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Cameron, James
Stallone, Sylvester
First Blood II: The Mission (1983)
In this explosive sequel, Col. Troutman (Richerd Crenna) recruits ex-Green Beret John Rambo (Sylvester Stallone) for a highly secret and dangerous mission. Teamed with freedom fighter Co Bao (Julia Nockson), Rambo goes deep into Vietnam to rescue POWs. Deserted by his own team, he's left in a hostile jungle to fight for his life, avenge the death of a woman and bring corrupt officials to justice -- Rambo-style, of course.
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This moviescript available in following formats:
Cameron, James. First Blood II: The Mission
Rambo: First Blood II: The Mission Script
FIRST BLOOD II: THE MISSION
by
James Cameron
December 22, 1983
FADE IN:
TITLE SEQUENCE
EXT. V.A. HOSPITAL - DAY
A drab GREEN SEDAN with U.S. ARMY printed on the door
stops at the steps of a fortress-like colonial-style
building.
Iron bars cover the windows.
The lawn sprinklers snap mindlessly to themselves.
A CRT-style printout appears at the bottom of FRAME:
D-MINUS 117 HRS
FAYETTEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA
ANGLE ON SEDAN
as the doors open and TWO POWERFUL MPs, one of whom was
driving, emerge. The other opens the rear door for
COLONEL SAMUEL TRAUTMAN who stands, eyeing the imposing
facade of the hospital.
Trautman is in his early fifties and wears the mantle of
command sternly but without arrogance.
He takes the stairs with purposeful strides, the MPs
falling in behind him.
HOLD ON THE SIGN above the main door as they go inside:
VETERANS ADMINISTRATION HOSPITAL
INT. HOSPITAL
A gray metal door bearing the sign "NEUROPSYCHIATRIC WING"
bangs open and a massive ORDERLY in white passes through.
He is followed by the two MPs, Trautman, and a SHORT
DOCTOR who hustles to keep up with the others.
LOW ANGLE DOLLY PRECEDING the entourage as they stride
forward.
The MPs are grim-faced and walk in step.
Trautman and a doctor SINGLETERRY silently walk through
the corridor.
They pass the open day-room where somnambulistic patients
sit like statuary watching "The Young and the Restless" or
watching the wallpaper fade.
Bleak light from an overcast day filters through the
barred window.
The vets seem older than their years and although some
show the physical scars of combat, there is no doubt that
the greatest trauma for these men is behind the eyes.
As they pass the open doors of the rooms of the "chronic
ward", haunted eyes turn toward them.
As they approach the nurse’s station for the "chronic
ward" the orderly nods.
The HEAD NURSE turns to her console.
INSERT - AS NURSE’S HAND
hits a button on the console.
TIGHT ON SECURITY DOOR
as a solenoid-operated bolt snaps back with a loud BUZZ
CLACK.
The orderly’s good hand shoves the door open.
INT. "VIOLENT" WARD
The entourage enters a long narrow corridor lined with
locked doors.
POV DOLLYING ALONG CORRIDOR
Occasionally faces appear at the safety-glass windows set
in the doors. Men whose souls have fled.
Their eyes track us as we move past.
An emaciated MAN in an untied hospital smock and bare feet
stands as if lost in the center of the corridor.
REVERSE ON GROUP
DOLLYING as they detour around the man, whose clawlike
hand catches at Trautman’s tunic.
A hoarse, demented SHOUTING issues from one of the doors,
a desperate WAILING from another.
INT. STAIRWELL
CLOSE ON DOOR LATCH as keys RATTLE and the door opens.
WIDER as the group enters a dark service stairwell. The
single fluorescent light flickers stroboscopically, a
pulsing twilight.
LEWIS
Shit. Maintenance never gets down
here.
They descend two flights to a door of steel bars on a
sliding track.
The MPs flank Lewis as he unlocks the door.
SINGLETERRY
So what am I supposed to do? Can’t
transfer him to Leavenworth. He’s
civilian. So I put him in an
isolation cell that hasn’t been used
since the Spanish Inquisition.
TIGHT ON BARRED DOOR
rolling aside on metal tracks. CLANG.
INT. CORRIDOR
This area of the hospital’s basement has been used for
little but storage in recent years.
Stacks of obsolete equipment gathers dust, leaving only a
narrow walkspace.
The steel doors of the isolation cells yawn open, except
for the last one.
TRAUTMAN
Maybe you should have tried cutting
him some slack.
Lewis opens a cabinet near the single locked cell and
removes a SMALL RIFLE. He feeds a SYRINGE-LIKE SHELL into
the single-shot bolt action.
TRAUTMAN
(continuing)
What’s that?
SINGLETERRY
Tranquilizer syrette gun. Borrowed
it from the Animal Control
Department.
Trautman pushes the barrel aside with a contemptuous snort
and steps up to the cell door.
TRAUTMAN
Gimme a break.
(nods toward door)
Open it.
The two MPs flank the door. One pulls on the latching
lever. Bolts slide. The door swings open, revealing
blackness.
LEWIS
(muttering)
Thinks he’s the fucking Prince of
Darkness.
One MP tries the switch beside the cell, flicking it
several times. Nothing.
He glances apprehensively at the other MP and they step
into the dark cell.
INT. CELL
TIGHT ON A HAND, dimly outlined, as it twists a light bulb
a half-turn in its socket.
In the sudden light the MPs face an imposing figure.
JOHN RAMBO, wearing only a pair of filthy jeans, stands
"ready" before them. The single light bulb on the low
ceiling sends glistening highlights over his taught body.
A nasty piece of machinery.
Long, matted hair coils onto his shoulders, and an unkempt
beard heightens the cheekbones beneath eyes which are
deep, reptilian. Intense.
His position, though not overtly threatening, suggests a
willingness to strike without warning which gives the
M.P.’s pause.
Trautman steps forward between the MPs.
TRAUTMAN
At ease, Rambo.
MED. ON RAMBO
rising from his slight crouch to stand composed,
balanced... parade rest.
TRAUTMAN
(continuing to MPs)
Wait outside.
He closes the door until it latches.
TRAUTMAN
Hello, John.
RAMBO
Colonel.
TRAUTMAN
Mind if I sit down?
Rambo motions to the narrow bunk, dropping into an
Oriental squat himself as the Colonel sits.
Trautman’s manner with Rambo is familiar, somehow
paternal. A bit of an ironic grin twitches briefly.
TRAUTMAN
(continuing)
I hear you’re not enjoying it here.
RAMBO
I could take it or leave it.
Trautman sighs and leans back.
TRAUTMAN
Seems like I’m always pulling you
out of some goddamn toilet or other,
doesn’t it?
RAMBO
Am I out of here?
TRAUTMAN
That depends on you.
(pause)
Christ, look at you. I give you
this easy duty until I can get you
an assignment... all you have to do
is eat ice cream and watch soap
operas... and you have to make it
Rambo’s last stand.
RAMBO
There were treating me like a
headcase.
TRAUTMAN
Hard to believe. You shoot up one
little town in Oregon with a fifty
caliber machine gun... one little
dogpatch town... and everybody
figures your wrapper’s broken. No
sense of humor.
(pause)
What did you expect? An engraved
plague from the chamber of commerce?
Rambo looks at his hands. When he finally speaks his
voice seems distant, disembodied.
RAMBO
In ’Nam I flew gunships. Million
dollar equipment. Back here nobody
trusts me to park cars. I keep
thinking it’s going to be okay...
but I’ve been out six years and it’s
not okay. Sometimes I feel like I’m
coming right out of my skin.
The colonel nods slowly. He notices a battered shoebox on
the floor beside the bed. The cell is absolutely devoid
of personal articles otherwise.
TRAUTMAN
This your stuff?
RAMBO
That’s it. My life.
TIGHT ON SHOEBOX
as Trautman flips through a number of worn snapshots of
the men in Rambo’s special forces unit.
They are horsing around, in and out of uniform. A
younger, cleanshaven Rambo is among them. He is grinning
broadly in one shot.
It seems uncharacteristic of the hardened man we see now.
TRAUTMAN
Hardcore outfit. The best I ever
trained.
RAMBO
(coldly)
Those men are all dead.
TRAUTMAN
(glancing up)
You’re not.
He fishes something from among the pathetic debris of
Rambo’s life.
TRAUTMAN
(continuing)
Congressional Medal of Honor.
RAMBO
(bitterly)
Yeah. Big time.
TRAUTMAN
Plus, what else? Two Silver Stars,
four Bronze Stars, two Soldier’s
Medals, four Vietnamese Crosses of
Gallantry and... uh, a handful of
Purple Hearts.
RAMBO
Five. I never wanted that stuff.
TRAUTMAN
What did you want?
RAMBO
(haltingly)
I just wanted... I don’t know...
after all that... I just wanted one
person, one person, to come up to me
and say "you did good, John." And
mean it. That’s all.
(pause)
After all that.
TRAUTMAN
You just picked that wrong war to be
a hero in.
The colonel studies Rambo a moment, then stands abruptly.
TRAUTMAN
(continuing)
Let’s take a walk.
CUT TO:
EXT. V.A. HOSPITAL - DAY
Rambo and Trautman cross the manicured grounds, escorted
by the two grim MPs.
A number of wheelchair-bound vets enjoy the sunshine B.G.
and a desultory game of volleyball is in progress.
Still, the impression is of the detritus of war left
scattered on a huge lawn like broken toys.
As the two approach a conservatively dressed MAN waiting
on a bench under a plane-tree, stands.
TRAUTMAN
Jason Kirkhill... John Rambo.
Kirkhill extends his hand in greeting, but Rambo coolly
half-turns to reveal his hands, locked in WRIST-CUFFS
separated by a steel bar so that they can hang comfortably
at his sides.
Kirkhill grins affably. Drops his hand.
KIRKHILL
Good to meet you, Rambo. How are
you?
Rambo scans Kirkhill’s face, noting the cold scrutiny all
but concealed in the smile lines.
RAMBO
(coldly)
You a spook?
Kirkhill drops the smile.
KIRKHILL
That’s right. CIA Special
Operations Division.
Rambo turns to Trautman.
RAMBO
I don’t work with spooks. Not after
that op in Cambodia.
KIRKHILL
I’m authorized to get you out of
here. I thought that’s what you
wanted.
RAMBO
(considering)
What’s the job?
KIRKHILL
Classic special forces op... hit
fast... in and out. Two men. Two
days.
RAMBO
Why me?
KIRKHILL
(shrugs non-
committally)
We like you.
(pause)
At least the computer at Langley
likes you. Pulled your file because
of various factors. Service record.
Area familiarity.
RAMBO
Where?
KIRKHILL
Not yet.
RAMBO
I’m not jumping blind.
Kirkhill’s eyes get hard.
KIRKHILL
It’s yes or no. In or out... now.
If it’s "out," we will not have had
this conversation. If you come in,
you will not be working for us. No
knowledge. No comment. Do you
understand?
Rambo seems about to turn away.
TRAUTMAN
(to Kirkhill)
Tell him. I’ll take responsibility.
Kirkhill looks pained, like he has gas.
KIRKHILL
North Vietnam. What they call the
Democratic Republic of Vietnam now.
TIGHT ON RAMBO
as he takes that in. His eyes seem to see all the way
there already. Emotions go through him. Exhilaration
mixing with terror of the demon he can’t turn away from.
He nods slowly.
TRAUTMAN
We left some people behind there,
John... POWs.
RAMBO
This just occurred to somebody, now?
KIRKHILL
We don’t leave our men, Rambo.
Rambo and Trautman lock eyes.
Something flows there... Trautman knows his soul.
RAMBO
You got it. I’m in.
He whips one hand around from his side, tossing the
manacle bar at a surprised Kirkhill’s feet.
The wrist-cuffs are still closed.
CUT TO:
INT. RAMBO’S CELL
Rambo stands alone in his cell, the door open behind him.
He hefts the shoebox filled with his worldly possessions,
the scraps of memory, dead friends, and symbols of valor
and violent death.
He upends the box, spilling everything into the open
toilet.
Flushes it. And walks out.
CUT TO:
EXT. FORT BRAGG - DUSK
D-MINUS 84 HRS
FORT BRAGG, NORTH CAROLINA
TIGHT ON BOOTED FEET
clomping in rhythmic lockstep as a platoon of recruits
marches past in close order drill.
