A/N: Alright, short of asking a Russian professor here, I did everything possible to try and find English-to-Russian translations that didn't require me to read Cyrillic, I failed.
Germany was more pleasant this time around for the two members of the JAG team that had previously visited the country. For Harm, this trip was a nice step up from being in a hospital bed in Landstuhl. Of course, he was loving the fact that part of his cover meant that he had to sleep with Mac. Harm didn't remember much about Landstuhl but Ramstein didn't look all that different. He stood out on the balcony in the golden bathrobe that had been given to him in the wardrobe that the CIA had provided them with. He looked at Mac who was sprawled out on the bed, sleeping peacefully. The morning sun burst through the open balcony doors and danced across her gorgeous olive skin. Harm would have thought this to be an adventure in paradise, were it not for the real reason he was here.
In his suite next door, Jim Grant was sitting in his own bathrobe, a royal blue one and reading the morning paper. One of the many benefits of understanding the language of the country that you were in, was that you could actually do things that the active citizenry would do. He'd decided against going for a run, instead he relegated himself to some intense callisthenics in the confines of his room and then a quick shower. He knew how contact was going to have to be made, the same way that it was always made in these situations. There was a restaurant, a bar or some other public place where the crowds gathered where contact would be established and it would look like nothing more than a simple exchange.
At 1155 local, Jim put on one of the suits that Webb had picked out for him. It was a blue Ralph Lauren suit that was tailored to perfection. Webb had taste, Jim would give him that. He finished off dressing by donning one of the pairs of designer sunglasses that Webb had selected. Webb had left a note with the sunglasses in an attempt at humour. 'These sure beat those wire jobs that you wear, huh?' He did the right thing and incinerated the note before leaving his room at just after 1200. Jim stood in the hallway, and looked down the hall at Harm and Mac's door.
He didn't need them to make the initial contact, chances are that it would be Lackenbauer that would approach him. Germans were particularly friendly with their own kind, in a German crowd, Lackenbauer wouldn't stand out, but the Korsikovs would. Jim knew that Harm would be more than indignant about being left out of the initial meeting and he knew that Mac wouldn't be too pleased with it either, but something's were best left to the fewest people possible and it didn't get any less than one.
He headed to the elevator and down into the lobby of the hotel. He walked up to the front desk to get the information that he needed in the form of a question that any tourist would ask. "Entschuldigen Sie, Frau. Was Restaurant ist sehr volkstumlich?" (Excuse me, miss. What restaurant is very popular?)
"Der Pilot Hangar." (The Pilot Hangar) The woman behind the counter replied.
"Danke." (Thank you) Jim turned and headed out of the hotel. The name of the restaurant made sense. Ramstein Air Base was a major German NATO contribution, it only made sense that certain establishments would play off of that fact. He hopped in his car and drove to the restaurant. It didn't take a genius to find it either. The popular places in Europe tended to follow a 'Field of Dreams' philosophy; if you build it, they will come. All Jim had to do was go where the people were. He hopped out of his car and followed a pretty steady stream of people into the restaurant.
He walked up to the hostess like a man on a mission, largely because he was just that. "Fur eins, Fraulein." (For one, Miss) He stated plainly and the waitress guided him over toward the bar. Jim took a seat on the stool and turned to survey the place. It was a stereotypical tourist trap. It looked just like any ignorant American would expect a German beer hall to look right down to the liederhosen and beer.
"Ein Bier, bitte."(One Beer, please) Jim motioned to the man behind the bar. The man slid a beer down the bar to him. Jim pulled a copy of the local paper out of an inside pocket on his jacket and continued reading it as he nursed his beer. A tall, athletic, dark haired man took over the stool next to Jim.
"Ist Ramstein ihr gefallen?" (Do you like Ramstein?) The man asked. Jim knew this had to be contact. No one tended to just ask random question.
"Ich vorziehe Barcelona oder Biarritz." (I prefer Barcelona or Biarritz) Jim countered as he raised his beer to his lips.
"Du reist mit dem Bruder, ja?" (You travel with your brother, yes?) The man's delivery of the line was cool and collected, almost rehearsed. "Wo ist er?" (Where is he?)
