Progress Begins with Arasaka

A U.S.F. soldier gestured dismissively for Carlos to follow Jill and fall back.

Carlos: "..."

That was the truth.

The U.S.F. soldiers' gunfire was unbelievably loud. Judging by the barrel caliber, it should have only been 7.62 to 7.92 millimeters, but the chamber pressure of their ammunition was outrageously high. When the rounds struck those monsters' bluish-black skin, flesh and blood flew everywhere. Every shot blasted a bowl-sized hole through them, spraying chunks of meat and blood across the ground like tiny fountains.

New weapons, new propellants...

Fuck, there was no way to live like this. They were all under Umbrella's roof, yet even their ammunition was new?!

Fine, your U.S.F. had good equipment. We U.B.C.S. were the stepchildren!

Though he felt somewhat bitter, Carlos merely laughed at himself and turned to chase after Jill.

Hearing his hurried footsteps behind her, Jill teased, "Hey, big gentleman, got looked down on?"

Carlos shrugged. "Can't be helped. Looks like they don't need my support..."

Another thunderous blast rang out. As they spoke, a shell was fired from the position where the flare had risen, muzzle flame flashing.

A black dot tore through the air at astonishing speed and slammed viciously into a Tyrant.

The restraining trench coat fell away. The Tyrant, which was shedding its limits and beginning to swell, did not even have time to react before the long shell easily pierced its skin and flesh, blasting off the restraint device on its chest and leaving a charred crater as large as a human head in the front of its torso.

Boom!

The next moment, a massive cloud of black smoke wrapped around fire rose from the building behind the Tyrant. Shards of glass and chunks of stone flew everywhere, mixed with mangled flesh and torn trench-coat fabric.

Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle—

In the distance, two more firing positions began spitting flames, forming crossfire. Dense bullets poured down like a torrential rain, shrieking through the air.

This time, Carlos recognized it.

He and Jill looked at each other and said in unison, "MaDeuce!"

The M2 Browning heavy machine gun, an American military heirloom and antique that had served for more than half a century. Carlos and Jill knew that sound all too well.

12.7×99mm armor-piercing incendiary rounds burst into dazzling sprays of flesh and blood across the Tyrants' bodies.

Like a craftsman carving a pineapple with an eye-cutting knife, several Tyrants that charged out—whether their restraints had been released or not—had layers of skin, flesh, tendons, and bones shaved away in an instant, blood splashing everywhere.

They turned into honeycomb briquettes, bluish-black streaked with reddish pink.

Two Tyrants whose upper bodies had only just mutated had their kneecaps shattered and were forced to kneel. One Tyrant turned around, lifted an abandoned compact car from the roadside, and made to hurl it toward Chris.

"стрелять!"

Several more rockets streaked in, trailing flames.

The two Tyrants whose lower bodies had previously been torn apart had not had time to regenerate before each took another hit. The Tyrant lifting the car had it even worse: one rocket detonated the car's fuel tank, while another blew its head clean off. Amid the explosion, its burning headless body collapsed.

Rat! Rat! Rat!

Chris had already closed in, less than ten meters from the frontmost Tyrant. Raising the assault rifle codenamed "Copperhead," he fired round after round into the head of the Tyrant whose chest had been pierced by the recoilless cannon. Shot after shot, until its skull was blasted apart and its brain matter turned into a complete mess.

New armor-piercing explosive tandem slugs struck another Tyrant in the head, bursting it into a cloud of blood mist. It was the work of the other U.S.F. soldiers.

With the relevant intelligence already in hand, and with Chris—a survivor who had fought B.O.W.s—sharing his combat experience, the U.S.F. soldiers followed their finishing-shot procedures and coordinated closely. Armed either with "Tactician" rifles or "Defender" light machine guns, they dismantled every B.O.W. that entered Raccoon Avenue.

Literally dismantled them.

Whether they were down or not, they were treated the same. First, shoot the head. Blow the head apart, shoot until it separated from the torso. Then shoot the limbs, followed by napalm accelerant and thermite grenades.

They were incredibly seasoned.

Or rather, they should have been that seasoned from the start.

Bioweapons, B.O.W.s, relied on surprise and psychological terror. Once intelligence was known, mental preparation was complete, and there was experience dealing with them, B.O.W.s were actually easier to handle than people when sufficiently armed.

"Truly brutal."

From far away, Carlos and Jill, who had been brought up by the U.S.F. onto the roof of a half-collapsed two-story building equipped with M2 Heavy Machine Guns and recoilless cannon firing positions, could not help sighing.

Ten minutes ago, they had still been hunted with no way into the sky or the earth, utterly miserable.

Gunfire continued without pause.

