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There was also a small but powerful handheld satellite radio, two Mag lights, and a GPS tracking device that he had just turned on.
    Monarch could smell the sea, but was barely aware of the beck and call of men working around him. Wiping at the sweat already beading on his forehead, he picked up the bib-style bottom of the squirrel suit and struggled into it.
    Made of Kevlar and cable-reinforced parachute fabric, the squirrel suit was two-piece, jet black, and featured soft wings like a flying squirrel’s that hung down from the arms to the waist and between the legs of the suit from the crotch to ankle. An integrated hood fit him like a glove. Extreme sports base jumpers had invented the suits to fly off cliffs, but over the years Monarch had found them perfect for high-altitude jumps, giving him the ability to soar in virtually any direction and at varying speeds, all while plummeting toward Earth.
    He checked the altimeter on his right wrist and then a second GPS device on his left. Two feet above sea level. Thirty-three hundred and fifty-two miles to target. He put a headlamp on over the hood, and then swung his arms into the straps of a lightweight parachute pack that he’d use at ultralow altitude.
    Sweltering now, Monarch nevertheless picked up a helmet and a set of clear goggles and turned toward General Barrens and Ellen Wolfe. The general wore short sleeves and aviator sunglasses. The CIA officer wore a khaki top and shorts and Ray-Ban sunglasses sat on top of her head. For the first time, she looked genuinely concerned about Monarch’s safety.
    He looked beyond Barrens and Wolfe at a black B-2 stealth bomber that was also inside the open-sided hangar. The stealth bomber featured special coatings that allowed it to slip past radar undetected and had a range of six thousand miles The pilot and navigator bombardier were making their final inspections. A team of U.S. Navy ordnance specialists were maneuvering the last of sixty-five five-hundred-pound Mark 82 bombs into the belly of the flying beast.
    â€œYou sure those are going to hold above me?” Monarch asked.
    Barrens nodded. “There’s a foolproof rack system up in there; you’ll see it. The ride will be uncomfortable, but you’ll have plenty of room. Test your radio and headset once you get yourself situated.”
    Monarch nodded. “Oxygen? Water? Pressure?”
    â€œFour tanks of O 2 ,” Wolfe replied. “More than enough. And two gallons of water, two bags of jerky, dried fruit, nuts, and a bar of dark chocolate.”
    â€œThey’ve rigged the bay so it will have about the same pressure dogs get when in transport on commercial jets,” Barrens said.
    â€œWhat more could a man want?” Monarch said, and moved past them toward the bomber, irritated by the ungodly heat.
    â€œRobin?” the CIA officer called.
    Monarch glanced back over his shoulder at her.
    â€œBe safe,” Wolfe said.
    He smiled and said, “You too, Ellen,” and kept going.
    The bomb bay doors were open. Monarch flipped on the headlamp. Bombs filled much of the bay above him, stacked and positioned on hydraulic racks linked to a retractable pin system that the bombardier alone controlled. But between the underbelly of the bomber and the first actual bomb, there was a gap of five feet. Strapped to the empty racks below the bombs were the four oxygen canisters, water jugs, and a nylon sack, which he guessed held his food.
    Monarch donned leather gloves and the helmet, then climbed up inside. He got to his feet, got a firm grip on the empty bomb racks before looking down at one of the ordnance specialists, a thickly set Hispanic whose name tag identified him as Corporal Escobar.
    â€œDude, you out of your frickin’ skull, or what?” Escobar said.
    â€œI’ve considered that more than a few times,” Monarch admitted, then gave the man a smile,\ and said into his mic, “Let’s button her