"In dem Hotel mit ihm Frau." (In the hotel, with his wife) Jim turned on the barstool toward the man who was talking to him. It was in fact, Gunter Lackenbauer, just as he looked in the picture that Webb had shown him. He was sporting a most confused look at Jim's latest comment; almost as if he didn't understand what could be more important than this meeting. "Frischvermahlte." (Newlyweds.) Jim stated curtly and watched as a wave of understanding overcame the German.
"I must commend you on your German, Mr. Bishop. Remarkably few grammar mistakes and only the tiniest trace of your Texas accent." Lackenbauer smiled slightly as he extended his hand.
"It has been a while since I have had the pleasure of coming to Germany. I believe that the last time was Oktoberfest back in '92." Jim was happy to be conducting business in English; speaking German was hell on his phlegm production.
"Then you have missed out on much. I suppose that you were busy in the old Bloc after the wall came down however." Gunter Lackenbauer spoke English with a proper aristocratic flare and a notably German efficiency.
"The trade coming out of the Bloc was good, but my informants tell me that the centre of my business will soon be moving south and east, I must shift my business accordingly. I am told that you have some buyers for me. If I were to know who, it could save me from having to disturb my lovely sister-in-law only to use her translating talents." Jim was trying to play right to the heart of the matter.
"I have heard of your direct approach, Mr. Bishop. What you have not anticipated is that I am holding all of the cards in our little game. If you walk, I have local suppliers whom I can turn to." Lackenbauer tried to sound high and mighty.
"But obviously they are incapable of supplying what you require, Mr. Lackenbauer." Jim countered.
"What makes you believe that?" Lackenbauer looked as though man's gaze had stripped his arrogance clean.
"Because if they were as capable as you make them out to be, you wouldn't be here talking to me." Jim smiled as though he had self-confidence oozing out of every orifice.
"You are good, Mr. Bishop, I will commend you on that. What is it that you require?" Lackenbauer's metal was bending and that was obvious.
"I wish to meet the buyers when we are to make the deal; I want to know where my merchandise is going so that I can plan my next vacation accordingly." Jim tried to sound as much like Clayton Webb as he could.
"You are most humorous, Mr. Bishop. Very well, I will meet you at the clubhouse of the Konigstrasse Golf Course tomorrow at eleven o'clock, with my client's demands, yes?" Lackenbauer had the presence of a man with a conniving undertone to his character but when one has danced with the top of the Interpol Most Wanted list for nearly a decade, that tends to happen.
"Eleven o'clock it is, should I bring my clubs?" Jim joked.
"No, your appetite and your family should be sufficient." With that, Lackenbauer climbed down off the stool and headed for the front door of the restaurant. Jim leaned back against the bar and wondered how Clayton Webb, of all people, could actually work in this world. You had to be a cutthroat and that was one killer instinct that Jim would wager Clayton Webb didn't have. He missed only one thing about Germany, the beer. American stuff was swill; he wouldn't drink it unless there were no other options. Once in a while you were lucky to get something Canadian or Irish back in the States and those were good days.
He finished off his beer, through a few dollars down on the bar and left the restaurant himself. The Europeans knew how to communicate, amazing how much they were capable of accomplishing over one beer. He hopped in his Porsche and peeled away from the restaurant and back toward the hotel. He reached inside his jacket and turned off the small pen microphone that Clayton Webb had concealed inside. Webb's men knew where the next contact was going to be made and right now, all he could do was sit on his hands and wait out the twenty-two hours until the next encounter.
When Jim got back to the hotel, Jack Keeter, looking appropriately like one Commander Lucas Horton was standing out front, waiting for him. "The Spider's gone ape-shit!" Keeter protested. "You weren't supposed to do that alone! Jesus, you could have gotten yourself killed in there."
"Chill, Horton. Lackenbauer's a big guy but it takes more than a big physique to take down a former Marine." Jim gave Keeter a pat on the shoulder as he walked passed him and into the hotel.
"The Spider wants to commend you on maintaining your composure in there. He thinks you're a natural." Keeter said quietly.
"Scary thought." Jim shuddered comically. The two men stood next to each other in the elevator. "So what else have we got on tap for the big party in June?"
"You mean aside from the slideshow, the club, the nearly illegal amounts of alcohol, the very illegal amounts of Cuban cigars and the Duct Tape Mummy gag?" Keeter insinuated. "What else could there possibly be?"
