Introduction: The Awkward Reporter

The Awkward Reporter

The Museum of Modern Warfare, now the most visited tourist destination in Washington D.C., was packed to capacity, but no more crowded than any day since its opening.  The entry was a grand atrium with a glass ceiling one hundred feet high, a width twice that, and a depth that made the back wall hard to see from the twelve foot revolving front doors.  The structure was a work of art that belonged in a museum of architecture itself.

Carbon-based ultra light tanks, plasma cannons, EMP emitters, and radar-silent missiles highlighted the large pieces of technological weaponry spread across the floor of the immense lobby.  Winged and disk-like flying masterpieces of air-to-ground assault hung from steel cables secured to the iron beams that supported the ceiling.  From this great display hall expanded four two-story corridors that housed exhibits of smaller scale but equal interest.   Individuals gathered in clusters and outstretching their necks to read the lighted placards that accompanied each item.  Still others, grouped into herds of fifteen or twenty, paid the extra thirty-six dollars for a two hour guided tour.  The sheer size and scope of the building and its contents made it nearly impossible to see everything offered in one day.  In fact, the last exhibit on the tour was so far from the front doors that self-guided observers hardly ever made it far enough to take it in.

“I know you probably all recognize this.  The U.S. and British Allied Air Forces used this particular model during the third Gulf War,” explained one of the guides.

She was tall, slender, and she spoke precisely with an easy smile as she led her group through the Smithsonian’s newest attraction entitled “Hand to Hand Combat Tech.”  She was college aged, in school, and her patrons could tell she enjoyed her job.  Well versed on more than just the basics, she could answer any question thrown her way, and did so enthusiastically.  Her group this day was like any other: a family of four, a family of six, a retired couple, three WWIII vets, five or six students, and a reporter.

She loved the opportunity to guide a member of the press, and she had this one pegged even before he flashed his credentials.  He looked like a reporter; like something out of a television show or a movie.  He was tall, about six foot four, with dark hair, except for the streaks of gray in the temples.  Despite the oversized, round-framed glasses and the sheepish, fumbling way he asked his questions (he had a million of them,) she thought he was handsome and found his demeanor charming.  He was old enough to be her father, but she couldn‘t stop brushing her hair back from her face when she spoke to him.

Like the others in her group, his eyes were fixed on the final exhibit.  But his stare was more intense than it had been; like it could burn a hole through the thick glass in which it was encased.  Realizing his concentration would not be broken unless by words about the now object of his intense gaze, the tour guide continued, “This personal flying combat suit was used to get soldier-pilots behind enemy lines, into and out of situations and missions that were otherwise not possible on foot.”

She went on to explain the technology behind this marvel of modern science and engineering.  It was made of mostly a light-weight lycra based material and had millions of individual fibers woven throughout that emitted an electro magnetic field powerful enough to influence and react to objects in its atmosphere.  This was its basis for flight and propulsion; directing and redirecting electromagnetic fields.  The sky-blue and steel gray suit had a retractable cape that was a free flowing fabric until an electrical charge was introduced to make it rigid so that it could act as a rudder.  Additionally, molded carbon-fiber and kevlar panels added light weight protection from assault, although in action the pilots were famously hard to target, much less hit.

The pilots were elite; the best of the best.  Their accounts of the suits usability were surprising even to the designers.  This was quite simply the easiest suit to maneuver  out of any they had tested, and they had tested hundreds.  The direction of flight was determined by sensors in the pilot’s helmet: look up, down, left, right and fly in that direction with ease and precision.  Actions like launch, landing, acceleration, and decceleration were all based on voice command.  In short, the suit was entirely reactive to the pilot and in combat it was almost as if they were one.

This was an accomplishment of science, engineering, aerodynamics, and most of all human capability.  But that is not why this suit was so well known.  Despite the hard work and genius that went into its design and flight, this suit was made famous because of a nearly century old comic book legend that lent the military project its name.

