I don't sit around just talking to experts because this is a college seminar. We talk to these folks because they potentially have the best answers, so I know whose ass to kick.
--Barack Obama
FADE IN: EXT: THE GULF OF MEXICO
Open on a panoramic view from a hilltop, looking out to sea. As the camera swoops down toward shore, we see dead birds and turtles scattered across a deserted beach. Black goo washes up with the surf. The camera moves out to sea, where a large plume of oil fouls the surface. Zoom in on the USS Intrepid. In the middle of a crowd on the deck stands PRESIDENT BARACK OBAMA, in a wetsuit, next to a strange machine. It looks like a cross between a robot and a deep-sea submersible.
NATIONAL SECURITY ADVISER: Mr. President, you can't do this.
OBAMA: I am doing this. Nothing else has capped that well. I'm tired of waiting.
His SCIENTIFIC ADVISER is almost frantic: The DiveMech is still in the experimental stage! Its capabilities haven't been proven --
OBAMA steps into the DiveMech.
OBAMA: Then it's time to prove them.
NATIONAL SECURITY ADVISER: The pressure is too great!
OBAMA: Pressure?
CLOSE on OBAMA's face as he smiles and pauses for dramatic effect.
OBAMA: I'm the first black president of the United States. I'm fighting two wars, a major economic collapse, a vast right-wing conspiracy, a do-nothing Congress, and a bunch of tea-partiers with torches and pitchforks. And I have a vice president with a mouth that makes Helen Thomas sound like a mime. So don't talk to me about pressure. He steps into the DiveMech.
CUT TO: The ocean, underwater. The DiveMech descends, fading into the gloomy depths. We get a final glimpse of OBAMA's set jaw.
CUT TO:
Two fishermen in a rowboat, wearing Florida Marlins ball caps. They look bored. The water is dead calm. Out of nowhere a giant wave appears, launching their boat into the air and flipping it over. The fishermen come to the surface, spluttering. FISHERMAN 1:
What the hell was that?!
CUT TO:
The deck of the Intrepid. OBAMA is stripping out of his wetsuit. His pectorals are like chiseled granite. His steely gaze holds a mixture of sated rage and grim satisfaction. He's the Incredible Hunk.
NATIONAL SECURITY ADVISER:
The nuclear blast plugged the leak, Mr. President. Congratulations. It's over.
OBAMA: Over? He pauses for dramatic effect.
OBAMA: I'm just warming up.
CUT TO: INT: The boardroom of British Petroleum, Westminster, England.
MEN IN SUITS are seated around a vast and gleaming table.
A SMUG LAWYER closes a file folder.
SMUG LAWYER: And that, gentlemen, is how we will completely avoid any liability for our little mishap in the Gulf.
MAN IN SUIT: Sebastian, you're a bloody genius. A shame you shan't use your powers for good instead of evil! The other MEN IN SUITS laugh evilly and British-ly.
CUT TO: INT: The lobby of BP headquarters. It has a revolving door with two standard doors on either side of it. All three doors are unlocked, but BARACK OBAMA doesn't use any of them. He crashes Cadillac One, the presidential limousine, through the large plate-glass window and steps out from behind the wheel. He's wearing ripstop nylon battle dress fatigues, black boots, and mirrored aviator sunglasses. He is carrying a Benelli M4 Super 90 shotgun in one hand. A 5.56mm Colt M4A1 carbine is slung across his back. He has a SOG SEAL knife with a seven-inch, powder-coated blade and a Zytel handle sheathed in Kydex strapped to his leg.
SECURITY GUARD:
'Ere now, guv'nor! Wot's the meaning o' this?
OBAMA:
Governor? That's 'Mr. President' to you, pal. As OBAMA strides toward the interior the SECURITY GUARD tries to stop him, but OBAMA does something with his hands so fast we can't follow the movement. The SECURITY GUARD falls to the ground.
CUT TO: INT: The BP Boardroom. The evil, British-y laughter dies abruptly as BARACK OBAMA bursts in, then stops and pauses for dramatic effect. His gaze falls on
BP CEO TONY HAYWARD, who has remained motionless in his chair while his frightened minions scurry to the far side of the room.
HAYWARD: We meet at last. OBAMA says nothing. His steely gaze seems to pin HAYWARD to his chair.
HAYWARD: You have me at a disadvantage, sir. I am unarmed. That hardly seems sporting. OBAMA says nothing, but slowly and deliberately tosses his guns aside. In one smooth movement HAYWARD pushes back, vaults onto the table, and lands in a martial-arts crouch. They fight. They fight some more. And then some more. HAYWARD seems to be gaining the upper hand, but then OBAMA rallies, stuns HAYWARD with a series of devastating body blows, and finishes him off with a jumping back hook kick. As HAYWARD falls back on the desk OBAMA draws his SOG SEAL knife and slams it down through HAYWARD'S coat, pinning him to the table.
OBAMA: Next time, Hayward . . . I'll plug you, too.
CUT TO: INT: The Oval Office at sunset. OBAMA casts a long shadow as he stands in front of the window, hands clasped behind his back. He seems to throb with power, even in repose. A long silence, then we hear a door open.
NATIONAL SECURITY ADVISER (O.C.): Mr. President? OBAMA turns his head ever so slightly.
NATIONAL SECURITY ADVISER (STILL O.C.): We've -- sir, we've found Osama bin Laden. He's holed up in a cave in South Waziristan. Right where you said he'd be. OBAMA nods slowly.
OBAMA: Thanks. I'll handle it. Have Air Force One fueled and waiting on the tarmac in half an hour. We hear the door close. OBAMA turns around and opens his desk drawer. He takes out his SOG SEAL knife and begins to hone the edge. FADE OUT.