The drill sergeant bellows cadence.
SERGEANT (O.S.)
Three-fo-your-lef, lef-right-lef...
Other lef shithead! Square those
pieces away... square ’em away
girls! I said...
WIDER
as the platoon marches past, EXITING FRAME to reveal a
sign mounted beside a security checkpoint in a formidable
chain-link fence.
AIRBORNE SPECIAL FORCES GROUP
OPERATIONS CENTER
INT. CORRIDOR
Kirkhill, accompanied by his basilisk-eyed AIDE, strides
past Rambo’s two MPs flanking the door, into a small
room.
INT. BRIEFING ROOM
The room is an austere cubicle with the army’s typically
drab furniture in "early functional."
The cold eye of a surveillance camera stares down at a
single table with a seated figure... Rambo, looking like
he may have been there for centuries.
The aide hands Rambo a sealed folder and extends a
clipboard and pen for him to sign off.
KIRKHILL
This is your mission packet...
AIDE
(quietly overlapping)
Sign here, please. And here.
KIRKHILL
Memorize it here. It doesn’t leave
this room.
Rambo unseals the folder, removing a sheaf of photocopied
documents, as Kirkhill perches on the table next to him.
KIRKHILL
(continuing)
The twenty-four hundred American
servicemen missing in action in
Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia are
officially listed "Presumed
Killed." Certainly most of them
are.
Rambo is leafing through the contents of his PACKET. He
skips a stack of reports and fishes out several grainy 8 X
10 prints.
KIRKHILL
(continuing)
But reports keep filtering in.
Sightings by refugees. Nothing
verified. Finally, we feel we’ve
got enough to proceed on.
Rambo studies the prints. They seem to be high altitude
surveillance photos of a small COMPOUND OF BUILDINGS,
surrounded by forests.
KIRKHILL
(continuing)
Memo E-7 on top will cover the
details. An abandoned Vietnamese
Army base in the North-central
highlands may have a compound used
as an internment camp. As you can
see the intelligence is soft. These
LANDSAT photos show huts...
barracks. It could be anything.
RAMBO
(flat)
What’s the plan?
KIRKHILL
This operation is in two phases.
Recon and rescue. You are phase
one. Your two-man team will probe
the site, confirm the presence of
American POWs, if any, make
photographic and tactical
observations, then proceed to the
extraction point without engaging
the enemy.
RAMBO
We don’t try to pull out any of our
guys if we find them?
KIRKHILL
Negative. Absolutely not. The
phase two assault team will get them
out.
RAMBO
(not pleased)
We just take pictures?
KIRKHILL
Don’t look so disappointed. It
should be hairy enough... even for
you.
CUT TO:
INT. DON MUANG AIRPORT - LATE AFTERNOON
Kirkhill’s VOICE continues over the image of: The crowded
airport terminal, as Rambo, carrying a cheap flight bag,
weaves among jostling Orientals.
KIRKHILL (V.O.)
Your flight to Bangkok is at 06:30.
Commercial carrier. Low profile.
Rendezvous with Colonel Trautman at
the Indra. Room 618. You’ll meet
your number two man, Lieutenant
Brewer. He doesn’t get a packet...
you brief him verbally.
After a flurry of passport stamping Rambo clears customs
and makes his way to the main exit.
EXT. TAXI STAND - STREET - LATE AFTERNOON
Rambo emerges into the stifling humid heat of Bangkok in
May and stands, scanning for a cab.
D-MINUS 51 HRS
BANGKOK, THAILAND
Bangkok is a city of fervid motion and the street is
chaotic with traffic.
Stepping through throngs of Asians and tourists Rambo
reaches for the door of a beat-to-hell Citroen taxi
hunkered low at the curb like some metal lungfish.
He spins as a hand lightly touches his shoulder.
MAN
Sorry old buddy, I saw it first.
An American in his late twenties, the man speaks with one
of those hard-to-dislike Southern accents. Probably North
Carolina.
He is lanky but muscular, with boyish good looks and hair
cut so short it barely qualifies as stubble. Though
dressed in a loud Hawaiian shirt and Madras slacks, it is
painfully obvious the man is military.
His arm is draped around a gorgeous but overly made-up
Thai girl.
MAN
(affable)
I kinda got an important date.
Rambo’s eyes narrow as he turns wordlessly and climbs into
the taxi.
The American grins cockily and tosses his bag to Rambo.
MAN
No problem. We’ll share it. Get
your tail in there, sweet thing.
INT./ EXT. TAXI
The American and the girl pile into the broad front seat,
to the chagrin of the lizard-faced Thai driver.
MAN
(to driver)
Indra Hotel. And don’t take the
scenic route, Smiley... I know my
way around this burg. Comprende?
Rambo speaks quietly to the driver in Thai.
RAMBO
(Thai/subtitled)
Same place for me.
The girl giggles as the American slips his hand up from
her stockinged knee, between her thighs.
MAN
Ah, you fair flower of the Orient.
She giggles, like a chirping bird.
MAN
(continuing to Rambo)
She thinks everything I say is
funny. Don’t you, Angel-pie? Man,
Thai women are the best. Got the
kinda legs I like... feet at one end
and pussy at the other.
He turns to Rambo, who hasn’t commented or taken any
observable notice of him.
MAN
(continuing)
You don’t say a helluva lot, do you,
pal? You speak English?
RAMBO
(coldly)
Sometimes.
The girl coos to the American in pidgin English.
THAI GIRL
You got money? I stay you whole
week.
MAN
Sweet thing, there’s nothin’ I’d
like more than to wugga-wugga with
you for a week, but tonight’s all we
got.
He lowers his voice conspiratorially, leaning close to
her.
MAN
(continuing)
See, I’m on this secret mission, and
tomorrow mornin’ I head out to...
Rambo grabs the man brutally by his collar.
RAMBO
That’s enough, Brewer.
The American freezes at the sound of his name. Turns
slowly.
BREWER
(realizing)
You’re Rambo?
(pause)
Ke-rist!
Rambo speaks sharply to the girl in Thai.
RAMBO
(Thai/subtitled)
Get out. Now!
The driver, confused, skids to a stop and the girl gets
out into the din of a cluttered shop district. A flash of
slit skirt and then only fading curses behind them as the
taxi moves on.
BREWER
(brightening)
Jeez, I never would have guessed.
You undercover, Lieutenant? Great
disguise.
CUT TO:
INT. INDRA HOTEL ROOM - DUSK
Trautman, sipping a gin tonic at the window, spins around
as the door flies open. Brewer storms in, followed a few
paces back by Rambo, who closes the door.
BREWER
(to Trautman)
He says he’s team leader on this
show.
TRAUTMAN
That’s correct.
BREWER
(controlling his
fury)
Begging the Colonel’s pardon but I
understood I was up to lead my next
mission.
TRAUTMAN
Not this one. You’re on
communications and camera. Same
image-intensified gear you used in
El Salvador last year.
RAMBO
This clown almost blew mission
security on the street. I’m not
jumping with him.
BREWER
(spinning)
Clown? Now back up there, buddy...
TRAUTMAN
(sharply)
Listen up. You two are married as
of now. Get used to it.
RAMBO
(to Trautman)
I say we tape him to a chair.
CUT TO:
EXT. OPERATIONS BASE CAMP - DAY
D-MINUS 36 HRS
BAN BUNG KHLA, THAILAND
A small airstrip transects a meadow bounded by rain-
forested slopes. Wreathed in low clouds the mountains
march into the distance in increasingly subtler shades of
gray like a Japanese watercolor.
Near a cluster of small buildings the scene is one of
manic but efficient activity as the high tech base camp is
assembled.
An enormous SIKORSKY CH-54 "SKY CRANE" lowers a Winnebago-
sized conex container as another roars by. An Army Corps
of Engineers work crew, stripped to the waist, scurries
through the rotor wash. The blasting air raises curtains
of muddy spray and drowns out the yelled commands of the
supervisors.
A Vietnam era HUEY UH-1D HELICOPTER nimbly touches down
nearby. Rambo, in the pilot’s seat, slips off his HEADSET
and climbs down. Brewer and Trautman, in fatigues, jump
out and join him as Kirkhill approaches.
DOLLYING WITH THEM as they emerge from the rotor noise and
Kirkhill motions them toward the MOBILE TACTICAL
OPERATIONS CENTER (MTOC).
KIRKHILL
I didn’t know you were a stick man,
Rambo.
RAMBO
I was crossed-trained in gunships.
TRAUTMAN
(to Kirkhill)
How long have you been setting up?
KIRKHILL
About 22 hours on site.
TRAUTMAN
Nice work.
They pass a tent-like CAMOUFLAGE CANOPY under which an
ALL-BLACK SIKORSKY UH-60 "BLACKHAWK" HELICOPTER squats
ominously. It has no markings or insignia.
There is another canopy behind it, the contents of which
are screened from view.
Nearby is a cluster of CONEX AIRLIFT CONTAINERS, two of
which are joined together to form a building like a
double-wide mobile home.
Another unit contains a roaring generator, a fourth is
topped by TRACKING GEAR. Cables snake through the mud,
connecting the units.
Kirkhill notices THREE WORK PARTY "GRUNTS" kibitzing
nearby, taking pictures of each other with a pocket
Instamatic. He snatches the camera from a surprised young
corporal.
KIRKHILL
This is a covert operation,
numbnuts.
He opens the camera and drops the film in the mud. The
corporal reaches petulantly for the camera. Kirkhill
drops it casually in the mud as well.
KIRKHILL
(to Trautman
entourage)
Check out the command hut.
He opens the door to the large conex unit and follows the
others inside.
INT. MTOC
The "hut" turns out to be a humming electronic womb.
In the subdued light banks of VIDEO MONITORS glow, and the
status lights of UPRIGHT COMPUTER UNITS line one wall.
Workstations for TRACKING, COMMUNICATIONS, AND LONG-RANGE
COORDINATION create a claustrophobic jumble of modular
equipment racks.
BREWER
Mission control!
They wipe their muddy feet and enter the air-conditioned
command center.
Rambo gazes around at the jumble of gear. He runs his
hand over one console, causing a seated technician to
glare at him.
RAMBO
All this is for us?
KIRKHILL
That’s right.
BREWER
(to Rambo)
They call us the field-unit meat-
puppets.
CUT TO:
INT./ EXT. CAMOUFLAGE CANOPY - DAY
Rambo and Brewer walk in under an expanse of net
camouflage on poles.
Sunlight streams through the foliage cover, creating
bright mottles on a black object F.G.
CAMERA PULLS BACK and BOOMS UP as Rambo moves forward to
reveal the object as an ALL-BLACK JET. It is a modified
Gulfstream "Peregrine," a small sleek single-engine
executive model, with all insignia and I.D. numbers
removed.
MED. ON RAMBO AND BREWER
as they consider the aircraft.
BREWER
Ever do this from a jet?
RAMBO
No.
VOICE (O.S.)
It’s easy...
They turn to see a lanky long-haired man in a leather
flying jacket duck under the fuselage from the far side
and approach them.
MAN
(grinning)
Just have to jump fast.
Two other air crewmen jump down from the open rear
passenger door of the plane.
RAMBO
You the pilot?
MAN
(extending hand)
Yeah. Doyle.
(he gestures to the
two in the door)
Lifer and Fuhrman.
Doyle is a product of the sixties’ school of ultra-cool,
his brain a little torched by too many methed-out night-
missions.
Fuhrman, the co-pilot, grins too much and Lifer’s eyes are
just plain scary.
RAMBO
You boys Air Force?
DOYLE
Marines. ’Ex’ though. We’re
private contractors now.
LIFER
You ever do a tour ’in-country’?
RAMBO
Two. ’Eye-corps’ mostly.
DOYLE
(to Brewer)
How about you?
BREWER
(defensive)
Vietnam was a little before my time.
So was Korea, know what I mean?
Rambo and Doyle glance at each other... solidarity before
new-meat bozos.
EXT. CAMOUFLAGE CANOPY
DETAIL ON THE GROUND
as the head of a torque-wrench finishes a rough map of
local Southeast Asia, scratched hastily in the dirt.
DOYLE (O.S.)
Thailand. The Mekong. Laos. ’Nam.
With each word he plops the torque-wrench onto the
appropriate place.
