Destined for Destiny Read online

Though I did not think of it in these terms at that time. In the early days of Vietnam, I thought of military service as a duty. It was a duty to help the best I could to fight and defeat the enemy, and risk sacrificing up to two to three months of my life if necessary.

  One thing is for certain, I did not think of it as a way to become a hero.

  But a hero I would become, and it would be the decision of what kind of hero that I chose to be that was to shape history.

  Every story of heroing has a beginning. When it came time to determine my course, I saw several paths before me.

  I could be a sturdy Marine hero, saving my fellow soldiers from the fire of snipers and rats-nest attacks. But I was not the greatest of swimmers, so I rejected that course.

  I could be a radio hero, radioing for help from the front whenever I saw fit. But there might be a lot of dials and wirings that could possibly confound my understanding, therefore I rejected that course as well.

  Or I could be a potato-peeling or serving hero, wielding a large ladle to dispense much-needed sustenance to the troops, who would come one by one with their tin plates held out to me for food. And though I was strongly considered for this role by my superiors, medically I was unfit, having a life-long aversion to root vegetables and metal serving implements.

  Any of these paths would have done my country honor. But in the end, I decided to be a flying hero. That way I could fly in the air.

  It was a difficult time for our country—a time of war, for some. And I was fortunate to be selected for an elite fighting unit known as the “Champagne Corps” in the U.S. National Guard. The name was feared among the ranks of the enemy everywhere.

  I joined this elite air unit in 1970. They immediately assigned me the important task of defending our nation’s homeland. And I accepted. I was a soldier of the skies, ready to take orders and obey them without question. Up in the clouds, flying high.

  Learning to fly was not an easy task. It took me two years before I was a qualified fighter pilot, yet surprisingly my service with the Guard would last just 14 months.

  First they put me in a simulator, which back in those days was nothing more than a tin shack with a wooden chair and a broken broomstick, which I was asked to imagine was a throttle.

  I am not good at imagining. I prefer reality, not the intangible mysteries of the mind’s eye. So when I closed my eyes, I did not see the cockpit of a modern jet fighter. I saw a broken broomstick and a horseshoe hanging from the ceiling representing the yoke.

  The heroes of those days were the test pilots: Commando Cody, Sky King, and the Rocketeer. They would often try to ease the tension and boredom in their lives by flying low and strafing the houses of their superior officers.

  I wanted to emulate these exciting stunts, so when I went up on my first flight with my instructor, I jokingly suggested we strafe the Governor’s mansion and give him a good scare. The instructor joked back, saying if I ever did that, I would be thrown in the brig for the duration of my service, and possibly tried for insubordination in a time of war. I laughed and laughed, but in the end, did not fly close to the Governor’s mansion.

  Texas and Alabama were rumored to be hotbeds of Communist insurgence in those times. By joining the Air National Guard, I was America’s first line of defense against a direct attack on our shores. The mighty Vietnamese fleet could have lurked behind any cloud. Their feared bamboo squadrons terrorized the skies of the South.

  I did not get much sleep in those days, forever worrying that at any moment the enemy might appear above, and I would be called upon to engage in an aerial duel—a dogfight where two men meet in flight, but only one man goes home and lands triumphantly. His opponent spirals to the earth uncontrollably, leaving a smoke trail in his wake, his chute not opening. Such are the stories of defeat.

  One day in which I thought I might live out such a war scene was a hot and humid day in summer, 1972. The place: the swampy jungles of Alabama. The music: Jimi Hendrix.

  I had to remain absolutely still. I wanted to move, to get under a tree for shade or to the brook for a drink of muddy water, but I knew that if I moved a muscle, a sniper might take me out. Every moment my life was at risk. This was the real nightmare my fellow soldiers and I lived when we golfed at the nearby Highland Park course.

  So we hid in the trees. We became the trees. We were one with the forest so that the enemy could not see us. We lived, ate, and breathed the hell that infected our souls if we ever sliced into the rough.

  Our socks were constantly damp, and thus foot fungus was a nagging problem for us fighting men in such primitive jungle conditions. Thankfully, the pharmacy in downtown Montgomery carried the name-brand athlete’s foot creams.

  The most harrowing adventure I experienced was like a scene from one of the finer war films that you have seen.

  A select unit of my buddies and me—the elite of the elite—were chosen to go on a top-secret mission. Not even our commanders were to know the details. If we were captured, we would deny any knowledge of the plan. This was for the security not only of me and my men, but of the country, which we were charged with a sacred duty to protect.

  We would commandeer Private Casey’s El Dorado, and under the cover of night, drive across the state line to Tennessee. We would enter Nashville, to procure a precious bag of snow-white powder.

  Houston Chronicle article, August 13, 1973

  At 0300 hours we snuck out to embark on our mission.

  We drove on for hours. I nearly fell asleep at the wheel at one point, near Birmingham.

  My buddy Jim had to shake my shoulder and say, “George, come on! Remember why we are doing this!”