"Listen, this has got to be one hell of a party, the last one of these that Evan, the Seal and I attended was for this Buddy of ours. We got arrested and Zara had to bail us out of jail at five in the blessed morning." Jim couldn't help but laugh.
"Sounds like Evan, alright." Keeter remarked as the elevator bell dinged and the two men stepped off of the elevator at their floor. The two of them walked over to the door of Harm and Mac's suite where they knocked on the door.
"Ten bucks says they're not dressed." Jim remarked under his breath.
"No way am I taking that bet, I know you're right." Keeter tossed back. Harm opened the door wide, still dressed in his bathrobe and with tousled, wet hair. "See, you would've made ten bucks."
"Yeah, if you weren't too chicken shit to bet." Jim tossed back as Harm looked at them curiously.
"Do I want to know what the two of you were betting on?" Harm looked almost condescending.
"Probably not." Keeter replied. "We need to bring you up to speed." Keeter pushed passed Harm into the suite.
"Please, by all means, come in." Harm stated caustically.
"Thanks, Evan." Jim smiled sarcastically as he mad his way into the suite.
"So, when do we make contact?" Harm asked as he followed them into the living room.
"Your brother here already did. You've got a meeting with Lackenbauer at Konigstrasse Golf and Country Club, tomorrow." Keeter informed Harm as he plopped down in a chair.
"You made contact without us!" Mac protested as she walked about from the bathroom, fully clothed.
"You weren't necessary. I speak German and I knew where to go to have him find me, the whole thing was textbook." Jim stated with an animated, empathetic hand gesture.
"Still, you're supposed to be working with us on this thing." Harm protested, his anger seeping into his voice.
"Sometimes, it is better that one hand not always know what the other is doing." Jim retorted.
"You're been hanging around the Spider too much." Harm countered. "Alright, so what have we got?" Harm looked over at Keeter.
"Tomorrow is the set up for the sell. Lackenbauer is going to be there and so are the Korsikovs. Tomorrow you're going to find out exactly what they want from you and you might even find out who they're selling to. Lackenbauer is going to hit high and hard with personal questions so that your meeting looks official and above the table to anyone's snooping ears in the clubhouse. I have some better news than that though, at 1900 tonight, Lieutenant Hughes and Captain Moritz from Ramstein Air Base Supply will be stopping by for a meeting with the infamous Bishop Brothers."
"So, you and the Spider want us to look as intimidating as humanly possible." Harm stated in a very matter of fact way.
"I find it difficult to believe that if these Marines are worth their salt, they'll be intimidated by two rich boys with assault rifles." Mac tossed at Keeter.
"Normally, the Spider and I would have agreed with you. Remember, Paul and Evan are former Marines. Besides, this little 'Diary of Death' of theirs is pretty impressive." Keeter handed Mac a dossier that catalogued every sale that Paul or Paul and Evan had made going back to the days of the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan.
"Looks like you got in on your brother's business as it was on the way up, Evan." Mac stated in her best rendition of what Harm called her 'Zara' voice.
"What do you mean?" Harm looked confused and slid in behind Mac to read the dossier over her shoulder.
"Well, you only joined in the Family Business in '95 after your tour in Bosnia. By that time, your brother had been selling arms for a well rounded decade. Starting with some trafficking during the Iran-Iraq War. According to this, the two of you have sold arms to pretty much anyone on the planet whose ever asked. Irish Republicans, Columbian Cartels, Islamic Jihad, Chechens, Russians, Israelis, Palestinians and even the CIA. This is one very impressive resume; you two have apparently looked every scumbag on the planet in the eye and forced him to meet you on your terms." Mac looked up at Harm and tried to analyze his features. Evan Bishop and Harmon Rabb couldn't be more polar opposite if they tried.
The Evan Bishop that Sarah MacKenzie was reading about was cold, unfeeling and disregarding of his actions. This man had killed more people with his business in the last four years than many diseases on the planet. Mac began to think about the cover that Webb (AKA: The Spider) had provided for her. She was supposed to play a woman that was in love with this man but how could any woman love him. From what she read, the man's soul had to be blacker than charcoal. There was a tragedy to the character of Evan Bishop though, he was corrupted, he hadn't always been this way. He was twisted likely by the hero that was his older brother.