ON DOYLE
Gesturing as he continues.
DOYLE
A straight dash across the Laotian
panhandle, through the Annamese
Mountains... some good dicey bits
there... and on to the drop zone.
Eighteen minutes each way in
communist airspace.
RAMBO
We go low to stay off radar?
DOYLE
In the rhubarb, babe.
FUHRMAN
(grinning)
Mowin’ the lawn.
LIFER
Dig it.
INT. MOTC - COMMAND HUT
Trautman, looking a bit uncomfortable in Kirkhill’s
electronic lair, paces behind the seated Special
Operations Officer.
TRAUTMAN
How long before you’re fully on
line?
KIRKHILL
Couple hours. Let me buy you a
coffee.
He turns to a vending machine nestled improbably between
two racks of electronics.
TRAUTMAN
You think they’ll find any?
KIRKHILL
(feeding in change)
POWs? I don’t know. But either
way it’ll get that subcommittee off
our necks. Cream?
TRAUTMAN
Black. No sugar.
KIRKHILL
The League of Families leans on
Congress. Then they lean on us.
Like we don’t have enough to worry
about in a dozen dirtwater
countries. Damnit!
He pounds the machine, which refuses to vend.
Trautman watches the Special Operations Officer banging
ineffectually on the COIN RETURN, amid a million dollars
worth of equipment.
EXT. FLIGHT TENT
A tent next to the camouflage canopy serves as a flight
shack for Doyle and his ground crew. Crates serve as
tables and stools, and 50-gallon fuel drums are the back
wall.
Doyle, with Rambo and Brewer, continues the game plan.
DOYLE
A couple klicks from insertion we go
vertical to ten thousand and you
punch out. Navigate in free fall
like a regular HALO jump. You’ll
have a good moon.
LIFER
(to himself)
I got your moon right here...
BREWER
No problem. Duck soup.
Doyle notices that Brewer has casually lit up a cigarette.
DOYLE
Hey, man... we got fuel on the deck.
I don’t like flying without a plane.
Brewer glances at the pool of jet fuel around the pumping
area.
Rambo plucks the cigarette from Brewer’s lips.
RAMBO
No smoking on this mission. It’s
not healthy.
He looks Brewer in the eye and flicks the lit butt into
the pool of gas.
Which puts it out.
BREWER
Son of a bitch!
Rambo saunters away.
DOYLE
(appreciatively)
Nice trick. Works nine times out of
ten.
EXT. BASE CAMP - RUNWAY - DUSK
The steel planking of the pre-fabricated runway rings
under their feet as Rambo and Brewer run laps. Brewer,
between breaths, is chanting a monologue as they draw
near.
RAMBO
Again.
BREWER
Insertion. Call in to base camp by
TRANSAT. Proceed to point Tango
November for rendezvous with our
ground contact. Indigenous agent.
Co Phuong Bao.
(in same tone)
We’ve been over this three times.
RAMBO
You stopped.
Brewer rolls his eyes.
BREWER
Co Phuong Bao. The guide takes us
twelve klicks upriver to target at
Ban... at Ban... Bo Peep. Shit!
RAMBO
(flatly)
Start over.
EXT. BASE CAMP - NIGHT
Face-down in the dirt near the flight-line, Rambo and
Brewer are banging off pushups under the floodlight.
BREWER
(mechanically)
... to target at Ban Kia Na. We
probe the site...
RAMBO
(to himself
overlapping)
Ninety.
BREWER
... then proceed downriver to
extraction at point Echo Delta.
Doyle takes us out by helicopter, we
all live happily ever after and
that’s the last time, Rambo! I
swear to Christ.
RAMBO
One hundred.
They both collapse, face-down, breathing heavily. Brewer
rises first.
BREWER
Gettin’ old, huh?
RAMBO
Yeah.
(pause)
Second set. Let’s go.
When Rambo rises it is in pushup position, only this time
using one arm. He starts. One, two, three...
INT./ EXT. EQUIPMENT TENT - DAY
D-MINUS 11 HRS
Brewer lifts an OLIVE-DRAB BOX onto the table inside the
open-tent. It looks like a large field radio with a
complex console set in the top.
BREWER
Transponder-satellite relay.
TRANSAT.
He taps a small collapsible DISH ANTENNA on a tripod
connected to the box by a curly-cord.
BREWER
(continuing)
The signal’s coded into infrared
pulses, picked up by the spy
satellite, bounced to the ground
station in Okinawa and relayed to
the hut...
He points to the MTOC nearby.
BREWER
(continuing)
No radio source. Nothing for the
bad guys to triangulate on.
RAMBO
Show me how it operates.
BREWER
That’s what I’m here for.
RAMBO
Show me in case you get zapped as
soon as we land.
BREWER
(frustrated)
We’re leaving tonight, not in a
week.
He sees Rambo’s expression.
BREWER
Alright. Alright.
INT. RAMBO’S TENT - DUSK
Rambo sits on his cot hunched over some minute work.
DETAIL
With surgical precision he hones the trigger mechanism of
a FLAT-BLACK CROSSBOW PISTOL.
ANGLE
Rambo raises the crossbow, cocked but empty.
CLICK. It fires smoothly, to his satisfaction.
INT. EQUIPMENT CONEX - NIGHT
CLOSE ON SHIPPING CRATE as a crossbar pries the lid off.
ANGLE ON BREWER
as he raises a telescope-like piece of equipment.
WIDER
revealing Brewer surrounded by shipping crates. He sets
the scope on a long empty table and attacks another crate,
working under a harsh fluorescent lighting unit.
SEVERAL CLOSE ANGLES - JUMP CUTS
Brewer pulls electronic test gear out of bubble-pack and
sets the units on the table.
He hefts an automatic rifle and checks the action.
Another electronic gadget joins the growing array on the
table.
Another, smaller automatic, a MAC-10 MACHINE PISTOL, is
lifted out of packing.
CLOSE as Brewer’s hands thread a silencer onto the barrel
of the Mac-10.
INT. RAMBO’S TENT
TIGHT ON RAMBO’S HAND, holding a special forces LILE-
KNIFE. He runs a whet-stone along the blade,
methodically.
INT. EQUIPMENT CONEX
Brewer is calibrating his STARLIGHT-SCOPE image-
intensifier using a wave-form oscilloscope.
Satisfied, he begins mounting it atop the assault rifle.
INT. RAMBO’S TENT
VERY TIGHT ON RAMBO, working in almost total darkness,
streaking his face with two shades of green camouflage
makeup.
The effect is unearthly.
INT. EQUIPMENT CONEX
Brewer, wearing headphones, is running a calibration tone
through the audio-processor of his TELESCOPIC MICROPHONE.
He clamps it onto the assault rifle.
INT. RAMBO’S TENT
TIGHT ON RAMBO’S HANDS
covered with green greasepaint.
Using a candle he expertly darkens the blade of his Lile-
knife.
INT. EQUIPMENT CONEX
Brewer is standing at the end of the long table which is
now laid out like a banquet with an incredible assortment
of gadgets, weapons, supplies, kits, canteens, rations,
etc.
Doyle lounges nearby watching the bugs dog-fighting around
the fluorescent work light.
RAMBO (O.S.)
You jumping with all that?
They turn to see Rambo watching them from just outside the
pool of light.
A spectral figure.
Brewer glances at the array of stuff.
BREWER
Yeah. Why not?
RAMBO
You break your leg, I’ll have to
shoot you.
He turns and vanishes in the dark.
DOYLE
I think he means it.
BREWER
Crazy fucker.
DOYLE
Well, son. You got that right.
Anybody ever tell you about that
guy?
Brewer turns quizzically toward him.
BREWER
What about him?
CUT TO:
EXT. RUNWAY - NIGHT
D-MINUS 28 MINUTES
TIGHT ON TURBOJET INTAKE
A black maw. The vanes begin to turn. The RISING WHINE
becomes a STEADY ROAR.
C.U. FUEL COUPLER
as a ground CREWMAN disconnects hoses from the sleek,
black fuselage.
ON PEREGRINE - WIDER
as the blue fire roars in the exhaust throat. The air
convulses.
WIDER - TRACKING A VAN
moving beside the black ship, past the wing to the rear
door.
TIGHT ON VAN
as it comes to a stop, the side door FILLING FRAME. Lifer
ENTERS SHOT, reaches for the door latch.
INT. VAN
Total blackness, until light spills in from the opening
door.
Rambo sits, statue-like, hands on knees, wearing a BLACK
BLINDFOLD. Adjusting his eyes for night vision. He’s
dressed for the mission: tiger stripe cammies, jump pack,
chute pack, hands and face mottled with camouflage
greasepaint. Ferocious looking. Demonic.
Lifer leads him out.
EXT. AIRFIELD
DOLLYING BEFORE RAMBO, being led as if to execution. Blue
and red TAXI LIGHTS send strobe-flashes of color across
his face as he approaches the aircraft.
INT. PEREGRINE
Rambo is led to the seat next to Brewer’s. Trautman helps
Lifer strap him in. Plugs in his intercom jack.
Brewer eyes him cautiously.
He’d move away but all the other seats have been removed.
DOYLE (V.O.)
(filtered)
Ready to roll, Lieutenant.
Rambo adjusting his headset.
RAMBO
Let’s do it.
TRAUTMAN
Keep it clean, Rambo, or I’ll nail
your hide to the shed.
RAMBO
You got it, sir.
Trautman exits and the steps are rolled away.
INT. COCKPIT
Doyle is all business now.
DOYLE
Zen Rollercoaster, requesting
clearance.
VOICE
(filtered)
You are cleared, Zen Rollercoaster.
EXT. PEREGRINE
The wheel jacks are pulled.
The jet rolls forward.
EXT. AIRSTRIP
The aircraft hurtles down the runway, gathering speed.
The nose picks up.
It clears the end of the runway and then the treeline by a
few feet.
INT. PASSENGER COMPARTMENT
The interior is lit only by a single red light above the
door.
Brewer watches the forest below through the open doorway.
The door itself has been removed.
The ROAR OF THE AIRSTREAM is ferocious.
EXT. PEREGRINE
A sleek silhouette above the moonlit forest, the jet
flashes across the rolling terrain just above the
treetops.
MOVING WITH THE AIRCRAFT as it dips and rises with the
land’s contour. The rain forest below is a rushing blur.
This is known as some serious flying.
INT. COCKPIT
Doyle is hunched forward, nose inches from the canopy.
Eyes wide.
Drinking in the jungle.
All the lights in the cockpit are turned off.
Fuhrman uses a TAPED-OVER PENLIGHT to read the
instruments.
Doyle is beyond instruments.
FUHRMAN
Switching communications to burst
mode.
INT. MTOC
Kirkhill and Trautman are hunched at the main console.
TECHNICIAN
AWACS Two-Five has acquired. They
are holding timeline.
Trautman watches the glowing dot representing the drop-jet
crawling almost imperceptibly across a computer-generated
map of Central Laos.
EXT. PEREGRINE
The sleek jet races toward the towering Annamese range
ahead.
INT. COCKPIT
Fuhrman is grinning. That’s bad.
DOYLE
(into mike)
Here comes the sexy part.
INT. PASSENGER COMPARTMENT
Rambo, sitting impassively, removes his blindfold.
The plane begins to pitch and plummet wildly.
Brewer lets out a rebel yell.
BREWER
Whoo-ya! I love it!
EXT. PEREGRINE
MOVING WITH IT as it slices through a twisting canyon like
a knife.
It slithers between the mountainous flanks.
INT. PASSENGER COMPARTMENT
Rambo is methodically checking his pack and harness,
seemingly oblivious to the insanity outside.
DOYLE (V.O.)
(filtered)
We just entered Viet airspace,
gentlemen. Eight klicks to
insertion.
RAMBO
(to Brewer via
headset)
Stay tight on me, Brewer. I don’t
want to have to go looking for you.
BREWER
Check.
INT. MTOC
A TECHNICIAN turns from the secondary console.
TECHNICIAN
AWACS Niner-One via Subic Bay
reports them approaching insertion.
Five-by-Five.
EXT. PEREGRINE
D-MINUS TWO MINUTES
The mountains fall behind and the tiny jet hurtles down
across the foothills, flying nap-of-the-earth.
INT. PASSENGER COMPARTMENT
Rambo slips his free-fall goggles into place.