Jill noticed that the operators who had never seen the new recoilless cannons and rocket launchers before seemed to be constantly taking notes.

From their conversation, they appeared to be discussing settings and parameters—penetration depth, how much delay to set on the fuses. Like weapons testers, they kept writing suggestions for improvements in small notebooks.

"You're Jill? Hand the things over to me."

"...All right."

Jill nodded and handed the backpack containing the evidence S.T.A.R.S. had collected of Umbrella's crimes in Raccoon City to the U.S.F. soldier before her. She stressed, "Please keep it safe. Those Umbrella bastards want to destroy it..."

The curse had slipped out from habit. Jill immediately paused, glanced at the umbrella-shaped insignia on the U.S.F. soldiers, coughed, and hurriedly corrected herself. "Ahem, I mean them. Hostile Umbrella."

"I know."

The U.S.F. soldier, who appeared to hold a command position, opened the backpack and gave it a brief inspection before saying flatly, "Umbrella... soon, we won't be one anymore."

Without thinking too deeply about what he meant, Jill looked at him. "Can you give me a gun? Those bastard dogs chasing me—they aren't B.O.W.s. They're living people, people hired by Umbrella. They definitely won't..."

"Oh, the U.T.S. guys. Those hyenas specialize in dirty work like destroying evidence and eliminating people who are bad for the company. Ignore them. They won't be chasing you anymore."

After speaking, he looked toward the other side of the firing position, where several U.S.F. technicians carrying communications backpacks with antennas and operating some kind of tablets stood before a burly man holding a microphone and saying something.

"That's our boss. The matter of U.T.S. hunting you should already be resolved."

Puzzled, Jill walked over. As she approached, she roughly made out what the man was shouting. It was Russian.

"Oh? You're the woman Redfield kept talking about? You really do look spirited. Is there a problem?"

After a while, he lowered the microphone and looked at Jill. This time he spoke English, though his Russian accent remained.

"How did you resolve the issue with U.T.S.?" Jill asked. Then, seemingly realizing that the question was inappropriate, she added, "If it's inconvenient, pretend I didn't ask."

"The Director thinks highly of the Redfield brothers. There's no harm in telling you."

Jill could not see his face beneath his full gear, but the burly man spoke frankly. "Nothing much. I reached out to them. Many of the armed personnel in Umbrella and I are the same kind of people, trying to make a living after what happened in '91. Then again, I'm doing pretty well now, so I just borrowed some influence to pressure them."

He asked, "Do you know who we and Redfield are working for in Raccoon City?"

"Who?"

"Ms. Vera Adelheid Russell, Umbrella USA Regional Director, Director of the Black Umbrella Department, and First Director of the California Division."

As he spoke, he pointed toward a squad gathering from the other side of the building's firing position. Among them were several people wearing either white lab coats or formal suits, with red-and-white umbrella-shaped pins on their collars.

Without question, they were researchers and administrative personnel from Umbrella's Raccoon City branch.

In the middle of the group, several U.S.F. soldiers carrying highly sealed silver military laboratory-grade cases looked toward the burly man. They glanced at Jill, the outsider, and only spoke after their captain nodded.

"Captain Andreyev, the 'search and rescue' operations at Raccoon City Central Hospital and Umbrella Raccoon Tower are complete. These are the 'survivors.' They are willing to expose William Birkin's and the Board of Directors' conspiracy to the Director."

"Very good. Keep them safe and get them out."

Andreyev then turned to Jill. "It's that simple. I told my old comrades in U.T.S. that Umbrella's broken ship is sinking. No one can keep the Raccoon City affair buried anymore. Would they like to board our Director's ship? They could live and avoid being purged. And they agreed."

"You don't know yet, do you? Just now, Umbrella USA officially announced its separation from Umbrella Paris Headquarters."

Andreyev handed her a perfectly square object.

Jill focused her eyes on it.

It looked like a standalone LCD display, its picture incredibly clear. Several small squares were displayed on it. When Andreyev opened one of them, an interface resembling a television news broadcast appeared.

The footage seemed to be from an airport—San Francisco Airport. Countless reporters surrounded a tall woman with light golden-blond hair, and the scene was deafeningly chaotic.

Andreyev turned up the volume.

Though the nearby gunfire and explosions still made it noisy, it was enough for Jill to clearly hear the message.

"I, Vera Adelheid Russell, hereby formally announce in my capacity as a Board Member that Umbrella California Division and the USA region will, effective immediately, separate from Umbrella Paris Headquarters."

Umbrella Falls

"...Umbrella California Division and the USA region will, effective immediately, separate from Umbrella Paris Headquarters."

Outside Terminal 3 of San Francisco International Airport, reporters from every major outlet had gathered. As Umbrella Corporation's explosive announcement of its split was delivered, flashes burst in waves and the rapid clatter of shutters merged into a single roar.

