Title: Red Sea Project
Authors: Andrzej Mol, Miroslaw Jablonski
THE SEA. DAYTIME
An underwater scene set in some southern sea. Crystal-clear water translucent to the rays of the sun. The light brings out the richness of animate and inanimate forms. Buried in the sand underneath a stone lurks a larger, darker shape, alive though motionless. The camera closes in to reveal the head of a large fish. A moment later, the camera turns swiftly and moves towards the surface. Two figures in diving gear rise to the surface of the water: a man and a boy – JACK BROMSKY and his son MARK. Both remove their snorkels and pull off their masks. Mark is panting, short of breath, but wants to dive once again. Bromsky laughs.
BROMSKY:
Take it easy, Mark, or you’ll drown right at the start of your diving career.
MARK:
But Dad, it’ll escape!
BROMSKY:
No, it won’t. Even if it does we’ll find another. Get some air…
Both take several deep breaths and release the air as they submerge. Mark puts on his mask and snorkel and dives clumsily. Bromsky follows. Moving his arms and legs nervously, Mark tries to get closer to the big fish. He is clearly short of breath but refuses to give up. When he is very close, the huge scorpionfish quickly swims away in a whirlpool of sand. Mark is at the end of his tether and begins to quickly rise to the surface. He has already spat out his snorkel; big bubbles of air escape from his mouth. He is suffocating. Bromsky grabs him under the arms and with a few swift movements of his fins brings him to the surface. Mark chokes on the water and coughs, but his father’s strong arms keep his head above water. Away in the distance is the sandy and rocky shore. On the beach is a white woman, JILL. She is waving at them. Mark waves back.
MARK:
Mom! Mom! I saw a scorpionfish!
The woman obviously can’t hear him, but her gestures are clearly beckoning them to the shore.
VERANDA. BUNGALOW. EVENING
Bromsky, his wife and his son are having supper on the veranda of a wooden bungalow. Jack is a well-built, bearded man in his thirties; his wife is a slim blond with a baby face; their son is about six years old. A kerosene lamp hangs over the wooden table, but it is only for the atmosphere as the bungalow has electricity. Cicadas are chirping loudly. Lights from nearby windows reveal other similar chalets, behind which appear the hazy outlines of oil-drilling towers adorned with red warning lights. Bromsky’s bungalow is off the main drilling area. The family is finishing supper. Jack drains his wine glass, his son is visibly sleepy.
BROMSKY:
Go to bed, Mark. You’ve had enough for today. Not every guy has seen a live
scorpionfish at your age.
The boy gets up reluctantly. Bromsky ruffles the boy’s hair and Jill gives him a goodnight kiss.
JILL:
Tell your teddy-bear all about it. And don’t forget about the mosquito net…
When he gets to the door, Mark turns to his father.
MARK:
Daddy, when will you teach me scubadiving?
BROMSKY:
As soon as you hit form, kid. But now it’s bedtime…
MARK’S ROOM. NIGHT
Mark is in bed. His room is small and has slanting wooden walls. The room is messy. It contains a few posters, toys, and a collection of finds from the sea – shells, sponges, starfish hanging from the ceiling etc. The mosquito net is tied over Mark’s bed; the boy hugs his colourful fluffy teddy-bear; there is a dim light emanating from somewhere in the room. Mark talks to the teddy-bear.
MARK:
…and the wicked scorpionfish tried to catch Daddy by his leg but he only bit off a piece of his fin because he gave his glasses to be fixed in the morning and couldn’t see. And then Mark was short of breath but he blew into a shell to call his friend the dolphin who chased the scorpionfish away…are you listening teddy? Oh yes, you’re also sleepy but you didn’t even do any diving today. You can’t even swim doggie-paddle…
VERANDA. BUNGALOW. NIGHT
Bromsky and his wife are sitting on a rocking bench, embracing each other in silence.
