FADE IN:
EXT. SLOPE — DAY
An ocean breeze sweeps a grassy hill.
Three mules trudge upward.
One mule lugs tools and supplies.
One mule bears a SAIPANESE SCOUT.
The third features INDIANA JONES.
Indy doffs his fedora, wipes sweat from brow.
He takes a swig from a canteen.
He digs out a ’40s-era map of Saipan.
An “X” marks “Lovers’ Grotto” near “Banzai Cliff.”
EXT. LOVERS’ GROTTO — DAY
The crest of a hill borders the cusp of a deep grotto.
The near bank of the grotto descends at a sharp angle to a well of seawater percolating thirty meters below.
The three mules plod toward the cusp.
Indy and Scout dismount.
Indy targets the cusp as Scout tethers the mules.
Indy appraises descent: iffy at best.
He shucks fedora and holstered Colt .45.
SCOUT
Doctor Jones. A word of caution.
Three times, have I guided men here.
Three times, have I returned alone.
INDY
Amateurs.
SCOUT
Treasure hunters, tried and true.
INDY
Everyone runs into a spell of
bad luck from time to time.
SCOUT
Not luck, Professor. The Spirit
of the Grotto. Legend has it,
she drowned herself to avenge a
broken heart. They say, she sings
so sweetly, a man will journey to
hell to hear her Siren’s strains.
INDY
I’m content to listen to vintage
seventy-eights on my Victrola.
SCOUT
This is no jesting matter.
INDY
I’ve trekked across half of Asia
in quest of the Laughing Buddha.
I’m not about to turn away now,
spirit or no spirit.
SCOUT
I do not wish to return empty-
handed ––
(mock cough)
. . . to return alone again.
Please do me the honor of
accepting these as precaution.
Scout offers earplugs.
Indy stashes them.
INDY
Appreciate it.
SCOUT
Above all, never make eye contact
with the Spirit. They say, the
she-devil is too lovely for mere
mortals to resist.
INDY
Sounds charming.
He drops from view.
SCOUT
May fortune be with you.
And with me and my heirs.
INT. LOVERS’ GROTTO — DAY
Indy hugs the slope as he eases downward.
He grips vines, plants boots on outcroppings.
He slips as a toehold crumbles.
He breaks his fall by clutching an exposed root.
Mist rises from the water percolating below.
A shadowy FORM materializes in the swirling mist.
The form resolves into a radiant mist-shrouded SIREN.
The siren HUMS an other-worldly tune.
Indy, pausing, perks his ears.
He grins fiend-like, sways in time to the beat.
He gapes, awestruck, at the sultry Siren.
Siren transmutes into a three-headed KING COBRA.
Celestial humming turns demonic.
Volume rises.
Indy twists his head from the hypnotic sight.
He digs out the earplugs.
He inserts one plug, fumbles the other.
He grits his teeth, resumes descent.
The demonic humming reaches goblet-shattering decibels.
Indy convulses, his teeth chatter, as the shrill humming threatens to implode eardrums.
He forces himself to look down in quest of sanctuary.
His vision blurs.
He inhales deeply, refocuses.
He sizes up the odds of safe leap.
Outcroppings and craggy boulders counsel against taking the plunge.
The thickening mist, the thrashing of the King Cobra, the ever-more-shrill humming force Indy’s hand.
He pushes off the slope with all his might.
Indy freefalls toward the churning abyss.
A COLOSSAL WHIRLPOOL forms, sucking him in.
Mist clears, humming dies, cobra zaps, whirlpool dissolves as he submerges.
INT. SUBTERRANEAN CAVERN — DAY
Eerie light from phosphorescent walls.
Humble shrine honors a ruby-eyed, 24-karat gold Laughing Buddha: moldy oranges, wilted blossoms, melted candles, burnt-to-stub joss sticks.
Indy vaults onto stone ledge, water streaming.
He inclines his head in homage.
He stows idol in a custom-made sling.
He takes a deep breath, dives from the ledge.
EXT. RIDGE — DAY
Indy clambers toward the cusp of the grotto.
Scout shields Indy’s .45.
SCOUT
No luck, Doctor Jones?
Indy removes trophy from sling.
SCOUT
Praise the Lord!
INDY
The Lord had precious little
to do with it.
Scout flourishes the .45.
SCOUT
You jest at your peril.
INDY
My peril comes from the revolver
you’re carelessly brandishing.
SCOUT
You’ll come to no harm, provided
you turn over the sacred idol.
INDY
Sacred idol worth a king’s ransom.
