On Wings Of Eagles (1990)

from Perot's restless imagination, thinking it through, putting the pieces together, and making it work. Occasionally he would conclude that the idea was impracticable--and when Stauffer said that, Perot began to think that maybe it was impracticable.

His appetite for work was enormous. Even among the workaholics on the seventh floor, Stauffer was exceptional. As well as doing whatever Perot had dreamed up in bed the previous night, he supervised Perot's real- estate company and his oil company, managed Perot's investments, and planned Perot's estate.

The best way to help Simons, Perot decided, would be to give him Merv Stauffer.

He wondered whether Simons had changed. It had been years since they last met. The occasion had been a banquet. Simons had told him a story.

During the Son Tay Raid, Simons's helicopter had landed in the wrong place. It was a compound very like the prison camp, but some four hundred yards distant; and it contained a barracks full of sleeping enemy soldiers. Awakened by the noise and the flares, the soldiers had begun to stumble out of the barracks, sleepy, half-dressed, carrying their weapons. Simons had stood outside the door, with a lighted cigar in his mouth. Beside him was a burly sergeant. As each man came through the door, he would see the glow of Simons's cigar, and hesitate. Simons would shoot him. The sergeant would heave the corpse aside; then they would wait for the next one.

Perot had been unable to resist the question: 'How many men did you kill?'

'Must have been seventy or eighty,' Simons had said in a matter-of-fact voice.

Simons had been a great soldier, but now he was a pig farmer. Was he still fit? He was sixty years old, and he had suffered a stroke even before Son Tay. Did he still have a sharp mind? Was he still a great leader of men?

He would want total control of the rescue, Perot was certain. The colonel would do it his way or not at all. That suited Perot just fine: it was his way to hire the best man for the job, then let him get on with it. But was Simons still the greatest rescuer in the world?

He heard voices in the outer office. They had arrived. He stood up, and Simons walked in with T. J. Marquez and Merv Stauffer.

'Colonel Simons, how are you?' said Perot. He never called Simons 'Bull'--he thought it was corny.

'Hello, Ross,' said Simons, shaking hands.

The handshake was firm. Simons was dressed casually, in khaki pants. His shirt collar was open, showing the muscles of his massive neck. He looked older: more lines in that aggressive face, more gray in the crewcut hair, which was also longer than Perot had ever seen it. But he seemed fit and hard. He still had the same deep, tobacco-roughened voice, with a faint but clear trace of a New York accent. He was carrying the folders Coburn had put together on the volunteers.

'Sit down,' said Perot. 'Did y'all have dinner?'

'We went to Dusty's,' said Stauffer.

Simons said: 'When was the last time this room was swept for bugs?'

Perot smiled. Simons was still sharp, as well as fit. Good. He replied: 'It's never been swept, Colonel.'

'From now on I want every room we use to be swept every day.'

Stauffer said: 'I'll see to that.'

Perot said: 'Whatever you need, Colonel, just tell Merv. Now, let's talk business for a minute. We sure appreciate you coming here to help us, and we'd like to offer you some compensation--'

'Don't even think about it,' Simons said gruffly.

'Well--'

'I don't want payment for rescuing Americans in trouble,' Simons said. 'I never got a bonus for it yet, and I don't want to start now.'

Simons was offended. The force of his displeasure filled the room. Perot backed off quickly: Simons was one of the very few people of whom he was wary.

The old warrior hasn't changed a bit, Perot thought.

Good.

'The team is waiting for you in the boardroom. I see you have the folders, but I know you'll want to make your own assessment of the men. They all know Tehran, and they all have either military experience or some skill that may be useful--but in the end the choice of the team is up to you. If for any reason you don't like these men, we'll get some more. You're in charge here.' Perot hoped Simons would not reject anyone, but he had to have the option.

Simons stood up. 'Let's go to work.'

T. J. hung back after Simons and Stauffer left. He said in a low voice: 'His wife died.'

'Lucille?' Perot had not heard. 'I'm sorry.'

'Cancer.'

'How did he take it, did you get an idea?'

T. J. nodded. 'Bad.'

As T. J. went out, Perot's twenty-year-old son, Ross Junior, walked in. It was common for Perot's children to drop by the office, but this time, when a secret meeting was in session in the boardroom, Perot wished his son had chosen another moment. Ross Junior must have seen Simons in the hall. The boy had met Simons before and knew who he was. By now, Perot thought, he's figured out that the only reason for Simons to be here is to organize a rescue.

Ross sat down and said: 'Hi, Dad. I've been by to see Grandmother.'

'Good,' Perot said. He looked fondly at his only son. Ross Junior was tall, broad-shouldered, slim, and a good deal better-looking than his father. Girls clustered around him like flies: the fact that he was heir to a fortune was only one of the attractions. He handled it the way he handled everything: with immaculate good manners and a maturity beyond his years.

Perot said: 'You and I need to have a clear understanding about something. I expect to live to be a hundred, but if anything should happen to me, I want you to leave college and come home and take care of your mother and your sisters.'

'I would,' Ross said. 'Don't worry.'

'And if anything should happen to your mother, I want you to live at home and raise your sisters. I know it would be hard on you, but I wouldn't want you to hire people to do it. They would need you, a member of the family. I'm counting on you to live at home with them and see they're properly raised--'

'Dad, that's what I would have done if you'd never brought it up.'

'Good.'

The boy got up to go. Perot walked to the door with him.

Suddenly Ross put his arm around his father and said: 'Love you, Pop.'

Perot hugged him back.

He was surprised to see tears in his son's eyes.

Ross went out.

Perot sat down. He should not have been surprised by those tears: the Perots were a close family, and Ross was a warmhearted boy.

Perot had no specific plans to go to Tehran, but he knew that if his men were going there to risk their lives, he would not be far behind. Ross Junior had known the same thing.

The whole family would support him, Perot knew. Margot might be entitled to say, 'While you're risking your life for your employees, what about us?' but she would never say it. All through the prisoners-of-war campaign, when he had gone to Vietnam and Laos, when he had tried to fly into Hanoi, when the family had been forced to live with bodyguards, they had never complained, never said, 'What about us?' On the contrary, they had encouraged him to do whatever he saw to be his duty.

While he sat thinking, Nancy, his eldest daughter, walked in.

'Poops!' she said. It was her pet name for her father.

'Little Nan! Come in!'

She came around the desk and sat on his lap.

Perot adored Nancy. Eighteen years old, blond, tiny but strong, she reminded him of his mother. She was determined and hardheaded, like Perot, and she probably had as much potential to be a business executive as her