The Galloping Ghost (37 page)

“That place was the love of his life, if that's possible with houses,” said daughter Barbara.

To reach the house required driving up a steep cobblestone road, where the quinta was entered through two wrought-iron electric gates flanked by tall posts, each supporting a large dolphin, emblematic of the undersea service.

The setting was ideal for Mrs. Fluckey. Portugal's gorgeous scenery, mild climate, and sunny days proved to be the perfect tonic for Marjorie's fragile health. She loved the quinta, and she and her husband were determined to enjoy the good life there as long as possible.

Admiral Fluckey immersed himself in his role as NATO chief with customary energy. Strategic planning, conferences worldwide, and a social life in Portugal and Europe that didn't quit occupied him. Among his friendships was a warm bond with Portugal dictator Antonio de Oliveira Salazar, a lawyer and economist who had controlled the country since 1932. Salazar often confided that the dictatorship was necessary because he didn't trust the Portuguese to make good decisions. He alone controlled the police, the military, labor unions, banks, and schools. Citizens had no political freedom. Newspapers, books, and art were censored, and any negative comment about the government was forbidden. Salazar secured his reign with a secret police service that numbered more than twenty thousand, making dissidence very difficult. He kept his country largely isolated from the rest of Europe and rejected technological advances that might have made life easier for impoverished citizens.

What the Fluckeys saw, however, was a nation virtually crime free, orderly, with a climate and lifestyle—if you had the money—that was intoxicating. Salazar, whom the admiral had known since the early 1950s, was an
unflinching NATO supporter, Portugal being one of the founders of the alliance. The dictator had agreed not only to cede land for the new IBERLANT headquarters, but had underwritten the cost of building it.

Of course, Admiral Fluckey's consuming concern as commander was putting together a strategy to stymie the dreaded Soviet Union; Portugal's internal affairs were not his concern. But they soon would have an impact.

The nation seethed with unrest because of Salazar's determination to hold on to Portuguese colonies in Africa. More than a hundred thousand young men had been drafted and sent to Angola, Mozambique, and Guinea-Bissau, where thousands were killed or injured in a vain attempt to stifle rebellions.

In some ways Fluckey could empathize with Salazar's situation. He saw the parallel at home in the United States, where drafting of college-age students to fight in Vietnam was causing turmoil. Protests against the administration of Richard Nixon appalled the admiral, who viewed the president as the “sharpest guy I ever briefed” when he was naval intelligence chief. Fluckey, like many in the American military, thought of the war in Vietnam as the latest front in an ongoing struggle by democracies against Soviet-inspired international communism. In the ultra-right-wing culture of Lisbon in the late 1960s, President Nixon was highly praised for his conduct of the war and foreign policy. Lisbon newspapers regularly pilloried Democrats for criticism of the president. In 1969, when Senator Ted Kennedy left the scene of a fatal car accident in Chappaquiddick in New England, it got front-page treatment in Lisbon. Observed columnist Alexander at the time of his visit, “The Portuguese gloat when anything goes wrong with Democratic politicians. It was under Democratic Presidents that the U.S. started its policy of heckling the Portuguese for being imperialists and racist.”

Many in Portugal assumed the fascist political climate in Lisbon would change after Salazar suffered a major stroke. He lingered for nearly two years before succumbing in 1970. Admiral Fluckey was one of his pall bearers. Salazar's long-time cohort, Lisbon University rector Marcelo Caetano, followed him and pledged to lead the country to more civil freedoms. However, he remained conflicted by the African question and was unable to change course. Many more young men were sent off to their deaths in Africa as families of would-be draftees emigrated from Portugal rather than risk conscription. An opposition movement existed, but because of the extensive secret police apparatus, it could not exert itself. But it would find a way.

Though Fluckey had been looking forward to a promotion with the commissioning of IBERLANT, news arrived in the spring of 1971 from Vice
Adm. Dick H. Guinn, chief of naval personnel, that Gene would be relieved
before
the commissioning. Having brought IBERLANT nearly to fruition, the rear admiral thought the decision was unfair. In an impassioned reply to Guinn, he argued for a delay until IBERLANT was operational. “If one wants action here, one needs connections otherwise you cry in a bureaucratic wilderness,” he wrote of hurdles yet to overcome. “Certainly a few of the staff Portuguese can help, but they never reach above their level or move off the bureaucratic track. They and others laughed when I said we'd have IBERLANT fully underway in October 1971—the Portuguese because of Bureaucratic mire—others because no NATO project was ever built on schedule. Dick, we'll be underway if our U.S. personnel are on board. . . . I frankly believe I can cajole, wheedle, and influence the Portuguese military more, in the interests of NATO and the United States, than anyone I know.”

Two weeks later Guinn relented, postponing Fluckey's relief until the summer of the following year.

Just as predicted, there were significant obstacles to be overcome as the new headquarters took shape. Sufficient numbers of adequately trained personnel were an early impediment. Contractors hired by Portugal to build the headquarters were under no time constraints to meet deadlines. Fluckey had to constantly remind them of the cost of inflation and the need to get the facility up and running. But still there was foot dragging. Finally, to force the contractor to speed up, Fluckey ordered his command to occupy the building in late September and set a 29 October 1971 date for commissioning as work continued.

