1. SUPER: December, 1995. The cloaked CIA stealth satellite
Misty soars 150 miles above Baja California.
EXT. ABOVE BAJA CALIFORNIA - DAY
At the upper limits of the lucent biosphere, a small spot grows
as our eye closes on the strange object.
Our eye enters Misty’s camera --
and plunges down.
The Baja peninsula expands to Baja’s southern tip --
(Photo of Cabo Falso, courtesy of Latitude 38)
as we overtake --
2. EXT. ALTITUDE, OFFSHORE - CABO FALSO TO CABO SAN
-- a small twin-engine plane, following a long white wake, flies
easterly along the beach toward Cabo San Lucas’ Land’s End.
3. INT. PLANE COCKPIT
PILOT and CO-PILOT at the controls. The plane clears Land’s
End, banks left. The white wake leads to a sleek motor yacht
moving slowly to the Hacienda Hotel moorings. Co-Pilot aims
a camera. Shutter CLICKS.
SHOT: Motor yacht’s stern and lettering:
DELFIN DE ORO
Palma Mallorca España
The plane banks left toward the Las Glorias Hotel. A small
dinghy with three people aboard approaches the dock.
4. EXT. LAS GLORIAS HOTEL DOCK
Fat, lumpy GEORGE SELKIRK (60), and his wife, SUSAN (50),
a trim aging beauty, stand on the dock beside two suitcases.
Slim, tanned RAMONA (PEPPER) DEERING (26) sits at the
dinghy’s controls, her knees clamped tightly together.
Pepper, her plain features devoid of cosmetics, is dressed in a
white blouse, Bermuda shorts and sneakers. Her sun-bleached
ponytail trails from a baseball cap. Still she manages to exude
considerable sexual energy.
George scowls, turns his back on the two women. Susan gives
Pepper a “suffering wife” smile.
Take care of Lost Horizons, Pepper.
She's our baby. Remember, any problems,
you have our telephone number.
George picks up the suitcases, trudges to the hotel.
Don’t worry, Mrs. S. Bye, Dr. Selkirk.
See ya’ all in a couple ‘a weeks.
George ignores Pepper, continues walking. Susan consoles
Don’t mind him. George can be such
I don’t think he trusts me with Lost Horizons.
5. EXT. MARINA CHANNEL EXIT
Pepper and dinghy speed toward the Gold Dolphin.
6. EXT. GOLD DOLPHIN
On the yacht’s flying bridge, CAPTAIN ROBERTO DELAFINA
(62), a handsome Latino, black hair graying at the temples,
leans on the coaming, looks down on the foredeck.
He turns to watch the approaching dinghy; we see his
dark eyes — like looking down the barrel of a shot gun.
On the foredeck, ENRIQUE (22), a short, buffed Latino stud,
lays on the deck, fishing with a long boathook for a mooring
line tied to a buoy in the water below.
The speeding dinghy passes close to the yacht's bows, on which
an image of a golden dolphin holding a silver crucifix in its beak
is prominently displayed. Enrique loses the mooring line as the
buoy tosses about in the dinghy's wake.
7. EXT. FLYING BRIDGE - ROBERTO P.O.V.
Enrique leaps to his feet, gives Pepper the fist.
Pepper flips Enrique the bird. The loose boathook heads
overboard. Enrique scrambles to retrieve it. The dinghy
races to the east, leaving behind a wide wake, a trail of
rolling yachts and a lot of angry sailors.
8. INT. CIA HQS. - LANGLEY - DIRECTOR’S OFFICE
CIA Director MATTHEW FORD (60), heavy-set, balding, confers
with Deputy Director of Intelligence, CLIFFORD YOUNG (55), a
tall, lean white man, and Deputy Director of Operations, JAMES
MAKEPEACE BOWIE (55), a black man built like an NFL tight end
with a face to match.
What a fascinating story. You know,
I never did think the Warren Report
made sense. But I had no idea this
thing was so close to us.
Young and Bowie study their hands.
So, what are we going to do about it?
I suppose a better question might be,
why do anything after all these years?
OK, Cliff. What’s your answer?
I plead modesty. Actually what Cliff
just said was the Director’s question
back in sixty four. The President told
him to deep-six everything.
OK. So what’s the problem now?
Well, for one thing, researchers keep
bombing us under the Freedom of
Yeah. And Congress is talking about
more hearings. If that happens, they’ll
be looking for our files.
Well, if we don’t have them, what’s
We thought the most sensitive
materials were destroyed.
Bureaucrats never destroy records.
They’re obsessed with covering
their asses. Administrations come
That’s not the problem. When the
Director went into the files to do the
job himself, all he found was --
9. SUPER: 1964
INT. CIA HQS - STORAGE FILE STACKS
A CRAGGY FACED MAN (60), steel-rimmed glasses, a shock of
thick curly white hair pulled back from a high forehead,
wanders down an aisle between racks of file cases, peering at
the labels with a flashlight.
He stops at a section marked CUBA, 1958-1962, examines a
row of cases labeled ZAPATA. Pulls one down. It’s empty. On
its face is a single boldly scrawled word: "CUIDADO."
10. END FLASHBACK - RETURN TO SCENE
Yeah. That’s Spanish for “Beware.”
I know what it means, you jackass. It
means we can’t make up a new batch
of records because they can release
photocopies of the originals to the press
and then we’ll be stuck with a cover-up,
just like we nailed Nixon with Watergate.
Yeah. It's been their life insurance policy
for over thirty years.
Damn! Politicians and reporters are like
Bowie glances at Young, LAUGHS.
Like dogs. If a man runs, they bite
him. And if he stands still, they piss
on him. So, what d’you want me to
Well, we’ve worked out several
scenarios, but they’re all risky, and
call for policy decisions that aren’t
ours to make.
We’ve been keeping track of these
guys for some time now. What say
we grab them and wring the files out
of them? Any time you give the order.
You know we can’t operate that way
Besides, the risk is too great. With
the country so divided and everyone
at each other’s throats, whatever we
do, if it becomes public, there’ll be
serious political repercussions.
Yeah. The country is practically
ungovernable. Except in times of
Especially in times of crisis. Because
then it’s cover your ass time. People
run around like chickens with their
heads cut off. Biting and scratching
for political advantage. Playing the
blame game. Determined to protect
their turfs, and the country be damned.
Hell. I don’t know why we have to
keep covering for these pussies.
Well, what do you recommend?
Yeah, do nothing at all. Frankly, we
think the Director back then was right.
Let sleeping dogs lie. The more you
stir it, the more it stinks. And then
there’s the law of unintended
Well, I’m going to have to call the
President. But if I don’t spell it out for
him, he'll go crying to the National
Security Council, the Secret Service,
the FBI, the First Lady, and whoever
he likes to talk to in the dead of night.
Yeah. There'll be leaks all over the
place and the CIA will end up being
the goat, just like with the Bay of Pigs.
(Continue to p. 3.)