SCOUT
One more jest, and it shall be
your last.
INDY
Why is the Buddha busting a gut
if he doesn’t enjoy my dry wit?
SCOUT
Enough talk. Toss it.
Indy rears back, as if to fling idol into grotto.
SCOUT
Do that, and you shall die in vain.
INDY
Not in vain. I’d be joining
the Spirit of the Grotto.
Charming gal.
O.S. SOUND of GUNSHOT.
A bullet grazes Indy’s ear.
He daubs crimson.
INDY
Toss it? If you insist.
Indy lobs the idol high above Scout’s head.
Scout instinctively glances up.
Quick as a wink, Indy liberates a coiled bullwhip from beneath his jacket.
Equal parts speed and grace, he lashes out.
Whip entwines Scout’s gun hand.
His trigger finger jerks, spawning errant GUNFIRE.
Scout draws a dagger with his free hand.
SCOUT
How do you say, “He who laughs
last. . . ?”
Indy glances at the tumbling idol.
INDY
“. . . laughs hardest.”
SOMEONE’S P.O.V. — RIDGE (THRU BINOCULARS)
Laughing Buddha hits Scout on the head. VOICE-OVER:
MAN (V.O.)
(in German)
Well done, Professor. I knew
we could count on you.
EXT. U.S. ARMY OUTPOST — DAY
TWO SENTRIES with M-1’s guard the main gate.
The three mules trudge past: Scout, wrists bound behind back; Indy next; pack mule trailing.
EXT. SAIPAN TOWNSHIP — DAY
The three mules reach the constabulary.
Indy, dismounting, offers to help Scout dismount. A boot lashes out. Indy grabs boot, sends Scout sprawling.
A tobacco-chawing CONSTABLE emerges.
CONSTABLE
Trouble, Doctor Jones?
Indy shakes his head.
CONSTABLE
Amen. The late war was trouble
enough for one lifetime.
INDY
I’d be much obliged if you detain
the gentleman until my plane leaves.
Scout gives the Constable a furtive wink.
CONSTABLE
My pleasure. A minor technicality.
What charge?
INDY
Spitting on the boardwalk?
CONSTABLE
I can’t detain a man for spitting
on the boardwalk unless I witness
the vile act myself.
Scout obliges by hawking phlegm near Indy’s boot.
EXT. SAIPAN AIRPORT — NIGHT
A SQUAD in G.I. uniforms stands guard with M-1’s.
CAPTAIN MANN reins in a snarling GERMAN SHEPHERD.
A DeSoto cab pulls to the curb.
Indy alights with valise and gift-wrapped package.
MANN
(German accent)
Doctor Jones, I presume?
INDY
At your service, Captain.
MANN
You are aware of the ban on
exporting Saipanese artifacts
without an exit permit?
Indy displays a florid permit.
MANN
Sad to say, Professor, you’ve
been fleeced. The signature is
a forgery. You can, of course,
secure a valid permit tomorrow.
INDY
Urgent business requires my
departure tonight.
MANN
In that case, my hands are tied.
Mann snaps his fingers.
A P.F.C. opens Indy’s valise: maps; clothing; archeology tome; Colt .45.
The P.F.C. snatches the .45, gestures for the package.
Indy pans the squad, debates the odds, relents.
Mann tears off the wrapper, unveiling a gilt Laughing Buddha.
MANN
This will go a long way to
repairing Saipan’s war-torn
economy.
INDY
Glad to be of help, Captain.
INT. PAN AM CHECK-IN — NIGHT
Ticketeer MEI LAI returns Indy’s passport.
MEI LAI
There you go, Doctor Jones.
(sotto voce)
Do you want it now?
Indy spots Scout, ducking behind a potted bush.
INDY
I’d like to see you again,
Mei Lai. For old times’ sake.
EXT. PAN AM CLIPPER — NIGHT
TWO M.P.’s in G.I. uniforms guard the boarding ramp.
Indy, striding over, offers valise for inspection.
One M.P. rewards him with a curt shake of the head.
INT. PAN AM CLIPPER — NIGHT
Mei Lai hurries aboard with a satchel.
She stumbles near Indy’s row. A plain-wrapped package ejects from the satchel and plops onto his lap.
INDY
Thanks, Mei Lai.
MEI LAI
No, Indy. Thank you.
She punctuates her intimation with a wink.
EXT. SAIPAN AIRPORT — NIGHT
Clipper lifts off tarmac.
INSERT — SPINNING GLOBE
Silhouette of clipper tracks Indy’s flight from Saipan toward New England.