  Of course, I did. We were doing it for the American people. I found a renewed strength deep within my heart, and continued onward.

  Despite my fatigue and irritability, I knew it would all be relieved once we completed our mission.

  We arrived in a motel on the outskirts of town at noon the next day. Salvatore, our contact, was waiting with a briefcase. It was all very clandestine. Was Salvatore CIA? We would never know. But the thrill of committed military service is something I have never forgotten. That is why, to this day, I deeply respect when others heed the call to serve.

  We paid Salvatore with some cash I had procured, then I had the idea to go on alone. I sent my men back to the base in Montgomery, and I went on to complete even more risky secret missions in Connecticut and Kennebunkport. It might be months before my unit would see me again. These were off-the-record, secret black-book missions which I am still not permitted to divulge in any detail.

  But it was off the battlefield that times really got out of hand. My buddies and I knew how to celebrate. Like the test pilots of old, we would all meet at the bar after a tough day’s piloting in the flight simulator and laugh and tell stories of combat.

  This celebrating was an important part of the war effort. If we did not let loose the steam in the bar with fellow airmen, the pressure might be too much in the simulator the next day. Our pretend bombs might miss their imaginary targets, which would spell disaster for the make-believe ground troops. And the countless enemy guerillas, who only existed in our fantasies, would overrun the villages of Alabama and terrorize the made-up local folks—many of whom I had come to know as family.

  Therefore it was imperative that we all stay out late and have many good times in those days, otherwise we might endanger the very innocents we swore to protect.

  One time, after a particularly rugged night of dutiful celebrating, I was called up when one of the other pilots fell ill. I tried to claim illness also, but unfortunately the CO saw me out the night before and said, “If you can party, you can fly.” So up I went. I had not slept at all, and the effects of my celebrating had not yet worn off. Fortunately, it was a four-hour fight, and by the end I was fast asleep, the instructor having taken care of the landing and much of the flying that preceded it.

  I was flying high and proud, and getting some much needed rest.

>   There are some who have criticized my military service. In these pages I would like to take on these criticizers. I am proud to have served my country and protected its borders. When George W. Bush was patrolling the skies, more often than not the fate of the entire city of Tuscaloosa hung in the balance.

  I say to my critics, let history be the judge of my legacy, not the historians.

  History is written by the historical writers. And at present, I am writing the history. The historical criticalizers can write their critical historical writings, but I suspect that they will be dry and boring, full of dates, names, and facts. My history, by contrast, will captivate the discerning and patriotic reader.

  After my service in the National Guard was complete, I experienced one of my proudest moments of the war.

  It was in a private ceremony at my parents’ home. My own father posed for a picture with me and pinned the prestigious “Son of a Congressman” medal on my uniform jacket. I was also awarded two Silver Spoons for bravery in a separate ceremony.

  To think that my father, who himself had been killed in the Great War, would recognize my gallantry was a great honor. The flash of the bulb as we stood smiling together, my chest newly shiny with the medal, is one memory I shall never forget.

  But an even prouder moment of public service, and the fulfillment of my destiny, would come many years later.

  7

  Then I Ran Some

  Companies into

  the Ground

  A very important lesson taught at the Harvard Business School is the essential question one must ask when one is given the sacred trust to lead a corporation: “How can I quickly and efficiently run this company into the ground?”

  It is this simple formula that is the key to financial success.

  The cycle of a business is one of life and death, just like we see in nature. What the sciences of nature tell us is that sometimes the cycle is slower, like that of the red sequoia tree of the California woodlands, great giants which live for many weeks. On the other end of the spectrum is the small housefly, which only lives for a few short hours. Every company must close its doors at some point, and it is the CEO’s job to see to it that investors earn a windfall profit.

  Of course some will lose all of their money, but that is a pitfall of entrepreneurship. If the company has a capable CEO, he will lead the company to grow like the mighty redwood, and know how to recognize the exact moment at which to take a chain saw to it and get top dollar for the chopped wood.

  The way the housefly fits into it all involves complicated business charts and formulas that we do not need to go into.

  That is the sum total of the wisdom passed on at Harvard Business School.

  After finishing in the top 300 in my class, I set out to put my training into practice. I would become an entrepreneur. My goal was to move back to Texas and succeed in a company that was in the business world.

  And that is precisely what I set out to do.

  I founded then sold some three or four companies in this period. Arbusto. Harken. Another one. And yet another, the name of which I cannot remember. Whatever the case, the companies all enjoyed successful tanking under my leadership.

  One of the most important things about running a company is thinking of the name that that company will have. When I started a company, I chose a name which expressed the glorious flight of an eagle, or the burrowing majesty of the brave vole. If you knew the names, and if I could remember all of them for this work of history, you would like them, because a great deal of thought was put in to thinking up those names.

  My first company, “Arbusto,” would make our great goal clear right in the name of the company. It was to be red ink or bust. And I worked hard to reach both of these goals by leading the company straight into the crapper.

  First, I hired an incompetent staff who immediately set forth scheduling my vacations throughout the coming year.

