Central Asia, Afghanistan.
Bagram Air Base.
The place was bustling with voices.
The upbeat melody of the USA's "The Army Goes Rolling Along" military march played from the loudspeakers in the semi-open-air sergeants' mess hall.
Under the sunshade, seated in the senior officers' dining area near the indoors with the best view, Vela rested her chin on one hand, index finger gently rubbing the tabletop as she watched with interest the honor guard performing fancy rifle drills in the makeshift area below.
Clack, clack.
"Present arms!"
At the command of the lead officer, the soldiers carrying M1 Garand rifles with bayonets raised their weapons onto their shoulders.
The rifle maneuvers were flashy, and the crisp rhythm of the empty chambers being cycled had a distinct beat. Two squads stood opposite each other, tossing rifles back and forth in synchronized exchanges. The commander walked through the center, narrowly brushing against the blunt bayonets, followed by a series of complex moves: thrusting, spinning, tossing…
Well, one could say fancy rifle drills were among the few upbeat military traditions in the USA.
While they had no actual combat value and were rather cumbersome, not all military training was meant for combat. Procedural drills had their place.
Folding blankets like tofu blocks, shining shoes to a mirror finish, making hotel-style bed corners—different forms, same purpose: to eliminate lax habits and reinforce military discipline—
Whoosh, whoosh!
A wave of cheers, jeers, and whistles erupted from the soldiers below.
Some even cupped their hands to shout this way:
"Vela, your Militech is awesome! Way better than those bi—trash!"
"Woohoo! Genius CEO lady, please visit often. Bagram always welcomes you!"
"Adelheid, thank you for your contribution to prosthetics—we love you!"
...
Well, still very unruly.
Americans and their freedom.
Even with military discipline training, expecting them to behave as stern and silent as Arasaka or CCCP KGB forces was unrealistic.
Especially during a celebration—with extra rations.
The generals at USA Central Command clearly wanted to use Vela's visit to Bagram Base to lift the gloom of the recently devastated Afghan garrison and reignite morale.
In the open field, mobile field kitchens lined up. Up front, wide open grills stood under the sky, with clouds of charcoal smoke swirling as slabs of red and white meat sizzled on the iron racks.
At this thought, Vela shook her head, then rose to wave at the shouting soldiers below.
Whoosh—
The cheers grew even louder.
"The boys got pretty fired up when they heard Ms. Russell was coming," said the Army General sitting opposite Vela with a smile.
"Let's hope I live up to the expectations."
Vela merely smiled.
Fired up was right.
Every grunt knew—she might not bring cheerleaders, dance troupes, or Hollywood stars for morale-boosting performances, but she definitely brought massive aid supplies, medical materials, and cutting-edge military equipment.
As long as the afternoon's weapons demo went smoothly and the procurement contract got signed, Militech's elite gear would start arriving in waves.
Recently, after the U.S. military's "Bushmaster Operation" failed, a bioterror crisis broke out on the Afghan front, and BSAA anti-biohazard specialists had to be urgently deployed.
From mid-March to late April, BSAA operatives' performance—tactical use of exoskeletons, equipment level, even the so-called Rank-3 Army and Rank-4 Marines—left everyone stunned and envious.
With gems before them, how could pebbles compare?
People always strive for better—once you've seen the best, who wants to go back to second-rate?
Even the Marines wanted new gear. At the very least, they'd settle for the Army's retired Militech D5A1 Copperhead assault rifles.
The old men at the Pentagon probably had many factors to consider.
But for the grunts already stationed on the front lines—risking their lives in Afghanistan's desolate mountains—the core concern had always been the same: to stay alive.
"Mr. Redfield, how would you rate the rifle drill skills of this honor guard compared to the Air Force?"
Vela turned her head with interest and asked.
Chris, who had once served in the U.S. Air Force but left due to insubordination, gave a one-liner after a long pause:
"Not bad."
Sitting stiffly at the edge of a long table filled with generals, colonels, and senior sergeants, the tall and broad-shouldered Chris kept a straight back and a stoic face the entire time.
Under the not-so-subtle glances from the surrounding officers, he felt thoroughly uncomfortable.