Paul Bishop was detestable. He was a man of considerable intellect and cunning, gifted with a golden tongue, the cover for him read. A 'suave, debonair, Bond villain type' that was the kind of man that Paul Bishop was crafted by the CIA to be. She knew that it took everything her old friend Jim had in him to pull off playing the detestable character, but he seemed to be doing it with remarkable ease. There was no denying that over the years and years of combat, some form of PTSD had likely seeped into the hallows of Jim Grant's consciousness and when it did, he went from man to predator awful quick.
She'd seen it happen twice. More than a decade earlier when he had pummelled Chris Ragle when Chris came to bring her down from Red Rock Mesa while she was drying out, that was the first time. When he beat the hell out of Chris in the office a few weeks back, that was the second time she'd seen it. Jim Grant and Harmon Rabb shared one thing in common; they had been forced to grow up at early ages and that more than almost anything moulded the men that they were.
That's why this mission was so much easier for them. Those two men had no doubts about who they really were because they had been the men that they were since before either one of them likely had body hair. She once accused Harm of being able to turn things on and off like some bilge-switch but she knew why now. She envied them, inside the tough Marine that everyone knew, there was still a part of her that was scared little Sarah that hid in her bedroom when dad came home drunk from the NCO club.
"You two have to look like you'd shoot these two Marines as soon as look at them." Keeter's remark snapped Mac out of her reflections.
"So what we're looking at cigars, no lighting and guns? That kind of deal?" Jim inquired as Keeter leaned over the table in the room.
"Yeah, basically. You two can't exactly play up a crazy Texas cowboy image in the middle of the Rhineland, so the Mafioso image is a little more suitable. I've even brought your hardware." Keeter opened his case to reveal two familiar Desert Eagle pistols from their excursion into Syria almost a year earlier.
"American arms dealers carrying around Israeli made weapons to catch German and Russian Black Marketers and foreign terrorists. Three cheers for diplomacy." Harm jibed as the three men shared something of a sardonic laugh.
1900 LOCAL
JIM'S HOTEL SUITE
RAMSTEIN, GERMANY
Jim had his pistol strapped into a shoulder holster that hung loosely over his torso. Harm was sitting in a chair on the other side of the room running a whetstone over the blade of a hunting knife. There was only a solitary desk lamp lighting the room and its bulb was very dim. Jim took a long drag on a Cuban cigar and blew smoke rings out into the empty room
Keeter was going to be their security detail and conduct the pat-down searches for weapons tonight. At a few minutes after 1900, a knock came to the hotel room door. Keeter walked over and opened the door wide. In stepped Moritz and Hughes. Moritz was foolishly still in his Class A green uniform, so it was easy for Jim to distinguish him from Hughes. "Horton, will search you." Jim stated coldly.
"The hell he will! We came here out of peace we're not thugs!" Moritz bellowed. Jim reached under his shoulder and produced his pistol and in the same motion as that he drew back the hammer on the gun and pointed the barrel squarely between his eyes.
"You let him or you don't walk out of this room." Jim smiled maniacally and watched as Moritz' shoulders sank. Hughes went to step forward but this time it was Harm's turn to act. Harm threw the hunting knife, catching the shoulder fabric or Hughes' shirt and pinning it to the wall behind him.
"Nice shot." Moritz relinquished.
"What are you talking about? I missed." Harm remarked as he got up and pulled the knife out of the wall.
"Now, now, Evan, play nice." Jim stated a brotherly tone. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?" Jim lifted his cigar to his mouth.
"We figured we could work for you. You can't be here all the time but you could use someone who could keep constant contact with Lackenbauer and all we would ask is a small percentage of the profits." Moritz offered, being the senior officer of the two.
"How small?" Jim inquired.
"Fifteen percent." Moritz replied with a smug look on his face.
"Three percent." Jim replied.
"Three percent? That's an insult." Hughes demanded.
"You don't know the volume of business we do. Three percent would make you wealthier than you could ever hope to be in the Corps." Harm reminded them.
"We're putting ourselves at risk! Not just to local authorities but to Interpol and Lackenbauer himself!" Hughes retorted.
"You put yourself at greater risk by stepping through that door." Harm pointed his own gun at Hughes. "Three percent or no deal." Harm could see Moritz and Hughes hesitate. He knew that they would give in, hell they were spineless and looking at two men who they believed to be the most heartless bastards in the free world. That intimidation alone was enough to buckle them
"Deal." Moritz relinquished.
