"...Effective immediately, the California Branch and the USA Division of Umbrella are seceding from the Paris Headquarters."
San Francisco International Airport, outside Terminal T3, was swarmed with reporters. As the explosive news of Umbrella's internal schism broke, a flurry of flashbulbs lit up and the constant clicking of shutters echoed in unison.
Among the sea of cameras, Vela turned her head slightly. A bodyguard in black leaned in and whispered discreetly in her ear, "Director, Captain Andreilov has recovered the S.T.A.R.S. survivors in Raccoon City."
"Mm. I know."
Vela gave a small nod. Then, with her brow furrowed, she put on a professionally composed expression of concern and irritation, and gave the gathered reporters a nod of acknowledgment.
"Ladies and gentlemen, that concludes the Q&A session. As a responsible corporate leader and citizen, I cannot turn a blind eye to the disaster in Raccoon City. Though my conflicts with William Birkin have always existed, we were once part of the same company. The Raccoon City incident has happened—undeniably. And now, I will not run. My team and the California Branch will do our part to help Raccoon City through this crisis."
Taking the cue, her security team moved in, helping SFPD airport officers push the crowd back. Vela took the opportunity to walk toward the waiting Boeing 777 on the tarmac, still emblazoned with the red-and-white umbrella logo.
"Director Russell, as an employee, executive, and board member, is it legal for you to unilaterally secede from headquarters and the board?"
"Director Russell, why was your first response after the Raccoon City incident to declare independence from Paris HQ? Is there a hidden agenda behind this move—"
...
Vela paid no attention to the shouting journalists.
You were summoned so I could give you information. Not for you to interrogate me.
Typical American press. No wonder TV dramas paint them as dangerous nuisances—each question more brazen than the last. Blunt, tactless, and brainless. Even at a moment like this, some tabloid hack couldn't resist twisting it into a scandal.
Click.
She ascended the airstair and boarded the jet. As the cabin door sealed shut, her composed expression instantly melted away.
Smack!
"Damn journalists."
Settling into a luxurious seat and fastening her belt, Vela smirked. Of course she wasn't really mad at them.
It was their job. Within the rules, they could ask whatever they wanted. Whether she answered or not—that was her call.
Of course, if any reporter crossed the line—stealing, invading privacy, digging where they shouldn't—Vela would show them what it meant to be crushed by monopolistic capital.
Including but not limited to: being declared insane on the spot, institutionalized, assaulted in a psych ward, and eventually "suicided" by hanging. A full-service package.
"Media industry, you old fossils... I'll let you stir up a storm for now. Your day will come."
Vela tied up her hair and picked up the latest stack of newspapers and magazines left on the table.
Every major front page screamed the same bold headline: "Cannibal Plague Breaks Out in Raccoon City." Speculations and reports on Umbrella's illegal experiments filled the columns.
Whirr...
The aircraft shuddered. Once they were airborne and in cruising mode, Vela motioned for her personal bodyguard to begin a full briefing.
This 777—custom-ordered from Boeing and retrofitted by Umbrella—rivaled Air Force One in many respects. It housed cutting-edge communications gear and sophisticated anti-surveillance systems, functioning as a semi-formal command center.
More than sufficient for Vela's current needs.
A panel slid open with a faint hum. Various command and communications systems lit up, and the modular main screen came to life after a few seconds of initialization.
It showed an aerial view of Raccoon City alongside first-person footage recorded by U.S.F. soldiers.
Relayed via signal boosters in Raccoon City, the feed had a slight delay but was still clear on Vela's display.
"Andreilov negotiated the surrender of U.T.S. operatives in Raccoon City under my name?"
"They do move fast. Fine. I'll meet with them once I wrap up in Washington."
Tapping the armrest touchscreen, Vela browsed through a series of enhanced images, then put on her headset.
"Request? You want to extract U.B.C.S. personnel?"
She paused, eyes gleaming, then said, "Approved."
Vela wasn't surprised by Andreilov's connections with Umbrella's other armed units.
When Umbrella began building its private military forces post-1991, Russian involvement had been critical.
The commander of Umbrella's paramilitary Red Umbrella Division, Sergei Vladimir, was a former USSR colonel. U.B.C.S. squad leader Mikhail Victor was a former KGB mid-level officer. Nikolai Zinoviev, another seasoned operative, came from USSR special forces.
Many of Vela's own U.S.F. security units, bodyguard teams, and emergency mobile squads—even some of the organizers and trainers—came from that crumbled superpower.
After the collapse of the USSR, nearly every military contractor, security firm, or corporation looking to build its own private army feasted on the surplus of Russian talent.
Post-1991, thanks to the "shock therapy" of the new regime, the Russian economy didn't recover—it worsened, spiraling into collapse.
The growing desperation among the impoverished population forced countless former soldiers, intelligence officers, and bureaucrats—now unemployed—to abandon their old ideals and seek survival.
They had no choice. Either find work, or starve with their families.
And what else could they do?