  This would not be an easy task.

  Vacations sometimes conflicted with one another, and often overlapped. A special secretary had to be hired just to make sure that this did not happen. Once, when a long-awaited yachting vacation off the East Coast overlapped with a crucial fly-fishing trip back home, it nearly caused a disaster, putting at risk my plans for an important golf outing.

  Spectrum 7 company newsletter, 1984

  The 70s and 80s were an era of unbounded entrepreneurial spirit. And nowhere was that spirit reflected better than in the Texas oilfields. I learned from my father that to make money in oil, one must become an expert in the making of money with oil.

  Oil futures, or paper oil, were very complicated transactings, related to the housefly business principle I addressed previously. But after a quick training period involving the signing of documents, the shaking of hands with investors introduced by my father, and joking around with the fellas in the company sauna, I took to it quickly.

  Many golfing retreats took place during these years, as well.

  Of course someone had to go out and find places to drill for oil. I left that to workers, the people within a company who do what is called the “work.” I was the crucial Man in the Middle. And in this vital role, I would handle a slip of paper by placing it in various locations on my desk, laying it here for a week, then putting it over there. It was quite a thing to see how, over time, that paper would move.

  To the untrained business eye, it looked as though Arbusto was doing quite well, and was not being run into the ground at all. But behind the scenes I worked hands-on, painstakingly neglecting the company every day, and eventually Arbusto collapsed like a superb house of cards.

  And after all that successful failing, I would bid farewell to my good friends at Arbusto, waving as I exited into the Texas sunset, proud of all the good work I had undone.

  After a short eight-month vacation, I hungered for another challenge. But that challenge would have to wait, since I had made the tough decision to extend my vacation another four months.

  After feeling rested and refurbished, I set to work.

  I was determined to achieve an even more catastrophic success at another company.

  But first there was another crucial vacation that I had to take. This time to a Tibetan monastery where I would learn the ancient secrets of the mystics. Unfortunately, there were no four- or even three-star hotels there, so I went deep-sea fishing in the Florida Keys instead.

  After this final vacation, I worked hard, building trust with my employees, bringing donuts to boost morale, sometimes with the tiny colored sprinkles on them for added cheer.

  More importantly, I earned the trust of the board members. I set to work approving every measure that came before me. And before long we had amassed an enormous debt, for which I was understandably proud. One of the shareholders told me it was among the largest shortfalls he had ever seen.

  My heart filled with pride at this compliment, but I wondered, could I do better still?

  The name of my next company was either Bush Exploration or Spectrum 7. Regardless, through my bold and innovative management ideas, I would truly make a mark on the business world with this company. I would throw lavish dinners for investors. I would buy paper made from only the rarest trees deep in the African rainforest. I would invest in solid-gold paperclips, and platinum staples hand-crafted by the best Swiss stapleteers.

  Soon I was having many high-level meetings with foreign investors, to do what in business circles is called a “bail out.” A true sign that one is a top performer in the marketplace.

  Through some very skillful accounting, I drove this company into a spectacular hole, sold it for a fair price, and then watched as our lawyers triumphantly filed for Chapter 11.

  I had done it again. I was beginning to get a reputation for my meteoric decline up the business ladder.

  It was then that my secretary ushered in the man who would change my life forever. This mysterious acquaintance knew I had recently made a significant capital gain from the sale of company stock a
nd was interested in a good investment, and he leaned over and gave me some very important advice. He said just one word.

  “Rangers,” he whispered.

  “What?” I replied. “The Texas Rangers? Lawmen are not for sale. They are above the law.”

  “No,” he said. “The Texas Rangers baseball team.”

  My eyes misted over.

  Like most every young boy whose blood courses red with American veins, I dreamt of one day being a shareholder in a baseball franchise. I imagined giving the manager orders, telling him to make intuitive trades that would cost us the pennant year after year. I dreamt of leading the team in pre-game prayers that would touch the heart, and I dreamt of organizing public bonds to build new stadiums.

  Spectrum 7 company newsletter, 1984

  It was any boy’s fantasy come to life.

  Here was a company that I could run into the ground again and again, and it would continue to be bailed out by the city, county, state, or whichever regulatory body was responsible for keeping the team in its hometown. I had stumbled upon what is known in business as the perfect company.

  We would charge a fair price for tickets, and the fans would buy them. Great losses would come from an antiquated stadium that was difficult to renovate into the modern age. So we would build a new stadium. Our losses would multiply even further. And soon the new stadium would become outdated.

  The cycle of natural business life would begin again. It was a golden, no-win situation. I was in my element.

  I remain grateful to the hard-working taxpayers of Texas who helped me reach my potential with the Texas Rangers. They believed I could deliver the overruns, and I did.

  My experience on the baseball diamond was the high point of my business career, the last step in a string of cataclysmic accomplishments of which I could be deeply proud. But fate would ultimately guide me to a test of kingly proportions: managing not just a company, but a whole state, and eventually a country.