On Wings Of Eagles (1990)

"You'll have a mercenary army--which is illegal here, in Iran, and in every country the team would pass through. Anywhere they go they'd be liable to criminal penalties and you could have ten men in jail instead of two.

"But it's worse than that. Your men would be in a position much worse than soldiers in battle--international laws and the Geneva Convention, which protect soldiers in uniform, would not protect the rescue team.

"If they get captured in Iran ... Ross, they'll be shot. If they get captured in any country that has an extradition treaty with Iran, they'll be sent back and shot. Instead of two innocent employees in jail, you could have eight guilty employees dead.

"And if that happens, the families of the dead men may turn on you--understandably, because this whole thing will look stupid. The widows will have huge claims against EDS in the American courts. They could bankrupt the company. Think of the ten thousand people who would be out of a job if that happened. Think of yourself--Ross, there might even be criminal charges against you that could put you in jail!"

Perot said calmly: "I appreciate your advice, Tom."

Luce stared at him. "I'm not getting through to you, am I?"

Perot smiled. "Sure you are. But if you go through life worrying about all the bad things that can happen, you soon convince yourself that it's best to do nothing at all."

The truth was that Perot knew something Luce did not.

Ross Perot was lucky.

All his life he had been lucky.

As a twelve-year-old boy he had had a paper route in the poor black district of Texarkana. The Texarkana Gazette cost twenty-five cents a week in those days, and on Sundays, when he collected the money, he would end up with forty or fifty dollars in quarters in his pocket. And every Sunday, somewhere along the route, some poor man who had spent his week's wages in a bar the previous night would try to take the money from little Ross. This was why no other boy would deliver papers in that district. But Ross was never scared. He was on a horse; the attempts were never very determined; and he was lucky. He never lost his money.

He had been lucky again in getting admitted to the Naval Academy at Annapolis. Applicants had to be sponsored by a senator or a congressman, and of course the Perot family did not have the right contacts. Anyway, young Ross had never even seen the sea--the farthest he had ever traveled was to Dallas, 180 miles away. But there was a young man in Texarkana called Josh Morriss, Jr., who had been to Annapolis and told Ross all about it, and Ross had fallen in love with the navy without ever seeing a ship. So he just kept writing to senators begging for sponsorship. He succeeded--as he would many times during later life--because he was too dumb to know it was impossible.

It was not until many years later that he found out how it had happened. One day back in 1949 Senator W. Lee O'Daniel was clearing out his desk: it was the end of his term and he was not going to run again. An aide said: "Senator, we have an unfilled appointment to the Naval Academy."

"Does anyone want it?" the senator said.

"Well, we've got this boy from Texarkana who's been trying for years ..."

"Give it to him," said the senator.

The way Perot heard the story, his name was never actually mentioned during the conversation.

He had been lucky once again in setting up EDS when he did. As a computer salesman for IBM, he realized that his customers did not always make the best use of the machines he sold them. Data processing was a new and specialized skill. The banks were good at banking, the insurance companies were good at insurance, the manufacturers were good at manufacturing--and the computer men were good at data processing. The customer did not want the machine, he wanted the fast, cheap information it could provide. Yet, too often, the customer spent so much time creating his new data-processing department and learning how to use the machine that his computer caused him trouble and expense instead of saving them. Perot's idea was to sell a total package--a complete data-processing department with machinery, software, and staff. The customer had only to say, in simple language, what information he needed, and EDS would give it to him. Then he could get on with what he was good at--banking, insurance, or manufacturing.

IBM turned down Perot's idea. It was a good concept but the pickings would be small. Out of every dollar spent on data processing, eighty cents went into hardware--the machinery--and only twenty cents into software, which was what Perot wanted to sell. IBM did not want to chase pennies under the table.

So Perot drew a thousand dollars out of his savings and started up on his own. Over the next decade the proportions changed until software was taking seventy cents of every data-processing dollar, and Perot became one of the richest self-made men in the world.