Amid the forest of cameras, Vera, having finished her statement, turned her head slightly. A black-clad bodyguard leaned close and whispered discreetly into her ear. "Director, Captain Andreyev in Raccoon City has linked up with the surviving S.T.A.R.S. members."

"Mm, understood."

Vera nodded faintly. Then her brows knit slightly as she offered the gathered reporters a polite nod, wearing a practiced expression of concern and anger.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we will conclude the questions here for now. As a responsible businessperson and citizen, I cannot turn a blind eye to the disaster occurring in Raccoon City. Even though my conflict with William Birkin has never disappeared, we were, after all, once part of the same company. The Raccoon City incident has happened. That is beyond doubt. Now, I will not evade responsibility. The California Division and I will contribute our share to help Raccoon City overcome this crisis."

Understanding their employer's intentions, the bodyguard team immediately stepped forward. Together with the SFDP airport police maintaining order, they separated the reporters from Vera, while she took the opportunity to head toward the Boeing 777 private jet waiting on the runway, still painted with the red-and-white umbrella logo.

"Director Russell, as a company employee, executive, and Board Member, is it legal for you to unilaterally separate from headquarters and the Board of Directors?"

"Director Russell, why was your first response after the Raccoon City incident to announce your separation from Umbrella Paris Headquarters? Is there some unspeakable secret hidden behind this..."

Naturally, Vera ignored the reporters shouting their questions.

I called you here so I could tell you things, not so you could question me.

American reporters truly deserved their reputation. There was a reason so many American dramas portrayed them as walking hazards and troublemakers. Their questions were sharper than the last, careless and thoughtless. Even at a time like this, some small-time reporters did not forget to steer their questions toward scandals.

She climbed the boarding stairs and entered the private jet. Once the cabin door closed, the concern and anger vanished from Vera's face.

"These reporters..."

Sitting in a comfortable luxury seat and fastening her seat belt, Vera curled her lip. Of course, she would not get angry with reporters.

This was how they earned their living. Within the rules, they were free to ask whatever they wanted, and Vera was equally free to answer or not.

Of course, if any reporter had a death wish and tried to sneak around, violate her privacy, dig too deeply, or use underhanded tactics outside the rules, Vera would make him understand the iron fist of monopoly capitalism.

Including, but not limited to, having him diagnosed as mentally ill on the spot, subjected to all manner of abuse in a psychiatric hospital, then found hanged in an apparent suicide—a complete package straight into the grave.

"The media industry, the old fossils... I'll let you keep throwing your weight around for a while longer. There will be chances to step into it."

Vera gathered up her hair and picked up the latest newspapers and magazines that had been specially placed on the table for her.

The front pages of several major newspapers all used enlarged, bold headlines: "Cannibal Disease" Outbreak in Raccoon City. Beneath them, speculation and reports about Umbrella's illegal experiments occupied enormous amounts of space.

Hum...

The fuselage trembled. Only after the plane took off and entered cruise mode did Vera signal for her personal bodyguard to come over and give a detailed report.

This 777 private jet, ordered personally by Vera from Boeing and then modified by Umbrella, was in some ways not much worse than Air Force One. It concealed cutting-edge communications equipment and sophisticated electronic systems for preventing interference and eavesdropping, functioning as an imperfect and incomplete command center.

It was enough for Vera's current needs.

A compartment of equipment slid open with an almost inaudible hum. The lights of various command and communications devices blinked. After roughly ten seconds of loading, the combined main display connected successfully and quickly showed an image.

It was an aerial view of Raccoon City, along with first-person footage recorded by U.S.F. soldiers' body cameras.

Through the amplification and relay functions of signal reception equipment in Raccoon City, it appeared before Vera with a slight delay.

"Andreyev recruited the U.T.S. currently carrying out orders in Raccoon City in my name?"

"They're certainly well-informed. Fine. After I finish the Washington trip, I'll meet them." Tapping the touchscreen on her armrest, Vera browsed through the enhanced images one by one. Then she put on a headset.

"A request? You want to rescue U.B.C.S. personnel too?"

After pondering for a moment, Vera's eyes flickered as she said, "Approved."

She was not surprised by Andreyev's connections with Umbrella's other armed units.

After '91, Russians from the northern part of the Eurasian World Island had played an important role in the establishment and development of Umbrella's private forces.

The highest-ranking person in the company's paramilitary department, Red Umbrella, was Sergei Vladimir, a Russian and former CCCP colonel; U.B.C.S. squad leader Michelle Victor was a former mid-level operative in the KGB; Nikolai Zinoviev was a former CCCP special forces soldier with extensive combat experience...