Their only skills were the ones forged by the USSR.
Now stripped of faith and homeland, Vela offered them a livelihood—a respectable job that could feed their families. And in return, they served her company.
Vela even brought their families over from Russia.
She bought vast tracts of undeveloped land near the Canadian border in Washington State, constructing multiple Umbrella employee communities: with schools, hospitals, and basic recreational facilities—all under her California Branch's near-total control.
Using them as proof of concept, and leveraging their past networks, Vela continued to poach talent from Russia—soldiers, security personnel, internal affairs veterans, architects, engineers, mathematicians, and graduates.
Simultaneously, she dispatched procurement teams throughout the Russian Far East, Ukraine, the Baltic states, and Kazakhstan to buy up advanced equipment and weapons schematics in exchange for food and supplies.
By early 1998, with signs emerging that a formidable new leader was rising in Russia, Vela finally ceased her operations.
By then, her private military force was fully trained and operational.
Understanding the importance of not putting all her eggs in one basket, she began aggressively recruiting personnel from the U.S. military, Europe, and Latin America—Mexico and beyond.
"U.B.C.S. — recruit as many as you can, but don't overreach. One rule: the mission comes first. I reviewed the list of rescued administrative and research personnel from Raccoon City—their survival and testimonies are critical."
Having sorted out Andreilov's motivations, Vela didn't micromanage further. Instead, she asked about U.S.F.'s footage documentation, the collection progress on William Birkin's crimes and B.O.W. experiments, and the T-A.L.O.S. project status.
"Good. I'll be speaking with the National Security Advisor shortly. Watch for signals from the military—they'll be coming to retrieve the T-virus and its inhibitor."
As she played with the red-and-white silver umbrella-shaped brooch in her hand, Vela smiled faintly after receiving a satisfactory report and ended the call with Andreilov.
Buzz...
She picked up her phone to check a message.
"You've kept me waiting," read the screen. It was her private number.
Sender: Derek C. Simmons
It seems you've finally taken the right step.
Under Spencer's misguided leadership and greed, Umbrella has become a threat to global stability.
Happy independence, my friend.
I suppose I should now call you the CEO of Militech.
The President wishes to see you, Ms. Vela Adelheid Russell.
...
Her smile grew ever so slightly as she typed a reply and tapped send.
[I've got a gift for you too, Mr. Simmons.]
Ding.
Simmons: [I look forward to it.]
Good. Let your family take a look first—Carla Radames, don't disappoint me...
Vela's expression turned sly.
She was deeply interested in the research and improvement of the T-virus—but now was not the time. Since Simmons and the Pentagon were eager, why not extend them a favor?
Besides, it helped reinforce her public image of innocence.
She, Vela, had nothing to do with the Raccoon City incident!
She had spent years focused solely on her own little domain, never involved in virology or B.O.W. mass production. She might have had inklings or suspicions, but she hadn't expected Spencer and Birkin to go this far.
That much was true.
As for abandoning all genetic research on the T-virus and its derivatives? Unthinkable. Vela wasn't stupid.
The time just wasn't right.
Umbrella—no, from now on, Militech—as a strategic partner of the Pentagon, would eventually have access to results.
And Vela had ensured her U.S.F. teams recovered more than one sample of the T-virus and its inhibitors days before the outbreak.
They had even found the Progenitor virus and the experimental "Queen Leech" used for DNA extraction.
One batch for the Pentagon, one for Vela to keep, and one... destined for somewhere far away—Arasaka.
By rebranding Umbrella's California branch into Militech, preserving the USA Division's lobbying network, and strengthening ties with Washington and the Pentagon, Vela had extricated herself.
But it came with a trade-off.
For the foreseeable future, neither she nor Militech could engage in B.O.W. or bioweapons research.
Though Vela never fully bought into B.O.W.s anyway—she believed the future lay in cybernetically enhanced bioweapons, cyborg hybrids.
Still, her rivals wouldn't care. They'd be watching her every move.
Militech might inherit Umbrella's pharmaceutical and medical hardware business, but related research efforts would stall. Anything based on virology—at least for the next few years—would have to be hidden and handled with extreme caution.
That was fine.
Umbrella's legacy alone was enough to feed her for years.
She would focus on building Militech's foundation first.
With Umbrella sanctioned, its assets frozen, and bankruptcy looming, there was no better time to absorb and reorganize its remains. Especially the African research center in the Dubai region of West Africa...
Steadying herself, Vela calmly waited for the video call arranged by Simmons, the National Security Advisor.
Beep-beep...
The screen chimed.
Connection established.
Adjusting her posture, Vela disabled the Raccoon City feed and accepted the incoming video.
The seal of the bald eagle clutching a shield appeared—the emblem of the President of the United States. A man in a dark suit entered the frame, seated in the iconic white-walled, blue-carpeted Oval Office.
With her expression now solemn, Vela opened with quiet gravitas:
"Mr. President, I am Vela Adelheid Russell."