LANDWHALE

Screenplay draft

Title: LANDWHALE
Credit: Written by
Author: 
Draft date: October 2024
Contact: 

FADE IN.

EXT. LEBANESE BORDER RIDGE - GOLDEN HOUR

Desaturated earth tones stretch across the rocky outcrop. Low sun casts long shadows over grit and loose shale. ROTEM YANAI stands alone on the ridge, 450 pounds of massive frame locked inside full IDF combat gear. The olive fabric strains at every seam, buttons pulling tight across her torso, sleeves taut at the shoulders. Cropped hair sits sweat-damp against her scalp. Her stern expression faces forward, unmoving.

Wind moves across the ridge. Distant mechanical whines rise and fall on the air, thin and mechanical.

Rotem shifts her weight once. Boots planted wide. The uniform creaks. A single bead of sweat traces the line of her jaw and drops to the fabric at her collar.

She remains still. The sun continues its slow descent, turning the light colder at the edges. Drone spotlights have not yet activated. The ridge holds only her silhouette against the fading gold.

Rotem inhales, deep and deliberate. The straps across her chest tighten visibly. She exhales through her nose. Nothing else moves on the ridge.

The mechanical whine grows fractionally louder, still far off. Rotem does not turn her head. Her eyes stay fixed on the horizon line where the terrain drops away into Lebanese territory.

Fabric at her midsection pulls tighter with each breath. The material holds. She holds. The ridge holds.

INT. TEL AVIV SAFEHOUSE - EVENING

A modest apartment holds the last warmth of evening light through one window. Eli Cohen sits forward on a worn couch, slim frame tense in civilian clothes. His smartphone screen glows cold and bright against the room, displaying a live feed of rocky ridge terrain under fading golden light. On screen, Rotem Yanai stands alone in strained IDF fatigues, her massive silhouette absorbing distant specks that strike and vanish into fabric.

ELI
Come on, Rotem. Hold it.

He leans closer. The feed sharpens on another drone impact, fabric stretching, her cropped hair damp with sweat. Eli's fingers tighten around the phone edges.

ELI
Nothing gets past you. You said it yourself.

A cluster of three drones accelerates on the feed. They hit in sequence, muffled thuds registering through the shaky video. Eli's knee bounces once, then stops.

ELI
Stay planted. Ridge is yours.

The phone screen flickers with digital artifacts as more specks appear on the horizon. Eli mutters faster, voice dropping lower, the protective edge cutting through each word.

ELI
Don't move. Don't give them the angle.

He watches her boots remain fixed on the outcrop, the low sun casting long shadows across her bulk. The room's soft light falls across his worried face while the feed hardens into harsher tones.

INT. HEZBOLLAH BUNKER - EVENING

Concrete walls absorb the low hum of recording equipment. A green screen fills the back wall, its edges lit by a single practical bulb that throws long, sharp shadows across the floor. Subtle propaganda posters curl at the corners behind the screen. A small desk holds a microphone, a tablet, and a camera on a tripod.

HASSAN NASRALLAH enters from the side door. He wears a tactical vest over a dark shirt, keffiyeh draped loose around his neck. His middle-aged features remain composed. He pauses at the desk and lifts both hands to adjust the keffiyeh, folding the fabric once, then again, until the drape sits even across his shoulders.

He steps forward into the camera's frame. The green screen reflects a faint green tint on his skin. Hassan checks the tablet, taps the screen twice, and leans toward the microphone. His calm smile holds steady as he taps the mic with one finger.

HASSAN NASRALLAH
Testing. One. Two. Clear on this end.

He straightens, rolls his shoulders once, and resets his posture. The smile never widens. He glances at the tablet again, scrolls through a short clip of drone footage, then closes the device. The bunker stays quiet except for the faint click of the camera's auto-focus.

Hassan adjusts the keffiyeh one final time, tucking a loose edge behind his ear. He looks directly into the lens, expression unchanged, and waits for the recording light to blink green.

EXT. LEBANESE BORDER RIDGE - GOLDEN HOUR

Rocky outcrop juts against a low sun. Desaturated earth tones stretch across the ridge. ROTEM YANAI stands alone in full IDF combat gear stretched tight across her 450-pound frame. Short cropped hair clings damp to her scalp. Olive fabric strains at every seam. Boots planted wide on the grit.

A faint mechanical whine drifts on the wind. Her earpiece crackles.

ELI COHEN (V.O.)
You're an absolute unit, Rotem. Nothing gets past that ridge with you holding it.

Rotem shifts her weight. The radio hiss lingers.

ROTEM
Copy.

She scans the horizon. A single FPV drone appears as a dark speck against the golden light. It grows. Rotem does not move. The fabric across her torso pulls tighter with each breath.

ELI COHEN (V.O.)
I mean it. One body. Whole border. They built the meme before the first launch.

The drone accelerates. Its propeller cuts sharp against the silence. Rotem's hands stay at her sides. The speck becomes a blur.

ROTEM
Ridge is mine.

The drone strikes her midsection. A muffled thud. It vanishes into the bulk. No recoil. Another speck follows, then two more. They angle in tight formation. Rotem remains upright. The impacts register as faint ripples across strained fabric. Golden light catches the sweat on her brow.

ELI COHEN (V.O.)
Stay put. Tel Aviv sees the feed. They need the visual.

Three more drones converge. Rotem plants her boots deeper into the rock. The first wave vanishes without sound beyond the wet impacts. She exhales slow. The horizon darkens with new specks.

EXT. LEBANESE BORDER RIDGE - GOLDEN HOUR

Rocky outcrop juts against a low sun. Desaturated earth tones wash the terrain. ROTEM YANAI stands planted on the ridge crest, 450 pounds of IDF combat gear stretched taut across her frame. Olive fabric strains at every seam. Sweat darkens the cropped hair at her temples. She holds a rifle across her bulk, boots sunk into grit.

A faint radio crackle rises from her vest.

ROTEM
Ridge is secure. Nothing passes.

She exhales once, deliberate. The wind carries distant mechanical whines that sharpen into three distinct tones. Three FPV drones resolve from the horizon as black specks, then grow. Their props chop the air in rising pitch.

Rotem shifts her weight. Fabric creaks. The lead drone banks left, then straightens. The other two follow in tight formation, accelerating. Gritty video artifacts flicker across their small frames as golden light catches rotor blades.

She watches without raising the rifle. Her stern expression holds. The drones close, prop wash now audible as a low drone swarm murmur. One dips, then levels again. All three vector directly at her torso.

Rotem plants her boots wider. Strained seams pull tighter under the light.

INT. TEL AVIV SAFEHOUSE - EVENING

Warm domestic light filters through a single window, clashing against the cold blue glow of the smartphone screen. Eli Cohen sits hunched on the worn couch, slim frame swallowed by a faded hoodie, one knee bouncing. The modest apartment holds the quiet of early evening, dishes stacked in the sink, a half-eaten sandwich on the coffee table.

He leans closer. The feed shows the Lebanese ridge at golden hour, Rotem's massive silhouette planted against the sky, olive fabric stretched tight across her back. Distant mechanical whines leak from the phone speaker, tinny and thin.

ELI
Rotem, you copy? First wave's coming in clean.

The first muffled impact registers through the tiny speaker, a low thud absorbed by fabric and flesh. Eli's fingers tighten around the phone edges. He shifts forward, elbows on knees, breath shallow.

ELI
(under his breath)
That's one. Stay put.

Three more hit in quick succession, each registering as a soft, wet compression on the audio. Gritty digital artif

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