DOYLE (V.O.)
(filtered)
Stand by to climb.
EXT. TRAIL - VIETNAM
A VIETNAMESE FARMER trudges down the road with two heavy
buckets on a pole-carry across his shoulders.
A distant WHINING becomes an approaching ROAR.
Like a thunderbolt the black jet flashes over the top of
the hill just ahead, thirty feet off the deck.
The farmer is tumbled by the blast of air.
He looks up.
The jet has gone into a ball-busting vertical climb and is
instantly lost among the stars.
FARMER
(Viet/subtitled)
Son of a bitch!
INT. PASSENGER COMPARTMENT
Doyle’s voice is matter-of-fact despite the gees they are
pulling.
DOYLE
Approaching ten thousand. Eleven
seconds to insertion. Ten, nine...
Slowing to two-thirty...
The ready light changes from red to yellow. Rambo
unbuckles from his seat. Rises.
Brewer follows.
Lifer steadies them at the door.
DOYLE
(continuing)
... three seconds. Two. One. Have
a nice day.
The ready-light turns GREEN.
LIFER
Go!
Rambo takes a single, powerful running stride from the
opposite wall and is out the door. Gone.
Brewer is right behind him.
EXT. PEREGRINE
The jet dwindles and is gone in a moment above the
tumbling figures.
ON RAMBO stabilizing his fall.
He switches on his pack strobe.
RAMBO
(shouting into mike)
You read me, Brewer?
BREWER (V.O.)
(faint)
Read you.
RAMBO
Home on my strobe.
ON BREWER
diving skillfully. He sees the distant flash of Rambo’s
strobe below him and banks toward it like a fighter plane.
He comes alongside the Team Leader and they dive together.
Rambo cuts the strobe.
ANGLE DOWN as a solid layer of cloud rushes up.
They plunge through and the landscape below is an awesome
vista. An unbroken carpet of dark rain forest with a
narrow, meandering river, like a platinum ribbon.
Rambo sights on a distant bend in the river, spreads his
feet and dives. Brewer follows.
They shoot across the uprushing landscape at 135 mph.
INSERT - RAMBO’S L.E.D. ALTIMETER
Numbers flicking: 1,200 feet. 1,000. 800.
Rambo signals.
Their canopies deploy with a MUFFLED CRACK,
simultaneously.
RAMBO’S POV
looking down past his swaying feet as the moonlit jungle
rushes up... and up...
A mahogany tree lunges like a huge hand.
The dark maw swallows us in blackness.
EXT. RAIN FOREST
Moonlight filters down through the foliage of massive
trees, showing as shafts in the swirling night mists.
This is one of the most primeval forests on the planet, a
place of violent growth and death-filled shadows.
Massive tree roots grip the earth, entwined with vines
that climb swaying into the vaulted canopy above. Water
drips constantly.
And life is everywhere. Furtive. Timeless. Churning in
the shallow pools, under the bark, in the sweating
fruit... leaping through the matted foliage above.
A FIGURE rises behind a rotting log, like a being from
interstellar space. Rambo removes his goggles and
headset, then shrugs out of his chute harness.
He looks around slowly. Taking it in.
RAMBO
(to himself)
Man, what are you doing back here?
Brewer’s voice is a reedy chirp from his headset. He
raises it to his ear.
RAMBO
You okay?
BREWER (V.O.)
Keep it down, man. I got problems.
CUT TO:
EXT. RAIN FOREST - BARNYARD
Brewer is face-to-face with a mangy PIG, which grunts its
annoyance.
He is stuck up to his knees in the mud of a small fenced
yard containing a few pigs and chickens.
The yard is adjacent to a large THATCH HUT, and four or
five additional HOOTCHES are visible farther downslope,
nestled among the trees.
Brewer holds a finger to his lips, cautioning the pig to
silence. He lays backward in the black slop as a
VIETNAMESE MAN in peasant pajamas comes to the door of the
nearest hootch, an island of light in the dark forest.
Smoking a cigarette he looks around, perhaps scanning for
the source of the faint crashing he heard a moment before.
Following a dirt road, little more than a trail between
the hootches, an OLD WOMAN approaches. She is barefoot,
and pushes a rusting bicycle laden with an enormous bundle
of firewood.
Brewer struggles to free himself, straining in silence as
the pigs step disdainfully around him.
The man flicks away the cigarette. He laughs raucously at
something the old woman says and hurries to help her carry
the firewood inside.
Brewer looks up, at his chute billowing quietly in the
branches overhead.
The old woman pauses at the door, spits a shot of betelnut
juice into the yard, and goes inside.
The door bangs shut.
TIGHT ON BREWER
sighing with relief.
SUDDENLY A DARK OBJECT SHOOTS INTO FRAME, seizing him.
Brewer’s head snaps around. The object is Rambo’s hand,
painted camo-green.
Rambo drags him with a sucking POP from the mud.
The Team Leader glares.
RAMBO
(a freezing whisper)
That’s one.
Brewer pauses a moment, assimilating the implicit warning.
Then reaches for his harness buckles to free himself.
CUT TO:
EXT. RAIN FOREST - TRAIL
With the hootches visible B.G., Rambo moves silently off
along the trail.
Brewer, lumbering under the enormous pack, CRASHES through
foliage to catch up. He curses under his breath.
Rambo moves wraith-like through the undergrowth, appearing
and vanishing, there... then not there.
Brewer stumbles over a root, THUDS to the ground.
Rambo stops, looking back. His expression grim.
He turns and moves on, disappearing into the foliage.
Brewer scrambles up, following.
EXT. RAIN FOREST - CLEARING
TIGHT ON TRANSAT SCREEN as the last letters of the
following message appear:
SLM DNK FIELD TM TO SLM DNK
CONTROL/REPORT INSERTION COMPLETED/
PROCEEDING TO RENDEZVOUS/END MESSAGE
WIDER
revealing Brewer hunched over the tiny CRT screen atop the
transponder box, typing at a keyboard the size of a pocket
calculator.
Rambo squats motionless, watching intently.
Brewer hits the "SEND" button.
CUT TO:
INT. COMMAND SHACK
The chief telecom tech turns to Kirkhill.
TECH
It’s coming in.
Kirkhill watches the message print out on the main screen.
Turns to Trautman.
KIRKHILL
They’re in! On the money.
A cheer goes up in the command center. The home team just
scored.
EXT. RAIN FOREST - CLEARING
Rambo squats, studying his WATERPROOF TERRAIN MAP.
He glances at Brewer who has finished assembling his
weapons and gear.
REVERSE ON BREWER
looking like a Martian stormtrooper with his exotic
weapons and surplus equipment.
He is sighting through the scope of his assault rifle.
Fully assembled it is as big as a Chrysler and looks
straight out of Star Wars.
RAMBO
What do you call that?
BREWER
(crisply)
Modified M-16 A2 and over-under M-79
grenade launcher, with Sionics sound
suppressor, Tracor starlight scope
and LAC/R-100 Laser sighting system.
RAMBO
Batteries not included.
BREWER
(wounded)
This is state-of-the-art firepower.
Rambo picks up another device, a cylinder like a
flashlight with a curly-cord running to a pair of
earphones.
RAMBO
What’s this?
BREWER
AC-System ’Big-Ear’ telescopic
mike with built-in audio processor.
Can pull a whisper out of a loud
cocktail party at 50 meters.
Rambo gazes around him.
RAMBO
Cocktail party. Uh huh, right.
(pause)
Let’s saddle up.
BREWER
Where’s your stuff?
Rambo flips open his rucksack.
BREWER
(incredulous)
That’s it? Some C-4, a map and a
knife?
RAMBO
There’s a compass in the handle.
Brewer gestures at the Russian-made AK-47 slung over
Rambo’s shoulder.
BREWER
And a beat-to-shit AK? Every
twelve-year-old in Nam’s got one of
those.
RAMBO
Exactly.
Brewer hefts the separate rucksack containing the TRANSAT.
BREWER
Uh... this thing’s pretty heavy.
You got room for it?
Rambo snorts disgustedly.
BREWER
Just a thought.
EXT. RAIN FOREST
Using a stream bed to navigate through dense growth, Rambo
glides his legs smoothly through knee-deep brackish water.
Brewer follows, swatting and batting at clouds of
mosquitos.
A VIPER glides past them, roiling the surface, and
disappears into twisted tree roots.
BREWER
You wanna know why I stood up for
this show?
RAMBO
(moving off)
No.
BREWER
I was in the brig. They gave me a
deal. I blew up this Colonel’s golf
cart with an M-19. He wasn’t in it
or anything... it was the symbolic
value. Seemed like a good idea at
the time.
RAMBO
That’s a real good reason to wind up
in ’Nam.
BREWER
I’ve seen worse places.
RAMBO
There are no worse places.
EXT. RAIN FOREST - LATER
Rambo leads them up a steep trail as a dense NIGHT FOG
creeps over the ridgeline above.
FOLLOWING RAMBO - HANDHELD
as he moves along a narrow game trail.
Shapes loom out of the mist, revealed as harmless trunks
or vines only at the last second.
As they top the rise, the trail opens out onto a plateau-
like cleared area.
Ahead, an ENORMOUS STONE FACE, wreathed in vines, looms
from the mist.
WIDER
as the two walk into the atrium of a RUINED "WAT", or
BUDDHIST TEMPLE. Brewer looks awed.
EXT. RUINS OF WAT
Serene despite the ravages of centuries, two stone Buddhas
thirty feet tall sit flanking the stairs to the ruined
temple. Trees and vines all but obscure the cracked and
tumbled forms of ornately carved walls.
The central courtyard is open to the sky. Spire-like
structures are dimly visible in the fog beyond.
BREWER
(hushed)
This place is a trip.
RAMBO
Buddhist monastery. Fifteenth
century.
BREWER
Damn! Leeches.
He has pulled up his pant-leg to reveal THREE SQUIRMING
BLACK WORMS attached to his calf, sucking on him.
Rambo moves off, scanning, unconcerned.
RAMBO
Get used to ’em.
TIGHT ON BREWER
lighting a cigarette, his hands tightly cupped around the
glow. Rambo slaps it out of his hand.
Stomps it out.
BREWER
(hissing)
You fucking crazy? I need it to
burn these things off.
RAMBO
No cigarettes.
BREWER
I had it cupped.
Rambo takes the pack from Brewer’s breast pocket and
grinds it into the mud under his boot.
BREWER
Look, Rambo. I’ve had enough of
your bad-ass Indian-scout bullshit.
You’re years out of date... I’m
makin’ a career out of teaching you
the hardware. As far as I’m
concerned you’re just along to back
me up. And I heard about you...
about how twitchy you really are.
Kill any civilians lately?
Brewer is hurled against a stone wall and pinned with a
knife to his throat so rapidly he’s not sure how it
happened. Rambo is in his face, speaking very softly.
RAMBO
Listen real careful, freshmeat. I
don’t know why they sent you. Maybe
they didn’t want to waste a good
man. But you screw up once more and
I’ll kill you myself.
Rambo whips away, moves quietly off.
Shaking with rage, Brewer levels his weapon at Rambo’s
back. Then he realizes how silly that would be.
Frustrated, he jogs to catch up.
BREWER
Man, are you strict.
Moving in the shadows, Rambo walks through the ruins
noiselessly. A voice emerges from the mist behind them,
an almost childlike lilt.
VOICE (O.S.)
You are first tourist here in long
time.
Brewer whips around, centering the AIMING DOT of his
sighting laser on a FIGURE sitting on a ledge above them.
Sitting cross-legged and unperturbed is a diminutive
VIETNAMESE WOMAN of about 28. The dot of Brewer’s laser
is centered on her forehead like a Hindu prayer mark.
She is absolutely beautiful, with wide, calm eyes and
strong but sensuous mouth which curves now in a small
quirky grin.
WOMAN
You come here see Buddha... ask for
truth? Or just lost?
BREWER
(whispering)
Should I waste her?
Rambo pushes his rifle barrel aside and takes a step
forward. When he speaks it is in FLUENT VIETNAMESE.
RAMBO
(Viet/subtitled)
I’m not lost. Just looking for
someone.
WOMAN
(Viet/subtitled)
Someone called maybe ’Night Orchid’?
RAMBO
(Viet/subtitled)
That’s right.