“That’s right folks.  The CIA called this the Superman Project during its developmental phases, and the name stuck.  Once photos leaked of pilots taking these personal flying suits into battle, the Superman legend was reborn, spurring three new movies, two television series, and an entirely new universe of comic book characters.”  The group laughed.  “Now, all soldiers that served during this time were heroic in one way or another, but for obvious reasons, these guys were dubbed the Superman Soldiers of the Third Gulf War.”  Almost everyone was smiling with amazement and a childlike giddiness.  The guide had looked over and made eye contact with each of her patrons as she finished her talk.  Her eyes settled on the reporter.  He had not budged or broken his stare.  “Any questions before we move toward the main atrium and conclude?” she said with a pause.  The reporter was silent and still.  She tried, “Sir?”

He did not redirect his attention.  In an entirely different manner and in a deeper, more deliberate tone than before, he asked, “Was this particular suit ever functional?”

Surprised as his stoic demeanor she replied with the wording she had been taught, “Yes sir, absolutely functional.  All exhibits in the Smithsonian Museum of Modern Warfare were at one time in use on the battlefield.  This type of weaponry, however, is no longer in use.  Like so many of the other items on display at our museum, the Superman Project was decommissioned in 2025 with the signing of the International Disarmament Act.”  Her words elicited no emotion nor did they break his hold.  Then addressing the group, she continued, “Okay, if you’ll all follow me we will work out way back to the main entrance.”  The group ambled clumsily and slowly away, except one.  While they all chattered about the wonders they had seen the reporter kept his intense stare on the suit.  The guide approached, “sir?”  No response.  Again, “sir?”  She placed her hand on the arm of his suit jacket.  He blinked and snapped his head around as if he had just been awaken from some hallucination.

“Huh?  Oh, I’m sorry,” he started.  “I guess I just got caught up in the fantasy of it all.  It is truly amazing isn’t it?”  His face relaxed and his boyish grin had returned.

“It is, sir,” she agreed.

“Listen, you were fantastic today.  Very informative.”  He seemed suddenly invigorated.  Refreshed.

“Well thank you.  I hope you got the information you needed for your article,” she answered with an appreciative smile.

“I did, indeed.  What is your name so I can include you in the story?”

“Campbell….. Uh, Shannon Campbell. C-a-m-p-b-e-l-l.” she recited with some excitement.  The gentleman entered her name in his handheld device, thanked her again, and turned to walk away.  He took his overcoat from where it was folded at his forearm and began to put it on.  The thought crossed her mind that her name would be in an editorial that could be read by hundreds, or millions, and how proud her parents were going to be.  “Wait,” she called.  “I want to get a copy of the story, when it’s finished.”

“Sure,” he came back.  “I write for the New World Reporter in New York.  It’s an internet news source that reaches all parts of the globe via the web.  The piece will be up in a few days.  You can search it by the subject.  It should be pretty easy to find.”

“Great.  What is your name?” she asked digging in her pocket for her pen.

“Kent.”  He moved in close and came almost to a whisper.  “ It’s, um, Clark Kent.”  She didn’t respond.  Even more quietly he said, “Uh, that’s K-e-n-t.”

“I know how to spell Kent,” she laughed.  She noticed that he wasn‘t laughing though, and his innocent smile had quickly turned to a look of embarrassment.  “Wait, are you serious?  You are a reporter for an international news source in New York and your name is Clark Kent?  Like, the Superman guy Clark Kent?”

He answered her in the way he had answered that same question so many times before.  “Unfortunately.  Goodbye, miss.”  She shook her head in disbelief, then laughed again to herself.  Dumbfounded and amused, she watched him disappear into the crowd that was heading for the exit of the main atrium.

That was the first time she had ever met anyone named Clark Kent.  It was the first time she would have her name in a news article that would be published internationally.  But that article would be overshadowed by a much larger story: three days later would also be the first time anything had ever been stolen from a Smithsonian museum.