It had the desired effect. The labor force in the building tripled. The rush to completion, however, had unwitting consequences. Among painters hired to detail the building were two men opposed to the Caetano regime. They had smuggled in large tins disguised as paint cans, each packed with explosives and timing mechanisms. The canisters were positioned just outside Fluckey's office. Additional explosives were planted at a receiver station at Fonte da Telha, about fifty miles from the headquarters. The terrorists intended to make a statement by killing the rear admiral, wrecking the NATO command center, and taking out the communications receiver on the eve of the commissioning.

The painters took an early dinner, telling guards they would be back to finish up. They never returned. Fortunately the timers did not go off until the rear admiral and his staff had left the building. Multiple blasts erupted after midnight, demolishing interior corridors, blowing out doors and windows, and destroying communication equipment below ground as well as
the distant receiving tower. However, no one was injured or killed. The headquarters was largely vacant, patrolled by a few military guards.

Admiral Fluckey got the call at home and quickly returned, stunned that such an attack could occur in a country where it was unheard of. Rumors quickly spread that it was the work of Communists, perhaps with the support of Jesuit priests opposed to the African wars. After surveying the damage, Fluckey decided the commissioning could go on as planned after a Herculean cleanup. Using every available resource, Fluckey organized an all-night debris removal. Chunks of concrete, twisted metal, glass shards, and wiring were removed bit by bit from the headquarters. Shattered windows throughout the compound were completely removed. Since the commissioning ceremony would be staged outside away from the building on a clear morning, Fluckey hoped that from the distance the windowless frames might look like they had glass.

At daybreak the rear admiral sent an urgent dispatch to Jose de Sa Viana Rebelo, the Portuguese defense minister, to urge him not to cancel the ceremony. “As you know, the above ground administrative facility of the IBERLANT Headquarters received extensive damage from a bomb placed in the open portico,” Fluckey wrote. “Though we deeply regret such a happening, I urge you to accept our recommendation that the Commissioning Ceremony continue as planned.” Rebelo agreed.

Right on schedule at 0900 of 29 October—less than forty-eight hours after the attack—Portuguese Admiral Americo Tomaz, president of the country, commissioned the $6.5 million headquarters and conveyed it formally to Rear Admiral Fluckey and NATO. Among the dignitaries in attendance were NATO Secretary General Dr. Joseph Luns, Supreme Allied Commander Atlantic Charles K. Duncan of the United States, and West German Air Force General J. Steinhoff, chairman of the NATO military committee. Also attending were NATO chiefs of staffs from Belgium, Canada, Denmark, Germany, Greece, Italy, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, Norway, Turkey, the United Kingdom, the United States, and Portugal, as well as a French military liaison. Admiral Fluckey addressed the assemblage, outlining the significance of the new headquarters as a key defensive initiative to “the Russian wolf that passes ever closer to our door.”

Guests marveled at the clean lines of the administrative headquarters and commented on how “spotless” the windows were. The international press made no mention of the bombing. But the blast set back operations for months. The receiver station had been so crippled that it would not be completed until the fall of 1972 at the earliest, according to an assessment prepared by Fluckey in March 1972. Portugal and NATO hushed up
any references to the attack. The results of an investigation were never disclosed. And those within NATO who knew some details henceforth would only refer to the incident as “The Bomb.” All the Portuguese public and the world at large knew was that IBERLANT's new headquarters opened on schedule and was fully operational—just as Admiral Fluckey had intended.

By March 1972 the headquarters reached its optimum staffing of 41 officers, 159 enlisted personnel, and 6 civilians drawn from the United States, Great Britain, and Portugal. In addition, a French liaison officer, a German naval officer, and a Danish civilian were posted at the headquarters, as well as a variety of Portuguese civilians employed as draftsmen, translators, printers, switchboard operators, and maintenance workers.

The long hours and challenges of bringing IBERLANT to fruition were now over for Gene Fluckey. Why he wasn't promoted to vice admiral was left to conjecture. Those who had followed his illustrious career were aware of a schism in the Navy leadership between those who much admired the “Galloping Ghost” and those who disparaged him. “There were pro and con Fluckey factions in the Navy,” said Capt. Max Duncan, who had served with him in the
Barb
and in the admiral's Pacific submarine command. “I was tempted to ask a couple of very senior officers that I knew well about it but never did. Some of it may have been his friendly approach to everyone, officer and enlisted. In earlier times I didn't notice it; informality is usual in submarines. Submarine discipline is strong but informal. Not so in large commands. I know that from having command of a tender with 1,000 plus, a [Pearl Harbor] base with 2,500 plus, and naval Support Activity Saigon with 5,000. I know deep down he just liked people and very seldom had negative comments about anyone.”

Former Navy Lt. (j.g.) Fred Sill, who served under Fluckey in Solant Amity II, said jealousy may have played a role. “My guess is that it started the very moment he became the youngest admiral in the Navy. He may well have leapfrogged over others, which always upsets some colleagues. And his youthful enthusiasm for everything he did could well have been considered unbecoming by his peers. The ‘familiarity breeds contempt' concept had been ingrained into my officer's training, and I often felt that [Gene's] easygoing attitude with the enlisted personnel was going a bit too far. But that's the way he was. I think that it was he who led the conga line around the
Spiegel Grove
one evening during a shipboard reception in South Africa.”