cityscape behind her, naval base ahead.

A flock of pelicans pace Jordan alongside the bridge.

Suddenly two NAVY HELOS BLAST overhead, scattering the

pelicans.

EXT. THE GRINDER - CORONADO NAVAL BASE - DAY

On base, Jordan carries a gunnysack across an asphalt

courtyard. The is "the grinder," reminiscent of a

gladiator's arena. She notices at one end...

A silver ship's bell. Hung prominently.

INT. ADMINISTRATION - CORONADO NAVAL BASE - DAY

JORDAN

Excuse me, lieutenant. I was told

this is where I check in.

A DUTY OFFICER looks up to find Jordan across a counter.

In no particular hurry, the duty officer makes his way

over to check Jordan's orders.

DUTY OFFICER

(looking up)

So you're the one.

Hearing, other workers look up. Among them is a female

ensign, KATHY BLONDELL -- no makeup, no nail polish, no

concession to her sex. Throughout, she'll watch Jordan

with more than passing interest.

JORDAN

Still don't have my bearings yet.

Direct me to the officer's quarters?

The duty officer stamps her paperwork, returns it with

room assignment and keys.

DUTY OFFICER

You'll proceed directly to the

infirmary for eye tests, blood

tests, urinalysis, pregnancy test.

Uniform issue adjacent. Then you're

to report to the Base Commander.

He'd like a word with you.

JORDAN

Fine. And the officer's quarters?

DUTY OFFICER

C.O.'s office can supply you with

directions. Enjoy your visit,

lieutenant.

It's a nasty little barb -- one that Jordan decides to let

slide. Jordan turns for the door. Blondell catches up

with a base map.

BLONDELL

B.O.Q., south side. Take a

starboard tack out the door.

JORDAN

Thank you, ensign.

BLONDELL

No problem, lieutenant.

INT. C.O.'S OFFICE - CORONADO NAVAL BASE - DAY

A soft KNOCKING.

C.O.

Come.

A YEOMAN opens the door. Behind him is Jordan.

YEOMAN

Lieutenant j.g. O'Neil reporting,

sir.

For a beat, COMMANDING OFFICER (C.O.) TURRENTINE takes

stock of the female in his doorway, sizing her up like a

fighter across the ring. Then he stubs out a perfectly

good cigar, rises with an amiable face, and touches the

back of a chair -- stopping just short of pulling it out

for her.

C.O.

Yes, of course. Please, have a

seat, lieutenant...

JORDAN

Thank you, sir.

C.O.

Would you care for a beverage? Tea?

JORDAN

I'm fine, sir.

C.O.

So. We're still coming to terms

with the exact protocol for this --

for integrating the Spec-Recon

training. It may not always be

smooth, but we're trying to make it

as painless as possible for you.

JORDAN

Thank you, sir. But I expect a

certain amount of pain.

More stock-taking. Is he looking at her hair?

JORDAN

Barber was my next stop, sir.

Would've had it regulation sooner,

only --

C.O.

Don't worry about it. If it's off

your collar and out of your eyes,

that's all I'm going to ask.

JORDAN

Really, I have no problem with --

C.O.

I'm not out to change your sex,

lieutenant. You'll have separate

beds, separate heads. If you have

specific medical needs, inform the

infirmary. If a classmate or

superior acts in an harassing or

otherwise unbecoming manner, please

inform me immediately so I can deal

with it immediately. Questions?

JORDAN

None at this time, sir.

C.O.

Then that's all I have to say.

Dismissed.

Another smile, another phantom gesture on the back of her

chair. If Jordan was expecting a fight, the bell never

sounded. She rises, salutes -- then turns back at the

door.

JORDAN

Sir, I just want you to know... I'm

not here to make a statement. I

don't want to make men look foolish.

All I care about is completing the

training and getting operational

experience -- just like everyone

else, I suspect.

C.O.

If you were like everyone else,

lieutenant, I suspect we wouldn't be

making statements about not making

statements, would we?

(a beat)

Take your leave.

EXT. B.O.Q. - CORONADO NAVAL BASE - DAY

The Spec-Recon TRAINEES loiter outside their open rooms,

pumping weights, hosing down dive gear, trading Walkman

tapes. This is the last day of liberty they'll have for a

long time.

MILLER

What am I scannin' here?

Other eyes quickly lock in on...

Jordan. Across a grass courtyard, she walks the ground

floor of an identical building, trying to match key number

to room number. Every door is open, every room empty.

Soon she feels the presence of...

The men. They're disgorging from their rooms -- ten,

twenty, thirty of them -- all buffed and cut. These guys

are what Hitler saw in his dreams.