"Good, Horton, show these gentlemen out and give them the number at which I can be contacted, that will be all." In his best 'Paul Bishop' voice, Jim tossed them a flippant wave and dismissed them.
1100 LOCAL
KONIGSTRASSE G & CC
OUTSIDE OF RAMSTEIN, GERMANY
The three JAG lawyers worked their way into the clubhouse, all dressed in perfectly tailored suits. Because he was the only one capable of conversing with the waiter, Jim order for everybody, careful to mind to their dietary preferences. "Harm, try the Riesling, it's fantastic." Jim protested.
"Isn't that wine?" Harm remarked.
"Yeah, what's the problem?" Jim asked. "Let me guess, you've stopped drinking?"
"Small sacrifice, but one I was more than willing to make." Harm wrapped his arm protectively around the back of Mac's chair, pulling her close. Jim's eyes darted over to wear the familiar form of Günter Lackenbauer skulked into the clubhouse. Fast behind him were two gentlemen who, Jim mused, reminded him of Lenin and Trotsky.
"Paul!" Lackenbauer announced openly as he made his way over.
"Günter!" Jim tried not to vomit at having to sound pleased to see one of the world's biggest criminals. Lackenbauer made his way over to the table. "Günter, this is my brother Evan and his lovely wife Zara."
"Ah, yes, I have looked most forward to this introduction." Lackenbauer shook Harm's hand firmly before taking Mac's lightly and kissing her knuckle. When Lackenbauer's two travel companions. "This is Yuri und Vladimir Korsikov; they are business associates of mine." The two Russians shook hands with everyone at the table. When they got to Mac, she rattled off a few phrases in Russian which caused the Korsikov brothers to break into laughs.
"What did you say, Zara?" Harm asked in his best doting husband voice.
"I told them that Paul's Russian, like the rest of him, was limited." Mac replied in her most catty tone.
Jim leaned toward Lackenbauer to share a little joke of his own. "Sie hat eine Gross Mund." Jim stated and Lackenbauer laughed heartily.
"What did he say?" Mac asked with a glare across the table.
"He said that you have a big mouth." Lackenbauer replied readily. "Alright, down to business. I have talked to the clients, they are most interested in the following articles, do you think you can provide them?" Lackenbauer handed Jim a folder where the items were all written out in their identifiable codenames, it was an impressive list, there was little doubting that. This kind of shopping list also left little doubt as to who they were selling to.
"Keine Problem, Herr Lackenbauer." Jim stated confidently. "Are you sure this is all?"
"You were expecting more?" Lackenbauer's shock was evident. Harm and Mac were struggling to repress smiles as they watched their friend start to play the arms dealer.
"I suppose, I'm just used to the deals we construct in South America. They're heavy shoppers, no cheap merchandise there." Jim grinned slyly.
"Well, what is it you Americans say? You don't hit a homerun every time you step to plate?" Lackenbauer refuted.
"Well, that's certainly true." Jim raised his wine glass to Lackenbauer in a show of appreciation. For the next hour and half, light personal conversation and anecdotes were exchanged around the table. The JAG team filled up on lunch and all the time, Clayton Webb's CIA team was listening in via Harm's pocket-watch.
"Alright, if you're sure that you can meet the demand, how about we finalize our business at the Tavern just down the road from here, tomorrow night at nine o'clock, ja?" Lackenbauer suggested as he got up from the table.
"That's most acceptable, Herr Lackenbauer." Harm stated as he and Mac got up from the table.
2036 LOCAL
HARM AND MAC'S HOTEL SUITE
RAMSTEIN, GERMANY
"Alright, this is no small order, but it does tell us who they're selling to." Clayton Webb had dressed like a bell-boy in order to get into the room.
"That's true. Tomorrow, have the MPs at Ramstein pick up Moritz and Hughes at 2057 and leave orders that they're not to be let off the base at all tomorrow. I don't want those two showing up to skewer the scene." Harm asserted his authority.
"Already done, I made the suggestion this morning." Keeter informed his old buddy.
"And we've got teams set up on your location tomorrow. Get in and get out, don't stay around to chit-chat. You've withstood the torrent of rhetoric and proved to Lackenbauer that you can talk a big game. Tomorrow, you step into the storm." Webb's voice sounded ominous.