WOMAN
(Viet/subtitled)
I’m Co Phuong Bao.
RAMBO
(to Brewer)
She’s our contact.
BREWER
(grudgingly
impressed)
I didn’t know you spoke Vietnamese.
Co slides down from the ledge and stands before them,
almost two heads shorter than Rambo. Her lithe figure is
not entirely concealed by her loose black "pajamas". She
wears her hair in a long single braid and has the delicate
hands of a child.
RAMBO
I’m Rambo. This is Brewer.
(to Brewer)
Her name is Co.
CO
It means "virgin." My mother was
comedian.
BREWER
Howdy, Co.
He sticks out his hand but Rambo motions "no". She bows
slightly.
BREWER
Uh, you speak pretty good English.
Where’d you learn?
CO
University of Saigon. Have Masters
Degree in economics. Not use too
much now... Communists in charge.
You got time... want to eat?
RAMBO
Sure. Whattaya got?
Co reaches up onto the ledge, her previous perch, and
pulls down a small PACK, actually a FOOD TUBE of the sort
worn over one shoulder by Viet Cong and other Vietnamese
guerrillas.
CO
(opening it)
Nuac mam.
She unrolls several rubber tree leaves holding rice with a
pungent sauce. Rambo takes the food and the proffered
CHOPSTICKS and, squatting, begins shoveling it expertly.
RAMBO
You really got a Masters Degree?
CO
Sure. I only sound like forty-year-
old in your language.
Brewer fumbles with the sticks. Switches to fingers.
BREWER
What’s this stuff on the rice?
RAMBO
Fermented fish sauce.
Brewer’s expression is less than enthusiastic.
CUT TO:
EXT. RAIN FOREST - RIVER TRAIL - NIGHT
With Co leading through the maze of aimless game trails
the group makes its way parallel to a modest RIVER, THE
CA.
RAMBO
How do we get upriver?
CO
I have arranged transportation. We
meet soon. But I think you to be
disappointed.
RAMBO
Why’s that?
CO
I go up to this camp two months ago.
Nobody there. Empty for years.
Rambo stops, puzzled.
RAMBO
Why would they send us to a deserted
camp?
BREWER
Who cares? Let’s just do it and get
out. Go have a Jacuzzi and get laid
in Bangkok. Know what I mean?
Rambo moves on, still concerned. something’s a bit off.
RAMBO
We’ll check it out.
BREWER
How come we didn’t just drop near
the camp... save this hassle?
RAMBO
Brewer. Does a jet make noise?
BREWER
Yeah...
CO
(switching to Viet
subtitled)
Where did you find this clown?
RAMBO
(Viet/subtitled)
I thought he was with you.
CO
(Viet/subtitled)
Crazy motherfucker.
BREWER
What’s she saying?
RAMBO
She likes you. Says you’re dinky-
dau.
BREWER
What’s that?
RAMBO
Powerful warrior.
BREWER
Yeah. Dinky-dau, that’s me. Hey,
Co. You wanna meet Jake the one-
eyed snake?
Rambo motions suddenly for a "freeze". Co walks on ahead,
toward the river, as the Americans melt into the shadows.
EXT. RIVER - MARSHY INLET
A HOUSE-SAMPAN wallows among the naked tree roots in a
brackish inlet off the main river. On deck are TWO MEN,
loosely speaking. Possibly two of the most misbegotten
specimens the Orient has to offer.
They raise their AK-47s as Co approaches. Exchange a few
quick syllables and Co turns, motioning Rambo and Brewer
forward.
As they pass, two more equally unwholesome-looking men
emerge from concealment and follow them to the sampan.
Everybody grips their weapons tightly.
BREWER
(under his breath)
These guys look like they’d sell
their mothers.
RAMBO
Sometimes they do. They’re river
pirates. Opium runners.
BREWER
(hissing)
Pirates? No kidding?
Before they step across onto the sampan, Co introduces the
"captain" in Vietnamese.
Wearing all manner of jewelry, including four wristwatches
and a pair of filthy western-style jeans a size too large,
CAPTAIN TRONG KINH grins and motions them aboard.
The grin reveals bare gum where his upper front teeth
would be. Obviously broken out in a fight.
CAPTAIN TRONG KINH
Wa-ky number one. You come number
one sampan.
RAMBO
(Viet/subtitled)
Thank you, Captain, for your
hospitality. You speak English very
well.
Grinning wider, Captain Kinh motions them inside the
CABIN, a rambling and dilapidated structure of corrugated
sheet metal and woven bamboo.
Kinh barks orders at his men, who cast off from their
moorings and jump aboard. The first light of dawn is
breaking through the trees.
INT. SAMPAN CABIN
A raisin-faced WOMAN in an ao-dai, holding an infant,
shuffles aside as Rambo steps down into the dim smoky
interior.
Brewer, Co and Kinh follow.
The two Americans must stoop in the scaled-down structure.
Every conceivable space is crammed with scavenged or
looted detritus: ammo cases, hubcaps, radios, a TV with no
back, books, dead chickens, an ice-cube tray, a Toyota
bumper, outboard motors... there is no operant logic to
most of it.
BREWER
Looks like my room in college.
CO
We sleep here today. Safe here
while go up river.
RAMBO
What about patrol boats?
Kinh opens a greasy wooden locker, takes out his pride and
joy, a Russian-made RPG-7 ROCKET-GRENADE LAUNCHER.
His grin glistens evilly in the gloom.
CUT TO:
EXT. BASE CAMP - DAWN
A beautiful sunrise backs the treeline, stretching long
shadows across the quiet camp.
INT. KIRKHILL’S TRAILER
The interior resembles that of a motor home, complete with
bunks, kitchenette and a small bar.
Kirkhill is on the phone, pacing... agitated. His
reptilian aide lounges on a bunk.
KIRKHILL
(to phone)
No, sir... we’re already committed.
They’re in the jungle right now. I
say we play the hand through... if
they find something we just bury the
report later. It’s still airtight.
(pause)
Yes, sir.
He hangs up. Runs a hand through his hair.
KIRKHILL
(to aide)
Goddamn it! Now the goddamn
satellite shows the camp occupied...
some trucks or something.
AIDE
(grimly)
Oh, boy. It’s getting dicey.
Their manner becomes guarded when a KNOCK at the door
interrupts them.
The aide unlocks it and admits Trautman.
KIRKHILL
What’s up?
TRAUTMAN
Listen, Kirkhill. I’m a bit of a
fifth wheel in your setup here... I
thought I’d go out with the
extraction team tonight. Unless you
have an objection.
KIRKHILL
(not liking it)
It’s not necessary.
TRAUTMAN
I know.
KIRKHILL
That’s a pretty hairy ride. Full
Colonels are supposed to be above
that sort of thing.
Trautman is calling him on it with a deadpan response.
TRAUTMAN
I know...
KIRKHILL
(shrugs expansively)
Have fun.
EXT. CA RIVER - DAY
Kinh’s hideous sampan churns upriver slowly, powered by an
ancient outboard motor. It passes other river traffic,
small hand-powered sampans manned by figures in broad
conical coolie hats.
With the exception of a rare powered craft, the scene is
that of a Vietnam unchanged by centuries. The ebb and
flow of regimes and ideologies has little altered the
basics of life here.
INT. SAMPAN
Rambo watches through a chink in the sheeting of the cabin
as the timeless landscape rolls past.
RAMBO’S POV
A view of the shoreline as brown children splash naked in
the shallows where a row of hootches marches up the hill
on stilts. The SQUEALS and LAUGHTER come clearly across
the water.
Rambo turns his gaze to the sampan interior.
Two of Kinh’s men, Co and Brewer all sleep soundly.
Rambo watches Co, her face serene in sleep. Childlike.
Beautiful.
DISSOLVE TO:
EXT. CA RIVER - LATE AFTERNOON
The water is coppery, silhouetting the sampan as it churns
on.
Kinh’s wife squats on the foredeck, smoking a long-stemmed
clay pipe.
DISSOLVE TO:
INT./ EXT. SAMPAN - SUNSET
The walnut-faced woman hands Rambo two bowls of nuoc mam.
He passes one to Brewer.
RAMBO
Have some armpit sauce.
Brewer groans. Opens a C-ration can.
RAMBO
(to Co)
How did you get started working for
the spooks?
CO
Spooks?
RAMBO
Intelligence work.
CO
Oh. They talk to me at university
before fall of Saigon. Make deal.
BREWER
Everybody’s makin’ deals.
CO
My brother captain in ARVN... need
papers to go United States, or North
Vietnamese will execute. They make
deal... I stay here and do work...
my brother and my son can go United
States.
RAMBO
Your son?
Co’s eyes drop and her whole demeaner deflates slightly.
CO
Nguyen. He twelve now. Not see him
for eight years.
RAMBO
Where’s his father?
Co shrugs.
CO
Dead. Killed in war.
Her voice and expression convey the fatalistic acceptance
of one who has seen death in all its forms. Expects it as
an element of daily life.
RAMBO
Where’s Nguyen now? What city?
CO
(noting his concern)
Huntington Beach, California.
RAMBO
It’s nice there. He’s probably
digging every minute. Got a
surfboard. Breaking girls’ hearts.
CO
(distractedly)
Nguyen is good boy.
Co gazes at the sunset beyond the door. A tear runs down
her cheek. She catches herself. Wipes it away almost
brutally. She abruptly goes on deck.
BREWER
Some hardened guerrilla fighter they
gave us.
Rambo freezes him out with an evil look.
Suddenly there is a commotion on deck. The roar of a
powerful ENGINE. Co bursts in a moment later.
CO
River patrol!
A FAST LAUNCH roars toward them, silhouetted by the
setting sun. UNIFORMED SOLDIERS on deck bring twin 50-
caliber machine guns to bear.
Rambo and Brewer dive under filthy bunks. Lock and load
their weapons. Co pushes junk in over them.
Kinh rips open the cabinet. Slams the shaft of a rocket
grenade into the launch tube.
Co barks an order at him. He hesitates. Lowers the
weapon.
Co removes a small packet of North Vietnamese bills from
inside her blouse and hands it to Kinh.
EXT. SAMPAN
The patrol boat pulls up in an arc, almost swamping them.
The soldiers on deck wear the uniforms of the North
Vietnamese navy.
The deck gunner racks the bolt on his R.P.K. MACHINE GUN.
The captain shouts RAPID VIETNAMESE on a loud hailer.
Kinh’s men lounge on the sampan indolently, looking like
fishermen on an evening trawl.
The scrawny woman feeds an infant at one sagging breast.
The PATROL CAPTAIN draws his service pistol and jumps down
into the sampan, entering the cabin.
Co sits demurely on one bunk as Kinh greets the officer.
The officer begins poking through Kinh’s possessions.
He tugs at the crate under the bunk where Rambo lies
concealed.
TIGHT ON RAMBO
absolutely motionless. The crate beside his head moves.
The officer’s boot is visible through a widening crack.
An ARGUMENT IN VIETNAMESE is heard heating up.
BREWER
grips the MAC-11 tightly, releases, grips, releases.
Sweat runs into his eyes.
THE OFFICER
looks severe as he contemptuously thumbs through a sheaf
of bills.
Kinh, gesticulating pathetically adds some more to the
stack.
After a tense moment the officer kicks the crate next to
Rambo and stalks out, tucking the payola in his tunic.
He jumps off the sampan and the patrol boat ROARS on.
INT. SAMPAN
Rambo and Brewer allow themselves to exhale.
RAMBO
How you doing, Brewer?
BREWER
(shaken)
I need a vacation.
EXT. RAIN FOREST - PRISON CAMP - NIGHT
With Co leading, Rambo and Brewer move furtively along a
tortuous trail. It has rained recently and the forest is
alive with glistening reflections, dripping water.
The trail winds up a steep embankment.
As they reach the top of the rise, CAMERA BOOMS UP over
the shoulder of the embankment to reveal a COMPOUND
beyond, dark except for moonlight.
RAMBO
watches from concealment in the foliage. He is invisible
with his camo-makeup except for darting eyes.
RAMBO’S POV
looking between the leaves, scanning the prison camp.
Two shabby WOODEN GUARD TOWERS stand at diagonally
opposite corners of the compound. There is a simple fence
of barbed wire on wooden posts enclosing the area and a
main gate with a sentry box.
