And to Seiji Kuwahara.

Seiji sometimes saw himself as an explorer, a trailblazer the Americans would call it, clearing out the forest with its tangled undergrowth and making ready for the cultivation of a brand-new crop. So far the clearing process had been sluggish, and he had been working with his hands bound. But he would be free soon, free to use his own initiative and work at speed.

When the crop took root and prospered in the new soil, he would be the man on the scene, holding the reins, the power of life and death. He was the pioneer, the pointman, and in time it would be he who issued terms to Tokyo.

In time.

But not just yet.

First he had a war to win in Vegas, and the initial skirmish — if not a defeat — was, at best, inconclusive.

He would have to do much better in the future, if he hoped to realize his dream and see it blossom in the desert.

Much better, indeed.

Seiji Kuwahara finished with his tea and reached for the sake. It was time to toast the future — his future and to honor those who were about to die in battle.

8

Bolan pushed his rental car along the Strip, northbound toward downtown and the press of Glitter Gulch. The midmorning traffic was already backing up along the boulevard, fully half of the license plates around him representing states outside Nevada.

Tourists, right.

The lifeblood of a state that lived on transients, milking them for every dime they could afford to throw away on gambling, lodging, restaurants and shows.

The pleasure-seekers burned up their two-week holidays in search of something — fortune, fame, a chance to be "somebody" for an hour or two. The warrior wished them well and prayed that none of them would be sucked into the coming cross fire.