Jordan picks up her pace. Where the hell is her room?

On all three levels of their building, the men shadow

Jordan en masse. Not hooting. Not leering. Just

assessing.

Jordan finds her room at the far corner of the building:

She's got the entire floor to herself. With a last look

over her shoulder, Jordan vanishes inside.

EXT. THE GRINDER - CORONADO NAVAL BASE - DAY

C.O.

Special Reconnaissance. Here you

will be trained to infiltrate

hostile territory... to be the real-

time eyes on the ground... to

recover assigned targets and, if

need be, to fight your way out under

adverse conditions.

CAMERA SURVEYS faces of the trainees: MILLER, MCCOOL,

SLUTNIK, CORTEZ, FLEA, STAMM, ENGLAND, NEWBERRY, WICKWIRE.

We'll get to know them later. Dressed in Navy greens,

they stand in formation -- ten rows, ten deep, helmets in

hand. Pacing before them:

C.O.

That is all that will be said about

the special nature of this class --

by us or by you. Many of you have

waited years for admission to this

program. Opportunities like this

are rare -- and those who seize upon

them are rarer still.

He approaches Jordan. We can tell what she's thinking.

"Just keep moving. Don't single me out."

C.O.

Other than that, there is little to

be said but "Good luck, gentleman."

(correcting)

"Gentlepersons."

Jordan flinches.

C.O.

Now I turn you over to the chief

training officer. He has earned six

naval commendations, the purple

heart, and the Navy Cross for

heroism and valor. I give you

Master Chief John James Urgayle.

Taking over, THE CHIEF stands before the class a moment,

sizing them up while giving them -- get an eyeload of him,

too: His body is 30 years old, his face 40, his eyes 50.

An ageless warrior. Somewhere, the blood of Ulysses runs

in this guy's veins.

The Chief lifts a bullhorn to deliver his opening salvo --

and it's anything but the kick-ass rant the class is

expecting:

THE CHIEF

The sun and moon... the ebb and flow

of the Pacific tides... global

warming... the very angle of the

Earth upon its axis... these are

just some of the things I control in

my world.

Trainees swap private looks.

MCCOOL

We're fucked.

SLUTNIK

Darth Vader reads poetry...

MCCOOL

We are so fucked.

EXT. BEACH - CORONADO NAVAL STATION - DAY

START on boots, crashing through shallow surf, spraying

water. We assume this is a routine beach run -- until

VIEW RISES to reveal...

Telephone poles on their shoulder. Working in groups of

10, trainees labor under 300-pound poles. Jordan, six

inches shorter than most, looks like Atlas carrying the

weight of the world. But she's doing it.

INSTRUCTOR

Count down... one, two... count

down... three, four...

CLASS CADENCE

One, two, three, four... One, two,

three, four...

An ambulance shadows the class. Perched on the front

bumper like an hood-ornament, the Chief keeps working his

bullhorn:

THE CHIEF

You may think that you are the

brightest, the best, the strongest.

I assure you, that is a total

delusion on your part. It is my job

to show you just how weak human

beings can truly be. 60 percent of

you will not finish this course.

How do I know? Because that is an

historical fact.

It's also intimidating shit.

THE CHIEF

Poles down.

The earth literally shakes as the phone poles hit the damp

sand. Approaching on foot, the Chief loads fresh

batteries into his bullhorn. He does it like a man

thumbing rounds into a shotgun.

THE CHIEF

Now for the bad new: I always like

to get one quitter on the first day.

And until I do, the first day does

not end. So look around right now

-- go on, do it. I wonder who it's

gonna be...

He passes right by Jordan, never meeting her eyes.

INSTRUCTOR PYRO steps up. He's the Chief's bulldog.

INSTRUCTOR PYRO

Down to BVDs!

The guys strip down to boxers. Jordan settles for boxers

and jog bra.

INSTRUCTOR PYRO

Now face the Pacific... link arms...

and take a stroll!

The class wades in. The first wave takes Jordan's breath

away: It's February, and the water is cold. When they

move out of instructors' earshot:

STAMM

What is it with the damn phone

poles? We sign up for Spec-Recon or

GTE?

WICKWIRE

Just trying to thin the herd.

That's all they want to do right

now.

Some of the guys are glancing Jordan's way, cashing in on

a cheap wet T-shirt contest. Jordan covers herself

instinctively -- and hates the instinct. Modesty isn't

going to get her through this.

SLUTNIK

Man. Doesn't she know it's rude to

point?

NEWBERRY

Wow. You see that girl?

WICKWIRE

I got eyes, Newberry.