THREE LONG WOODEN BARRACKS form a U, filling most of the
compound. The place seems deserted.
RAMBO
Check the tower with your scope.
Brewer raises the rifle, sighting through the massive
starlight scope.
BREWER’S POV - TELEPHOTO
The image is bright, lurid... black and white with a
greenish cast. Like contrasty daylight. He pans up the
tower. A Russian-made P.K. 7.62mm machine gun sits
pointing skyward. The tower seems unoccupied.
BREWER
Nobody home. Wait a minute!
Cigarette.
A brief glow of light illuminates the face of a TOWER
GUARD hidden in shadows.
BREWER
What’s he here for?
Nearby, another GUARD saunters out of the forest dressed
in NVA regular private’s uniform with the sleeves rolled
up casually. His AK-47 is slung over his shoulder.
BREWER
slips the telescopic microphone out of his rucksack and
clamps it to the side of his scope.
He slips on a pair of small earphones and pans the rifle-
scope-mike over the nearest barracks unit.
BREWER
(intently)
Snoring. Five, six guys.
Mumbling... Vietnamese. Somebody
talking in his sleep. A toilet
flushing.
RAMBO
Guard barracks. Take some shots.
Brewer locks a 35mm SLR camera to an adapter on the
starlight scope.
He starts clicking off some shots.
Brewer then scans the long hut across the compound.
BREWER
Breathing. Moaning.
(suddenly)
Shit!
He whips off the earphones in pain as a LOW SCREAM echoes
across the camp.
It fades into a delirious moaning. Stops.
RAMBO
(nodding grimly)
Bad dreams. Prisoner’s barracks.
Shoot some.
Brewer clicks away.
A TINY ENGINE WHINING draws their attention to the main
gate where a YOUNG WOMAN on a LAMBRETTA SCOOTER pulls up
to the sentry shack.
Brewer zeros on her as she greets the GATE GUARDS.
CO
Cyclo-girl whore from village.
Business slow there.
Rambo takes the earphones, listening to the girl’s distant
chattering.
RAMBO
She’s making him a pretty good deal.
Apparently the guard agrees because he opens the gate and
the girl slips inside.
RAMBO
What’s that? By the far tower.
Brewer pans to the distant shape.
BREWER
It’s a guy in a cage.
RAMBO
American?
BREWER
Can’t tell. Pretty tall. He’s real
scrunched up in that thing.
RAMBO
Let me see.
RAMBO’S POV THROUGH SCOPE
The image is of an EMACIATED FIGURE slumped in a bamboo
cage. The man’s skin is ghostly white. He seems almost a
living skeleton, dressed only in ragged shorts.
His wrists are clamped in a wooden STOCK and blood runs
down his arms from the abraded sores.
THE IMAGE ZOOMS CLOSER, MOVES ONTO HIS FACE. TIGHT.
Though gaunt and filthy, he is clearly CAUCASIAN.
RAMBO
Roundeye.
BREWER
Alright. Home run.
RAMBO
(angrily)
Torture cage. Can’t stand... can’t
sit... for days. Sometimes weeks.
BREWER
Bastards. Let’s get some shots.
ON RAMBO
MOVING SLOWLY IN as he hands the kluge back to Brewer.
RAMBO
That guy’s not going to make it.
BREWER (O.S.)
Nothing we can do, man.
Rambo decides in that moment.
RAMBO
I’m getting him out.
BREWER
What? Are you crazy? We’re
supposed to take pictures and split.
You’re gonna blow the whole program.
RAMBO
You never been in one of those
things.
BREWER
I suppose you have...
Rambo holds his wrists up, right under Brewer’s nose...
showing the chafing scars.
BREWER
It’s orders! You remember... when
they tell you to do something and
then you do it. John Wayne is dead,
man.
RAMBO
(rising)
You take pictures and split. I’m
going in.
Brewer throws down his rifle. He’s apoplectic.
He can barely form words.
BREWER
Fuck it. Fuck it. Aw... ke-rist.
Then a slow grin spreads.
BREWER
How we gonna do it?
CUT TO:
EXT. CAMP PERIMETER - LATER
MOVING WITH BREWER as he belly crawls to the edge of the
cleared area, just a few yards from the wire. He is right
under one tower, hidden among ferns.
BREWER’S POV THROUGH SCOPE
as Rambo’s silhouette crosses to the wire farther down.
EXT. COMPOUND
DOLLYING WITH RAMBO at ground level as he crawls under the
wire and undulates from shadow to shadow.
He reaches the nearest building. Hugs it.
Rambo moves on in silence. He is barefoot, the pale skin
smeared with mud, and carries only the PISTOL CROSSBOW.
Without rifle, pack, harness or grenades to clatter, he
moves like a spirit in the material world.
Rambo raises one eye slowly over a window ledge.
Inside several guards sleep soundly under mosquito
netting. Their rifles are stacked against the far wall.
ANGLE ON GUARD
snoring ludicrously loud. He bats at a mosquito,
grunts... turns over.
ANGLE UNDER GUARD BARRACKS
MOVING with Rambo as he crawls among the support posts.
He freezes as a light is snapped on above him.
It streams down through cracks between floorboards.
Moving very slowly, Rambo squints through a gap.
RAMBO’S POV
A LOW ANGLE on a UNIFORMED GUARD rummaging in a tiny
prehistoric refrigerator, humming to himself.
He takes out a can of COKE, recognizable, although the
label is in Chinese characters. Rolls it slowly across
his sweaty forehead. Pops it. The foam now runs onto the
floor, drips into Rambo’s eyes.
The light snaps off. FOOTSTEPS. Rambo moves on.
EXT. PRISONERS’ BARRACKS
There are two rows of rusted iron bunks set out like a
hospital ward. Most of them are empty. Seven aren’t.
SEVEN AMERICAN PRISONERS OF WAR
Like the man in the cage they are gaunt, scabrous.
Dressed in ragged peasant clothes too small for them.
One man, bathed in sweat, moans and tosses with malarial
fever. Another is wrapped so tightly in a fetal position
his face is between his knees.
They have padded the bare springs of their cots with
mattresses of rubber leaves.
Rambo stands a few feet from them as if giving a
benediction, the crossbow raised in one hand. He moves
on, leaving no trace.
EXT. GUARD TOWER
The GUARD reclines in a folding chair, nodding to the beat
of unheard music. A SONY WALKMAN is clipped on his belt
and he has the earphones over his GRAY PEAKED CAP.
He takes a last drag and tosses a cigarette over the
parapet.
EXT. PERIMETER - RAIN FOREST
TIGHT ON BREWER hugging the ground as the smoldering butt
lands five feet from him... in the pool of light from a
floodlight. He groans, watching the smoke curl up.
Starts creeping his hand toward the butt.
EXT. COMPOUND - CAGE
The man inside opens his eyes when Rambo touches his
broomstick neck, feeling for a pulse.
His lips are parched and there is a horrible bruise around
one eye.
PRISONER
(barely audible)
Who’re you?
RAMBO
American. Come to get you out.
PRISONER
Man, you are one scary-looking
motherfucker!
RAMBO
Can you walk?
PRISONER
I could a couple of days ago. Gonna
be... stiff.
Rambo quickly picks the lock on the wrist clamps and then
slips his LILE KNIFE from its sheath.
Starts cutting the lashings on the bamboo cage.
RAMBO
What’s your name?
PRISONER
De Fravio. Dave De Fravio.
Lieutenant... Air Force.
The door gives way and Rambo steadies De Fravio as he
slumps forward.
RAMBO
(shakes his hand)
Good to meet you, Dave. I’m Rambo.
Okay, I’m going to carry you. Don’t
cough or make any noise.
DE FRAVIO
Sure thing, Rambo. You gettin’ the
other guys, too?
RAMBO
Not this time. We’ll be back.
Rambo slings De Fravio’s gaunt six-foot frame over his
shoulder in a fireman’s carry and heads off in a crouching
run.
LONG SHOT ON RAMBO
crossing a pool of light B.G. as the sentry lounges in
his shack.
EXT. PERIMETER - RAIN FOREST
Brewer seems to have lost sight of Rambo. He scans the
camp to the treeline and back.
The filterless cigarette is smoked almost to his lips.
WHAM! A BOOTED FOOT SMASHES DOWN on his rifle, pinning
one hand. He looks up at...
A NORTH VIETNAMESE GUARD who holds an AK-47 in Brewer’s
face.
With his headphones on Brewer hadn’t heard the quiet
approach from behind.
Brewer closes his eyes in profound misery.
There is a soft THUNK.
Brewer opens his eyes as the AK-47 falls into the grass.
Looks up to see...
The guard is leaning back against a tree, motionless.
The VANED TAIL of a CROSSBOW BOLT protrudes from his neck
under the jaw. He is pinned to the tree, quite dead.
Rambo appears from the undergrowth, still carrying De
Fravio, crossbow in hand.
RAMBO
(to Brewer)
That’s two.
EXT. RAIN FOREST
Brewer and Rambo, carrying the POW, rejoin Co on the
ridge, where they had left their gear.
Rambo sets De Fravio down and reaches for his boots.
The POW looks dazedly at his rescuers.
His eyes, in hollow sockets, track from one to the other.
DE FRAVIO
(weakly)
You guys are real... aren’t you?
BREWER
Huh?
DE FRAVIO
Sorry, I mean... I talk to people
all the time... I know a lot of them
aren’t there. But this is real,
isn’t it? You’re taking me home
now?
BREWER
That’s right, buddy.
De Fravio sits frozen for a moment, then a dry sob wracks
his entire body and he puts his arms around Brewer.
He cries with utter abandon, quietly, while Brewer looks
at him helplessly.
DE FRAVIO
Thank God... thank you...
Brewer looks at Rambo with a stricken expression. Then
puts his arms clumsily around De Fravio, like somebody
holding a baby for the first time.
Co touches Rambo’s hand. Motions "let’s go" with a cock
of her head. He nods.
CUT TO:
EXT. RAIN FOREST - NEAR PRISON CAMP - LATER
A stocky SERGEANT OF THE GUARD stands over the partially
concealed body of the guard Rambo killed.
He raises his whistle and sends a SHRILL BLAST across the
camp.
Lights come on in the guard barracks.
CUT TO:
EXT. RAIN FOREST - RIVER BANK - NIGHT
The sampan waits beyond a screen of trees as Brewer calls
in on the TRANSAT. Co is helping De Fravio walk
unsteadily down to the boat, B.G. The river bandits eye
the tall, death-like figure suspiciously.
RAMBO
We’d better go for the emergency LZ
at point Zulu Sierra. Tell them
we’ve got some heat but don’t
mention De Fravio.
Brewer starts typing.
CUT TO:
EXT. STAGING AREA - THAILAND
Doyle’s ground crew is removing the camouflage canopy from
the UH-60 "Blackhawk" helicopter.
The turbines are warming up with an ASCENDING WHINE.
Doyle and Trautman, F.G., turn as the door to the command
trailer bursts open and a TECH runs out.
TECH
You’re go for extraction. Mr.
Kirkhill says wind ’er up. Here’s
the hardcopy.
Trautman takes the printout.
TRAUTMAN
(to Doyle)
Alternate LZ Zulu Sierra at 0500.
It says "May have heat. Don’t be
late. All our love."
DOYLE
(scowling at his
watch)
Let’s get that tent down!
CUT TO:
INT. SAMPAN - CA RIVER - NIGHT
De Fravio seems a little more in focus as he sits huddled
with the others in the cramped cabin.
DE FRAVIO
I gotta tell you, it’s just luck you
guys came when you did. They move
us around a lot... We only been at
that camp a week. Got a smoke?
BREWER
(pointedly)
No.
DE FRAVIO
What kind of raggedy-ass rescue you
call this?
RAMBO
Why were you in the box?
DE FRAVIO
Well, I caught this cobra, see...
BREWER
You mean the snake?
DE FRAVIO
Yeah. It’s not hard once you get
the hang of it. In the wrist.
Anyway, I did what I always do when
I get one...
BREWER
What’s that?
DE FRAVIO
(straight-faced)
Put it in the guard’s barracks.
(pause)
Man they got pissed. They beat the
crap out of me, but... it’s kind of
a tradition. You oughta see ’em run
around.
RAMBO
(chuckling)
You got a bad attitude.