JILL:
Mark is so happy here. He’s missed you so much. I’ve missed you too…
BROMSKY:
I’ll have a few days off next week. We’ll go somewhere, the stink of oil is getting me
down.
JILL:
Great… Maybe we could go up the Nile. I always wanted to see all of this … with you…
She caresses Bromsky, stroking his head and looking at him intently.
JILL:
You’re going grey, Jack. It’s dangerous… You know, women get turned on by it,
especially young ones …
She pauses and looks at her husband jokingly.
BROMSKY:
Hmm… Sounds interesting. Go on…
JILL:
You bastard!
They laugh. Bromsky hugs his wife, gently stroking her cheek, her eyes, her face.
JILL:
I like it when you touch me… Christ, I’ve missed you.
They give each other a tight hug, kissing more and more passionately. They are interrupted by the sound of a car. An old jeep with “ACC Oil Company” painted on its side emerges into the light. The driver – STEVE – is extremely grimy, dressed in a greasy oil-stained overall. He stops for a moment to observe the lovers as if relishing what he sees.
STEVE:
Well aren’t we the lucky ones!
A crooked smile appears on Bromsky’s face, as if he already knew what Steve had come for. His deep sigh interrupts the silence.
BROMSKY:
You know, Steve, they used to behead bringers of bad tidings.
STEVE:
Times are changing… At dawn you’re flying to number 7 for spare parts. There’s been
a break-down at the well. The drill got fucked up.
BROMSKY:
Shit! I wanted to run a check on the machine…
Steve changes the mood. He grins. He gives Jill and then Jack a knowing look.
STEVE:
A check on the machine, huh, is that what you call it? Don’t worry, you’ll manage it
before dawn.
Jill laughs, Bromsky is slow to get the joke.
JILL:
Why don’t you come in Steve?
STEVE:
Thanks but no thanks; I’m dead beat. Then again, if there’s a beer going…
Steve points to a crate of cans near the bench. Bromsky takes one and throws it to his friend. Steve opens the can and gulps down the contents while starting the engine.
STEVE:
Well, goodnight.
Steve drives off.
HANGAR. NIGHT
A makeshift hangar. Covered in grime and dressed in a greasy overall, Bromsky finishes checking the airplane. Soon afterwards he begins to fill the tank with petrol. He drags a two-hundred litre barrel standing on a trolley to the Cessna and takes a hand-pump off the wall. Red lights on the drilling towers can be seen through the open hangar door. The base is asleep.
BARRACK. NIGHT.
A large barrack. It could be a warehouse, as it is full of wooden crates piled up; or perhaps a small factory – it’s hard to tell because the interior is lit up by only two kerosene lamps. The door, as large as a barn door, is closed. Next to it is a land-rover. Some people are loading it with wooden crates with sawdust spilling out of them. A dark man, dressed in European clothes, can be seen from the back smoking a cigarette. His manner clearly shows that he is the boss. A crate, apparently the same as the others, lies by his feet. He motions to two other armed men who have so far been guarding his flanks. They pick the crate up and cram it between the others already loaded onto the car.
Outside, another man watches the scene intently through a slit in the wall. This is DUTCH, a stocky, fair-haired man. He is armed. When he sees that the crate has been loaded into the car by the two bodyguards, he decides to act. He edges over cautiously towards a small side door, backs out to gain momentum, and holding a machine gun in both hands bursts into the barrack. With a loud crash, sending pieces of rotten wood flying into the air, Dutch dives into the building, turns head-over-heels, and landing in a half-kneeling position opens fire, wreaking havoc all around. People fall to the ground, splinters of wood fly everywhere, the light goes out. The firing is only apparently random; the effect proves that Dutch is a professional. Kerosene burning somewhere in a corner begins to dispel the darkness. Dutch jumps behind the wheel of the laden jeep, starts the engine, and smashing the door drives off into the night. The dark figure of a man runs out after him. More shots are heard. Suddenly it is light. The barrack is on fire. Two other survivors run out and the three men jump into another car parked nearby in the shadow of spreading trees.