SLUTNIK

One night. Just one night in my

room, she'd forget all about playin'

commando.

ENGLAND

Tone that shit down, Slutnik. You

heard with they said.

INSTRUCTOR PYRO

Out of the water!

The class breaks for the beach.

THE CHIEF

Now make like sugar cookies and roll

in the sand for me.

The trainees hit their bellies and roll. Indeed, they

look like sugar cookies.

THE CHIEF

Collect those poles, gentlemen.

Still a lotta beachfront you haven't

seen...

Groaning, the trainees grab poles. Jordan's pole, wet

slips from their collective grasp...

And bangs Stamm's ankle. He HOWLS through his teeth.

ENGLAND

How bad? Stamm?

JORDAN

We better get a medic over --

STAMM

No, goddamnit. No.

INSTRUCTOR

Up! Up! Up! Up!

Stamm swallows the pain. Poles go back on shoulders.

Looking like drunk centipedes, the class staggers off down

the beach.

EXT. MUD PIT - CORONADO NAVAL BASE - DAY

Wallowing in mud, the class does belly-busters, atomic

sit-ups -- and the sadistic reverse push-up, where

trainees lie of their backs, place hands under shoulder

blades and push their crotches skyward.

THE CHIEF

Pain is your friend. You ally. It

will keep you awake in times of

emergency... it will tell you when

you are seriously injured... it will

keep you angry and remind you to

finish the job and get the hell

home. But you know the best thing

about pain?

CLASS

No, sir!

THE CHIEF

It lets you know that you aren't

dead yet.

Instructors roam, RASPING ORDERS, kicking students into

proper position. Jordan struggles with the reverses.

INSTRUCTOR PYRO

Go regulation if you can't do the

reverses, O'Neil.

She looks around. A lot of the guys are having trouble

with the reverses, not just her.

JORDAN

Thank you, sir. But I like these

just fine.

INSTRUCTOR PYRO

Not doin' them very fine, O'Neil.

JORDAN

I'll try anyway, sir.

INSTRUCTOR PYRO

You'll try what we tell you to try,

O'Neil. Go regulation.

She switches to standard push-ups, her face disappearing

into the ooze with every downstroke. Soon the Chief's

boots slosh into FRAME. He's still looking for his human

sacrifice.

THE CHIEF

Who's it gonna be. I just wonder,

who is it gonna be...

EXT. BEACH - CORONADO NAVAL STATION - SUNSET

INSTRUCTOR JOHNS

On your belly... on your back... on

your feet... on your belly... on

your back... on your feet...

Whistle-drills. Silhouetted against a lowering sun, the

students flop around like docked fish.

INT. ADMINISTRATION - CORONADO NAVAL BASE - NIGHT

Blondell is ending her shift. She shoulders a purse and

pauses at a window, seeing...

The trainees shuffling into formation like the living

dead. Jordan is still among them.

EXT. THE GRINDER - CORONADO NAVAL BASE - NIGHT

THE CHIEF

You have noticed a ship's bell

hanging at the west side of this

courtyard. If, at any time, you

feel you cannot continue with your

training -- that bell is your

salvation. Strike it three times,

and the ordeal is over.

Nervous eyes flick to the bell.

THE CHIEF

Yes, it is a long walk. So I'll

make it as easy as I can.

He turns his back to the class.

THE CHIEF

Now you don't have to watch me

watching you break rank. Because I

know someone here wants to do it.

CAMERA SEARCHES their faces. There isn't one trainee here

who hasn't thought about it. Including Jordan.

THE CHIEF

Now I know what you're thinking...

SLUTNIK

(low)

I'm thinkin' we could jump him right

now...

THE CHIEF

"Can I really take 15 weeks of this

bubonic asshole?" If you don't know

the answer to that question, the

answer is "No, you cannot." And

that is another historical fact. So

do it. Admit you don't have what it

takes... admit you are out of your

depth -- or we're all heading back

to the beach right now.

(waiting a beat)

Instructors! Time hack!

Following the Chief's lead, Instructors lift their dive

watches.

THE CHIEF

Six... five... four... three...

two... one... HACK!

(to class)

The time is now 12-hundred. The sun

is shining brightly. Plenty of

daylight left for another phone-pole

run...

GROANS behind him. The groans give way to the SOUND OF

BOOTS breaking rank.

INT. ADMINISTRATION - CORONADO NAVAL BASE - NIGHT

BLONDELL'S POV: Of a lone figure crossing to the bell.

EXT. GRINDER - CORONADO NAVAL BASE - NIGHT

QUICK CLOSEUPS of Miller, Slutnik, Wickwire, turning to

watch someone cross the grinder. At least we know who it

isn't.