De Fravio grins, showing bad teeth as well.
DE FRAVIO
I know it.
De Fravio eyes Co as she hands him a plate of rice and
meat.
DE FRAVIO
Thanks lady. You’re pretty cute...
doing anything this weekend?
CO
(smiling)
Eat slowly. Don’t make yourself
sick.
She exits with the dirty cooking utensils.
EXT. SAMPAN
When Co closes the door to the cabin, Kinh sidles up to
her and rapidly whispers something in Vietnamese.
He seems to be eliciting a response and eyes her warily.
Co freezes indecisively, then nods yes.
In the stern, B.G., one of Kinh’s men is talking quietly
on a beat-up military-style FIELD RADIO.
His voice is masked by the sound of the outboard motor.
Co whispers something and holds out her hand, palm up.
Kinh grins, gaptoothed. He pulls a .45 PISTOL from his
belt and slips it to her. Runs his finger along the curve
of her neck. She quietly pulls the cocking slide,
chambering a round.
EXT. CA RIVER - INLET
The sampan glides into the brackish estuary amid half-
submerged trees. It is the original rendezvous point.
Everyone assembles on deck, with Rambo helping De Fravio
through the cabin door.
Brewer checks his watch.
BREWER
Twenty-five minutes. We’d better
roll.
Rambo freezes... looks down.
An AK-47 muzzle is pressed into his kidney, held by one of
Kinh’s men.
Two more are covering Brewer, who had just handed his
rifle to Co, while donning his pack.
Kinh steps up, grinning. Takes Rambo’s rifle. A fourth
guard eases an arm around his neck, a long knife held
under his jawline.
It has all happened smoothly and with precision planning.
KINH
Wa-ky number ten. Do-ma.
DE FRAVIO
Yeah, fuck your mama-san, too. In
the...
Kinh backhands him to the deck.
TIGHT ON RAMBO
his eyes cold, looking at Co.
She advances on him. Her black almond-shaped eyes
glitter, alien as the depths of space.
She spits in his face.
Kinh snorts a feral laugh.
Rambo doesn’t react.
E.C.U. CO
Her eyes dart to the side.
RAMBO AND CO
something, a microsecond flash of understanding, passes
between them.
BREWER
(enraged beyond
belief)
You slope bitch!
She whirls on him, drawing the .45. It is enormous in her
child’s hand. Her expression is terrifying.
SHE FIRES
The renegade behind Brewer ROCKETS BACKWARD, his FACE
EXPLODING.
Rambo moves, slapping his guard’s elbow, driving the knife
across and away. His teeth snap shut on the man’s
forearm. The knife falls.
Rambo’s hands are simultaneously seizing the other guard’s
AK-47 just as he fires. Rambo holds his hand on the man’s
trigger hand, AIMING THE GUN.
BULLETS RAKE FROM GROIN TO FACE on the third man standing
opposite them.
HE SPINS BACK, his rifle BLASTING AWAY harmlessly into the
sky.
Co places the muzzle of the .45 against Kinh’s temple.
His grin is long gone.
SHE FIRES WITHOUT HESITATION.
Rambo drives the butt of the second man’s AK-47 into his
stomach twice. The bandit lets go.
Firing blind over his shoulder, Rambo vaporizes the head
of his guard, whose hand he still grips viciously in his
teeth. He releases the hand. Almost like spitting out
the dead man.
Clutching his stomach, the last bandit leaps to the shore.
FIFTEEN ROUNDS FROM BREWER’S SILENCED MAC-11 stutter
quietly into him. He pitches face-down in the mud.
A cloud of blue cordite smoke disappears in silence.
The whole thing lasted four seconds.
DE FRAVIO
(slowly)
Wow!
BREWER
What just happened?
Rambo moves over to Co.
She seems to sag, depleted. In shock.
He takes the .45 from her limp fingers.
RAMBO
(Viet/subtitled)
Are you okay?
CO
(answering in
English)
Yes. But I lose many merits in next
life. Very bad.
RAMBO
Why’d they want us?
CO
They heard about escaped prisoner on
radio. Make deal. More than we pay.
BREWER
They sold us out? Now I’m pissed.
CO
They were fools. To think there
would be reward. And to ask my
help.
Rambo puts his hands on her shoulders.
RAMBO
Thanks.
CO
Rambo. NVA coming. Pig dog Kinh
say meet them here. Whole garrison
from Con Cuong is out.
RAMBO
(nodding grimly)
Let’s go.
CUT TO:
EXT. RAIN FOREST - LAOS - NIGHT
At treetop level the all-black UH-60 ROARS down a forested
valley at 180 mph, using no illumination but the moon.
MOVING WITH THE HELICOPTER
as it rises and drops with the terrain.
INT. UH-60
Once again Doyle is night-flying in a blacked-out cockpit,
putting the landing skids through the treetops.
Trautman stands behind the seats in the main bay.
Night air ROARS in the open door and Lifer, on door gun,
dangles his legs in the windstream. The rain forest is a
dim blur very close below.
LIFER
(shouting)
Back in Indian country. Just like
old times.
He racks the bolt on his M-60 and grins.
Trautman nods politely and looks at his watch.
CUT TO:
EXT. RAIN FOREST - NEAR WAT - PRE-DAWN
Rambo’s group circles the ruins as they head for the
landing zone.
The trail skirts an escarpment which drops over a hundred
feet to the Ca River below. Not far from the overgrown
spires of the Wat is a stream which breaks over the cliff
in a graceful waterfall dropping unimpeded into a lagoon.
The vista is quite stunning in the moonlight.
Brewer is struggling with both packs plus the heavy
Transat, since Rambo has De Fravio and Co has her own
pack. Brewer scrambles, slipping back on the steep trail.
BREWER
Let’s ditch this Transat. We don’t
need it.
Rambo considers for a moment, then pulls away some
underbrush beside a collapsed wall of the ruin.
RAMBO
Bury it here. Work fast.
Brewer gets out his entrenching tool.
A cold pre-dawn light suffuses the rain forest, giving it
an expectant quality.
Rambo scans the ridgeline with Brewer’s scope.
RAMBO’S POV - TELEPHOTO
Figures of TWENTY OR MORE VIETNAMESE SOLDIERS can be seen
threading among the trees.
RAMBO
(to Co)
You better take off.
BREWER
Ain’t you coming with us, sweet
thing?
CO
My orders stay here.
She turns to head off along a diverging trail. Rambo
touches her shoulder. She turns.
RAMBO
See you in California.
Her grin is ironic.
CO
Land of big PX. Maybe I take you
for a ride in my Cadillac.
Rambo watches her go. A tiny, anonymous peasant girl.
INT./ EXT. UH-60 - DAWN
Trautman watches over Doyle’s shoulder as the helicopter
roars between the walls of a mountain pass. The ship is
buffeted by turbulence, bouncing and dropping violently.
FUHRMAN
(turning)
Three minutes.
The steep slopes fall away and Doyle dives the ship across
the rolling foothills.
We HEAR a faint call, barely audible over static.
VOICE
(filtered)
Zen Hammer this is Slam Dunk One, do
you copy? Over.
FUHRMAN
Roger, Slam Dunk One... what is your
position?
EXT. RAIN FOREST - NEAR PADDIES - DAWN
Rambo is crouched with Brewer and De Fravio in a hollow
beside an earth dike.
They are taking AUTOMATIC WEAPONS FIRE from the trees
nearby.
Spurts of earth leap up around them.
Rambo is shouting in a controlled articulate voice into a
small PRC-90 FIELD RADIO while Brewer lays down
SUPPRESSING FIRE with his M-16 A2.
RAMBO
(yelling)
Zen Hammer... the heat’s on. We’re
taking fire. Watch for my smoke.
Red and green. Northwest corner of
a big paddy.
(to Brewer)
Let’s move.
Rambo and Brewer, carrying De Fravio, charge up and over
the dike as the ground is ripped around them.
Rambo hurls two SMOKE GRENADES down the dike wall.
Columns of red and green smoke begin roiling upward.
The dike on which they are pinned down forms part of the
enclosure for a complex of terraced RICE PADDIES which
occupy the few flat acres of this hilly terrain. The
flooded fields reflect the pre-dawn sky like plates of
burnished metal.
Rambo slams in another clip and fires in short, controlled
burst. Brewer hands a captured AK-47 to De Fravio.
The ex-POW opens up with a vengeance.
BREWER
Go for it, man. Good therapy.
EXT. RAIN FOREST - NEARBY
VARIOUS ANGLES as THREE TROOP TRUCKS slide to a halt on a
rutted jungle road, disgorging squads of NVA TROOPS.
Mortars are set up. Roughly aimed. THEY FIRE with a
CHARACTERISTIC WHUMP.
ON THE DIKE
The Americans duck as a mortar round explodes in the paddy
behind them, throwing up a geyser of mud. Brewer picks up
the PRC-90 mike.
BREWER
(on radio)
You guys comin’ or what?
INT. UH-60
Through the front canopy distant wisps of red and green
smoke can be seen. The paddies rush by below in a blur.
FUHRMAN
Roger... we have you on visual. We
are coming in. How many are you?
BREWER (V.O.)
(filtered)
Three. We got an American POW with
us.
TRAUTMAN
Relay to command. They have one of
ours.
INT. COMMAND SHACK - THAILAND
Kirkhill is pacing behind the main console.
TELECOM TECH
Mr. Kirkhill... I have an AWACS
relay. Zen Hammer reports the
ground team has an American POW with
them.
Kirkhill’s reaction is unexpected. He whips around.
KIRKHILL
What did you say?
TELECOM TECH
(grinning)
They’ve got one of ours.
TIGHT ON KIRKHILL
as a look of frustrated rage is replaced by deadly calm.
KIRKHILL
(loudly)
This station is now on Condition
Bravo. Harrison. Meyers. Goodell.
Out... now!
The puzzled techs drop their headsets and leave.
KIRKHILL
(continuing to tech)
Go to your COMINT priority
frequency. Give me the mike... Zen
Hammer, this is Coach One. This is
an Alpha-Kilo-Victor command
priority.
FUHRMAN (V.O.)
(filtered)
Roger, Coach One... go ahead.
KIRKHILL
I want you to abort the operation
immediately.
INT. UH-60
Fuhrman can’t believe it.
FUHRMAN
Say again, Coach One?
He presses the helmet-headphone tight to his ear, then
turns to Trautman, cupping his hand over the mike.
FUHRMAN
(to Trautman)
He wants us to abort before pick-up.
TRAUTMAN
Confirm it.
FUHRMAN
It is confirmed.
(to mike)
Coach One... we have them in
sight...
(pause)
Yes, sir.
Doyle looks at both of them and shrugs.
DOYLE
Turnin’ around.
FUHRMAN
(to Doyle)
I thought you liked those guys.
DOYLE
I do. But they ain’t payin’ the
rent, Jack.
TRAUTMAN
Stay on your heading, Captain.
DOYLE
Sorry, Sir. Can’t do it.
TRAUTMAN
That’s an order.
DOYLE
(implacable)
Sorry, Sir.
Trautman has his hand on the butt of his .45 when he hears
the clack of a rifle bolt over the rotor noise and turns.
Lifer has an M-16 in his lap, not exactly aimed at the
colonel, but not aimed away, either.
LIFER
(smirking)
We ain’t Uncle Sam’s misguided
children no more, Colonel. We’re
independent contractors.
FUHRMAN
That’s right, Sir. We don’t like
this, but we are working for Mr.
Kirkhill.
TRAUTMAN
You pathetic scum.
DOYLE
(looking down)
Well, if there weren’t POWs before,
there are now.
EXT. RICE PADDY
Rambo half-supports De Fravio with one arm and fires his
AK with the other as they slog through the calf-deep
water. Mortar rounds explode on all sides. They watch
the UH-60 skimming in low across the paddies, blasting up
a curtain of spray.
Almost to them...
It veers in a tight bank and climbs out.
Heads away.
BREWER
Where’s he going?
(to radio)
Hey, Zen Hammer, where are you
going?
(pause)
Do you read, Zen Hammer? Over. Son
of a bitch! They’re ditching us!
The water is shot into spray around them. A mortar shell
lands so close it knocks them down, drenching them with
slimy black mud. The radio disappears in the water.
Rising, Brewer takes a round in the thigh. Drops.