HANGAR. INSIDE/OUTSIDE. NIGHT
Whistling out of tune, Bromsky is pumping petrol with a hand pump. An approaching car can be heard, but this does not immediately attract his attention. He wipes his hands with a rag, leaves the hangar, and is suddenly surprised by the lights of a jeep that pulls up in front of him. Dutch turns off the lights and it is only then that Bromsky notices a machine gun pointing at him.
DUTCH:
Pilot or mechanic?!
Bromsky doesn’t reply. He slowly lifts his hands above his head. Somewhere in the distance the sound of an approaching car can be heard. Its headlights illuminate the tops of nearby trees for a short moment. Dutch looks nervously towards the approaching pursuers. He grabs the precious crate, jumps out of the jeep, and digging the gun into Bromsky’s ribs, pushes him towards the plane.
DUTCH:
You’d better be a pilot… Get in!
He rips the hose out of the plane’s tank and throws in the crate. Holding his gun he sits down next to Bromsky in the pilot’s cabin.
DUTCH:
Get it fucking moving!
The Cessna’s engine starts and the small plane slowly rolls out of the hangar, avoids Dutch’s jeep, and starts to gain speed. Suddenly, a jeep moving very fast emerges from the darkness, turns sharply, and begins to chase the plane. Shots are heard but they miss. The jeep closes down on the plane, whose engine has not gained full power yet. After a while the Cessna pulls away from the jeep and takes off. The jeep hits an obstacle, overturns and explodes. The plane gains height.
PLANE. INSIDE/OUTSIDE. NIGHT
Inside the cabin, Bromsky at the controls. After a short spell of smooth flying, the engine suddenly starts to choke. The plane begins to shudder. Bromsky immediately reduces the revs, thus restoring the plane’s balance. He fixes his attention on the console’s indicators.
DUTCH:
What’s up?
Bromsky is concentrating on the sound of the engine and doesn’t reply. He tries to increase the revs but the engine chokes once again, this time it seems even worse than before.
BROMSKY:
It’s the damned pump. It’s not pumping gas. That’s it – we’re not going any further !
Dutch’s face registers disbelief, then anger. He holds the gun to Bromsky’s head.
DUTCH:
Stop fucking around!
BROMSKY:
Sure…
Bromsky can’t take it any more. He grabs the barrel of the gun and determinedly pushes it away.
BROMSKY:
Fuck you, asshole! Can’t you see I have to land. If you don’t like it get out!
Dutch gives in and nervously looks around the cabin. Bromsky takes the plane down a little, and looks out of the window to check out the terrain.
Down below there is a dark sheet of water shimmering in the moonlight. Further away is a ragged coastline.
As if taking revenge for what has happened, Bromsky grins ironically, relaxing a little.
BROMSKY:
Better grab something or you’ll lose your balls!
Bromsky tries to land the plane in darkness near a steep cliff amongst long shadows cast by rocks. The wheels of the plane touch the uneven surface, the machine is rocked violently. The scene calms, briefly; it seems that the worst is behind them. But suddenly the plane hits a rock hidden in the shadows, the wing is torn off and the plane turns sharply, dragging its nose along the stony ground until it hits a rock wall head on. Dutch flies over Bromsky’s head and crashes through the windscreen, breaking it. His throat is cut by broken glass.
The plane bounces off the rock, moves towards the precipice, and for a split second freezes as if uncertain what to do next. It then rolls over on its side and falls into the dark sea tens of metres below.
The cabin of the sinking plane gradually fills with water. Bromsky slowly comes round. With great effort he tries to keep his head in the shrinking bubble of air. He waits until the cabin is completely full of water. Then he opens the door and swims out. He soon runs out of breath, begins to suffocate, struggles violently for every metre that gets him closer to the surface. He panics, chokes, inhales water and finally passes out.
THE COAST. NIGHT
Bromsky is lying on a narrow strip of stony beach. His breathing is erratic. He is unconscious…
[...]