CLOSE on the Chief as the BELL RINGS THREE TIMES. He

turns around to find...

Stamm at the bell.

For the first time, the Chief looks dead-bang at Jordan.

Was he expecting her?

THE CHIEF

Leave your helmet there, Stamm.

Back to the barracks.

Stamm drops his helmet and limps away.

THE CHIEF

The rest of you should remember one

thing. The only easy day was today.

Lieutenant Wickwire? Turning it

over to you.

WICKWIRE

Cuh-lass, face right!

They march off.

INT. MESS HALL - CORONADO NAVAL BASE - NIGHT

Dead-ass tired, Jordan slides her tray down the line,

piling on food that means nothing more than raw calories.

She heads for...

A table of trainees, one spot open. Seeing her coming,

the guys shift position. Suddenly the table is full.

ENGLAND

Better look elsewhere, O'Neil.

Jordan glares. None of them meet her eyes. She wheels

around -- and now all eyes are on her, watching her ass

walk away. FEATURE Slutnik, the walking sperm bank.

SLUTNIK

Half a night, Lord, just gimme half

a night to set her straight...

Jordan tries another table. This one, too, becomes

abruptly full. As Jordan leaves, HOLD on Miller. He's a

human eclipse -- six-three, 220, the perfect commando

physique. Instructors wish they could clone him.

MILLER

Average woman is 25 percent body

fat. That's one-quarter fat, man.

Think about that.

MCCOOL

Nice distribution, though.

MILLER

No way does she makes this program.

No way.

After wandering the mess hall like a homeless person,

Jordan finds refuge at a table with female mess stewards.

They look at her with blank faces. No understanding. No

compassion.

EXT. B.O.Q. - CORONADO NAVAL BASE - NIGHT

Jordan walks in a bathrobe, toweling her hair dry. She

fishes for keys at her door.

VOICE

It's not so much that they hate

you...

Jordan looks. Someone is sitting on an outdoor table,

smoking. He leans into the light so she can see his face.

It's Wickwire, the mid-30s lieutenant who doubles as class

officer. He's dangerously handsome.

WICKWIRE

They're more afraid of you.

JORDAN

Well, now I feel so much better.

WICKWIRE

It was made clear before you came --

harassment equals career suicide.

Can't say anything good, so they

don't say much at all. To your

face, anyway.

JORDAN

Whose orders were those?

WICKWIRE

It was made clear.

(getting up)

Anyway, stay ballsy. First week's

hell, then it levels out. Until

S.E.R.E. training, anyway. That's

hell-and-a-half.

JORDAN

And how do you know that?

WICKWIRE

Made it to Week 10 last time.

JORDAN

I didn't know they let you try

again. Especially at your age.

WICKWIRE

You're kind of a surprise yourself.

A faint grin from Wickwire before he shadows back across

the courtyard that separates the two B.O.Q. buildings.

Back across no-man's land.

INT. JORDAN'S B.O.Q. - CORONADO NAVAL BASE - NIGHT

Two beds. Matching lockers. A desk, a chair, a mirror.

All overwhelmingly dull.

Jordan drops the robe off her shoulders to take inventory

of her body. Both sides of her neck are bruised from the

phone-pole run. Her back and thighs are sand-burned.

Mirror cuts abound. She's already a mess.

Jordan uncaps some cologne. It's a vestige of her old

life she's not going to surrender. She sniffs. Savors.

Dabs. Looks back in the mirror...

And breaks out laughing. It's like dropping a rose in a

cesspool.

EXT. SILVER STRAND HIGHWAY - CORONADO - DAY

A PHOTOGRAPHER stands near a car parked just outside the

base. He's peering through a 600mm lens.

PHOTOGRAPHER'S POV: FOCUSING through cyclone fencing...

PANNING past the sand dunes... and finding green-clad

trainees gathered at an obstacle course.

EXT. OBSTACLE COURSE - CORONADO NAVAL BASE - DAY

An explosion of sand: England and Wickwire belly-flop

into a sand pit and speed-crawl under barbed wire. Clear,

they gain their feet and blitz toward...

The rolling logs. They balance-beam their way to...

The rope climb. Racing to the top, they reach a platform

and fling themselves down onto...

The high poles. They land awkwardly, losing their wind

and their grip, tumbling into the sand pit below before...

Racing for the finish. The Chief thumbs a stopwatch.

THE CHIEF

England, 88 seconds. You're good to

go for the slide-for-life.

Wickwire, roll back till you get

south of 90.

WICKWIRE