Disappears for a second... comes up gasping.
Rambo watches the UH-60 diminishing to a black dot.
He is so consumed with rage that his expression goes
slack... blank... a murderous disconnection from
conscience.
And yet, in that same moment, a tremendous surge of blind
will clears his mind, a determination to survive, to get
out at whatever cost... to find whoever did this.
It is no longer just a mission. It is a very personal
piece of business.
He turns and lets his rifle drop into the water. He takes
De Fravio’s and throws it away.
BREWER
(through gritted
teeth)
The fuckers left us, man... they
left us.
Brewer wallows weakly, his blood streaming out into the
muddy water.
De Fravio looks stunned, lost... eviscerated.
He sags to his knees.
DE FRAVIO
Oh... God.
It gets quiet.
In a ragged line, the NVA soldiers advance to the top of
the dike. Twenty. Forty. Finally almost eighty, looking
down at the Americans. Rambo slowly raises his hands.
EXT. RAIN FOREST - HILL NEARBY
OVER THE SHOULDER of Co, watching from behind a screen of
foliage as the ring of NVA troops converge on the tiny
figures of Rambo, Brewer and De Fravio.
REVERSE
TIGHT ON CO, her expression enigmatic. She turns and
darts away, vanishing into the forest.
CUT TO:
INT. KIRKHILL’S TRAILER
Kirkhill is pouring scotch over ice in two glasses as the
door behind him bangs open.
Trautman’s expression could slice a steak.
KIRKHILL
Have a drink.
Kirkhill offers a glass to Trautman who ignores it.
TRAUTMAN
Why?
Kirkhill sets the glass down and sits at the dinette,
motioning Trautman to sit as well.
KIRKHILL
(shrugs)
You got five hours? I’ll tell you
about Secretaries of State, and
funding committees and diplomatic
relations...
Trautman slowly sits opposite him, his demeanor becoming
more reasonable.
TRAUTMAN
Take your time.
KIRKHILL
Look, Colonel... we’re all adults
here. This is a war. A very quiet,
very intense war. People get
sacrificed.
TRAUTMAN
Not my people.
Kirkhill freezes, glancing down.
The muzzle of Trautman’s service .45 is jammed into his
groin.
TRAUTMAN
(continuing)
But you’re right... some people do
get sacrificed. Now tell me why you
pulled the plug.
KIRKHILL
You think I’m some whacko? I like
to hurt people? I’m doing a job
here. If I knew what’s right or
wrong I’d be a goddamned priest,
right? So I follow directives... I
do what I’m told. It’s simple. If
your boy had done what he was told,
there wouldn’t be a problem.
TRAUTMAN
Don’t dance me, Kirkhill. You’ll be
walking funny.
Trautman leans on the .45 a bit and Kirkhill backs into
the seat cushion.
KIRKHILL
Look, it was a screw-up, alright?
They weren’t supposed to find
anything. We thought that camp was
empty.
TRAUTMAN
This mission was a scam from the
word go?
KIRKHILL
Word came down... they wanted an
answer. And they knew the answer
they wanted: no POWs. But it had
to look good. Best effort. The
whole dog-and-pony show.
Kirkhill takes a healthy pull from his scotch.
TRAUTMAN
(realizing)
Rambo and Brewer were selected as
write-offs.
KIRKHILL
It was clean. Very clean... Rambo
was a decorated Vietnam vet, a
former POW himself... if he came out
and said "No POWs" the sub-committee
would buy it. He gets himself
caught he’s a private citizen, a
whacko, acting on his own. If he
gets proof, it gets lost somewhere
between here and D.C. Airtight.
But no... Rambo’s gotta be a hero.
Thinks he’s starring in his own war
movie or something. He put me in a
corner. No choice.
TRAUTMAN
"Terminate with extreme prejudice."
KIRKHILL
That’s a crock. We don’t say that.
Do you have any idea the shitstorm
if he’d gotten back with that guy?
If it went public? The White House
would have to act through channels.
We’re talking ransom. Four billion
bucks in war reparations to Vietnam
to get the others back. That’s
billion, Colonel. With a "B". For
a few guys that’ve had their brains
in a blender for ten years? A pain
in the ass to everybody? No way.
There’s no way.
The colonel has let the pistol drop, until it is dangling,
forgotten.
TRAUTMAN
So there never was a Phase Two
rescue team?
KIRKHILL
Of course not. You can’t get
approval to rescue a kitten from a
tree after Tehran.
After a long silence, Trautman nods.
TRAUTMAN
I understand.
Kirkhill relaxes. It’s going to be okay. The colonel is
one of the boys.
KIRKHILL
Here. Drink.
Trautman doesn’t take the glass.
TRAUTMAN
(reasonably)
I understand your position.
(pause)
I understand how a maggot like you
can just slide out of a jam on a
trail of slime. And call it --
expedience.
(viciously)
Expedience!
Kirkhill slams his empty glass down. His tone becomes
self-righteous.
KIRKHILL
You’re out of your depth, Trautman.
Way out. I’m acting correctly here.
Not you. Not your gung-ho jungle
ace.
(pause)
It’s over. Walk away.
TRAUTMAN
It’s not over. You made one
mistake.
KIRKHILL
What that?
Trautman clicks the safety and reholsters the .45.
TRAUTMAN
Rambo.
EXT. PRISON CAMP - VIETNAM - DAY
D-PLUS 36 HRS
BAN KIA NA
REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM
TIGHT ON RAMBO
his eyes ablaze, face crusted with dried mud and sweat.
WIDER
revealing him under guard, arms bound painfully tight
behind him, in the back of a troop truck.
He is seized by TWO VIET SOLDIERS and dragged forward, off
the truck.
De Fravio hits the ground behind him, and Brewer, moaning
on a stretcher, is unloaded. His fatigues are matted to
the skin by dried blood from hip to knee.
Camp commander CAPTAIN VO QUOC VINH strides across the
compound. He is fairly twitching with suppressed rage at
the loss of face brought on by his useless guards.
He screams orders as the troops dismount, roughly dragging
forward the three captives.
A VIET SERGEANT turns the captives over to CHIEF GUARD
SERGEANT TRAN VAN TAY with a quick salute.
The instant Vinh stops shouting Tay begins, like a relay.
The prisoners are prodded forward.
Rambo walks beside a wide-eyed Brewer.
BREWER
Are they going to torture us?
RAMBO
(distantly)
Yes.
BREWER
What... whattaya do?
A GUARD shoves Rambo on ahead as Brewer’s carriers stop at
the door of an isolation cell.
RAMBO
(looking back)
Hope they kill you by mistake.
Rambo’s guard slams his rifle butt into the American’s
belly, half-doubling him over.
GUARD
No talk!
INT. ISOLATION CELL
The door to a tiny fetid room is opened and Brewer is
dumped off the stretcher and flung inside. He lands on
his knees and gasps in pain, clutching his leg.
The door clangs shut, leaving stifling gloom.
BREWER
(groaning)
This ain’t happening.
INT. PRISONERS’ BARRACKS
De Fravio is helped back to his bunk by one of the other
prisoners. There are few moments in human experience as
devastating as the return to prison (especially this
prison). The absolute abandonment of hope.
Several of the POWs sit near him, silently offering their
support. It is evident that two of the men, B.G., are as
autistic as De Fravio, having succumbed to that withdrawn
plane long before.
JENSEN, a prisoner with one leg, settles beside De Fravio
on his bunk. Puts a spidery hand on his shoulder.
JENSEN
We were pulling for you, Dave. We
hoped you’d make it.
De Fravio’s eyes focus. The merest spark of the old
defiant De Fravio glimmers wanly.
DE FRAVIO
Next time.
CUT TO:
INT. INTERROGATION ROOM - DUSK
LOW ANGLE on Sgt. Tay, powerful and vicious-looking as a
rabid ferret. He raises one fist, holding a LENGTH OF
RUBBER STRAP cut from a truck tire, and smashes it down
OUT OF FRAME.
There is a SICKENING THUD against flesh.
TIGHT ON RAMBO
grimacing from the blow.
There are board red welts over both collarbones, oozing
blood in places.
WIDER
showing Rambo on his knees, at the center of a bare
CONCRETE ROOM. A single window admits a shaft of red
dusk-light, like a spotlight.
Rambo sways in the spotlight, glistening with sweat,
stripped to his G.I. shorts.
In the four corners of the small room are guards with
rifles. Others crowd in the doorway, grinning and
jostling to see.
WHAM! The truncheon descends against Rambo’s face.
He sprawls onto the floor face-down, nose streaming blood.
Capt. Vinh enters with a strident shout, stopping Tay
from another blow. The two officers exit at a run,
leaving Rambo on his face before the guards.
EXT. CAMP COMPOUND - DUSK
An unearthly wind and the THUNDER of several helicopter
rotors fills the camp.
Two American-made "HUEY" HELICOPTERS descend to lumpy
landings near the guard towers.
One is a UH-1D "Slick" troop carrier and the other is a
UH-1B Gunship outfitted with a pedestal-mounted MINIGUN
and M-60 door gun.
Captured from the ARVN in 1975, both ships bear the
insignia of the Republic of Vietnam.
Beyond the guard tower, and dwarfing the two Hueys, an
ENORMOUS HELICOPTER ROARS out of the setting sun.
RUNNING LIGHTS and STROBES FLASH as the massive silhouette
drops into the courtyard raising a blast of dust.
It is a SOVIET MIL MI-24 assault helicopter.
Its double blister canopies look like huge insect eyes.
The STUBWING WEAPONS PODS bristle with rockets and
cannons.
It is painted with jungle camouflage and bears the red
star insignia of the SOVIET NAVAL AIR WING.
The Viet officers and guards cringe against the rotor
blast as the ship settles. The side door slides open.
DOLLY BACK, PRECEDING TWO RUSSIAN OFFICERS who tower above
the Vietnamese as they stride across the camp.
Vinh points to the concrete blockhouse and the officers
stride past him without slowing. He falls in behind them,
trying to keep up.
INT. PRISONERS’ BARRACKS
Jensen turns from the window as the MIL MI-24’s jet-whine
fades.
JENSEN
It’s those Russian interrogators
again.
Everyone looks grim.
INT. INTERROGATION ROOM
Vinh sends the gawking guards scurrying with strident
yells as he follows the two Russians into the room. The
Soviets stand in front of Rambo. The shorter of the two,
LIEUTENANT COMMANDER YATI PODOVSK, has the slight build
and unremarkable features of a bank clerk, though for a
man in his forties he is in superb condition. The other,
LIEUTENANT PALYUSHIN, is another story. He is a tall
broad slab of combat muscle, his black hair cut short as a
scrub brush. Thick and functional as state sculpture, his
features cannot fill his broad, flat face.
Both wear the khaki field dress and black beret of the
Naval Spetznatz Brigada, The "Special Operations Brigada".
At Palyushin’s feet, Rambo finds himself looking up at his
Soviet opposite number, the BLACK BERET.
PODOVSK
(in Russian)
Put him in the chair.
Palyushin hauls Rambo onto a wooden stool against the
wall. Podovsk sits next to him on a small metal desk.
It is almost dark and the only light is from a single bare
bulb.
PODOVSK
(Viet to Vinh)
Thank you, Captain Vinh. Leave one
guard, please.
Vinh exits with Tay and the other three Viets.
Podovsk adjusts his wire-rim glasses and considers Rambo.
He turns Rambo’s bloodied face gently, examining the
injuries.
PODOVSK
These people are so... vulgar in
their approach. I am Lieutenant
Commander Podovsk. I do not know
who you are. Will you tell me?
Podovsk’s English is lightly accented but clear and
articulate. He has a nasal condition, however. Rambo
doesn’t answer.
PODOVSK
(continuing)
No? Not even your name?
(silence)
This is a poor beginning for an
intimate relationship. By tomorrow
or the next day you will tell me
things you would not tell a lover.
Podovsk notices the long criss-crossed scars on Rambo’s
chest and back.
PODOVSK
(continuing)
I see you are no stranger to pain.
Then of course you must know how
senseless it is to resist in the
long run. Is it possible you have
been among my Vietnamese comrades
before?
Podovsk catches something as Rambo breaks his gaze,
looking away.
PODOVSK
(continuing)
Yes. I think that must be it.
Where were you held? Hanoi? Son |