"They haven't shot us yet, that should indicate that we've done at least something right." Mac sniped at him.
"It does count for something. It means I went to the right people. You three know what you have to do. Horton, you'll make sure that you have what they need, where they need it to be, when they need it to be there, right?" Webb turned toward Keeter.
"Sure will." Keeter replied quickly.
"And you two are going to remember the first rule of gun-running right?" Webb sounded like a stern father.
"Yes." Harm and Jim admonished.
"What's the first rule of gun-running?" Mac turned toward Harm and Jim.
"Don't pick up merchandise and join the customers." Keeter stated sombrely.
0024 LOCAL
RAMSTEIN AIR BASE
RAMSTEIN, GERMANY
"What do you mean, they're JAG!" Lackenbauer spouted with rage as he talked to Moritz and Hughes.
"We just put it together. We're holding the USO Christmas album right now and their pictures are on the inside, complete with biographies." Moritz told Lackenbauer as he handed them the CD.
"Christus! Holle! Scheisse!" Lackenbauer exclaimed as he read through the little booklet. "The bastards played me! And I went for it like an Austrian chorus-boy! I appreciate your help gentlemen; I will deal with these two." Lackenbauer stormed off into the night, fuming from what had happened, pondering what he was going to do to regain his control over the situation.
2100 LOCAL
DER RHINELANDER
OUTSIDE RAMSTEIN, GERMANY
"I've got a bad feeling about this." Mac stated as they pulled up to the old tavern. The place looked deserted, something which was explained by the large 'ABANDONED' sign on the large wooden door.
"Of course you have a bad feeling about this, we're about to do something which violates international law and German federal law." Harm reminded her was they walked up to the building. They found the door jarred open and Harm led the way as the four of them pushed their way inside. The place looked old enough to have been used as an Allied field HQ during World War Two. It was dark, the only light available was the moonlight that streamed in through the cracks in boarded up windows.
Harm told Keeter to stand over by the door while the other three of them walked across the floor toward the back door, not seeing Lackenbauer anywhere in the main area. They walked toward the old kitchen when they saw Lackenbauer step through the main door. "You're on time, that is most courteous of you." Lackenbauer started. "Of course one would guess that they teach that in the Marines."
"Yeah, well especially when you're an enlisted man." Jim stated remembering that according to their covers they were ex-Marines.
"Well that explains why you are on time, not your brother however; the Navy has less of a reputation for that kind of thing, ja?" Lackenbauer's last statement was accompanied by a self-satisfied chuckle. "Give it up, Commander Rabb, Colonel Grant; the two of you have been trapped like rats." Lackenbauer turned away from them. "Die nicely now."
At that moment a scent became prominent in the room. A scent that both of the Marines were able to pick up on right away. "Methane!" They shouted. "You two get Keeter and get the hell out of here."
"Where do you think you're going, Jim?" Harm asked, tugging on his friend's sleeve.
"To kill the bad guy." Jim replied with a smile before heading off through the kitchen. Harm and Mac turned back for the main area, trying carefully not to create sparks and send the whole building up in flames. They reached the door to the main area and grabbed Keeter before racing through the door and down the road to get as far from the building as they humanly could. At a full sprint, they were about fifteen hundred metres from the building when they heard the explosion and they saw the old Tavern go up in flames.
They took cover as debris flew every where. As the dust settled, Webb's men descended on the scene like Vultures ready to peck at the corpse of this operation. Harm and Mac started to walk back to the scene slowly, with Keeter following soon after. Their steps were cautious as they traced their way back to the remnants of the old tavern that marked the place where the operation had gone south. They could still hear the old pieces of timber smouldering underfoot as they made their way back.
Webb's team was all over the scene. There had to be at least fifteen men working on this scene, probably closer to twenty. "We got him!" One of the men shouted and everyone clambered over to the scene. Jim had thrown Lackenbauer to the ground just as the explosion hit and had landed on top of him.
"Dear God, tell me he's got a pulse." Webb ordered. He watched as one of his men checked the Marine's neck.
"He's got one, pretty strong too." The man informed Webb.
"It's the Marine in him, refuses to die." Harm stated in an attempt to earn a few smiles.
"He's far from okay, Rabb. Just because his pulse is strong now, doesn't mean it will be in an hour. Just thank God he's still in one piece." Webb stated as a Medivac team was called in from Landstuhl.