"Getting rusty?"
Vela smiled faintly, the corners of her mouth curling as she asked.
Chris didn't respond. Instead, he stood up with a swish, clearly intending to go down and demonstrate.
"Hey, hey…"
Vela quickly stopped him.
Across the long table, both the military personnel and the Militech business delegation wore polite smiles.
"Miss, are you interested in expanding operations into Afghanistan?"
After the brief interlude, once Vela had returned to her seat, the general suddenly asked casually.
"Invest in Afghanistan…"
She paused for a moment, twisted open the cap of a bottle of Militech-branded electrolyte water provided by the base canteen, took a large gulp, and looked at the general thoughtfully. "General, has the military's Operation Enduring Freedom achieved a break-even point yet?"
"It's an investment," the general emphasized.
Investment always comes with risk.
"I'm not optimistic," Vela replied bluntly, shaking her head.
"CCCP's lesson should be warning enough. Harsh terrain, widespread banditry, religious conflict, border disputes, ethnic hatred—every problem in the world exists here. Negatively speaking, unless you eliminate everyone in the hate chain…"
But even if that were possible, there was no need.
"Or bet big."
After a pause, Vela continued calmly, "With sincerity and real capital, spend a decade or more on patient rebuilding—on change and reshaping. Otherwise, there's no way to even talk about breaking even. But let's be real—that's impossible."
That was her approach to managing the San Francisco Bay Area and California stronghold.
Afghanistan had no such value.
"In the long run, lazy, low-intensity security wars bring zero value to military sustainability. Endless attacks, honorless combat, one-sided resource consumption—this is just a slow bleed for national defense."
"Regarding rebuilding Afghan order and investing commercially, Militech refuses to participate."
Vela didn't shy away from speaking bluntly.
She couldn't dictate the Pentagon's strategy—yet—but voicing her opinion to shape the future narrative? Fair game.
Whether they listened or not was up to them, but Vela doubted they would.
Maybe no one could truly swallow the rotten bowl of Afghan conflict, but as long as they kept adding new rice to it to prevent full spoilage, even if they planted nothing but poppies, it was still profitable for certain people and groups.
As for Vela, her stance was clear—Afghanistan? Even if you gave her land and minerals, she'd still say no!
Selling gear, offering Militech prosthetics doctors, high-end trauma care? Fine. But investing locally to help "build democracy"? Anyone who wants to, go ahead—she's out.
It was a doomed ledger—one Vela intended to use in the future as grounds for holding people accountable, even rewriting laws. Militech might not emerge spotless from the mire, but better not to wade in too deep.
"Ms. Russell, aren't you being too pessimistic?"
"Taking a pessimistic approach to everything, always assuming the worst—I consider that prudence."
Finally, they were talking serious business. Chris, now seated again, exhaled.
He couldn't really contribute to the discussion, but that didn't stop him from listening intently.
Pushing aside all other thoughts, Chris gave a subtle nod to himself.
To be realistic, he agreed with Vela's viewpoint.
Back in the 1980s, the CCCP had spent a decade "helping rebuild" here. Now the USA was doing the same. The Afghan locals had PTSD from being "helped."
In just one month since being deployed to Afghanistan, Chris had been on dozens of missions: rescue, searches, decontamination, anti-BOW combat—you name it. Naturally, they encountered locals. The hostility and hatred in their eyes left a deep impression.
Most people in the mountains didn't trust outsiders. Any communication often came with deliberate sabotage…
Sigh.
With that in mind, Chris's gaze slowly drifted into the distance.
In front of the canteen, the red-white-blue federal Stars and Stripes, various military banners, and Militech's logo flag flapped in the heatwave-filled wind.
Farther out—dilapidated and abandoned buildings. Still within Bagram Base.
There used to be three large hangars, one tower, many barracks and warehouses, five large helipads, and 110 concrete bunkers—all built by the former CCCP. But after years of warlord conflict across Afghanistan, the facilities were mostly destroyed. By late April, the U.S. military had repaired less than half.
"End drill. Salute!"
At that moment, the fancy rifle drill below concluded.
Cooks began serving food.
The soldiers got buffet service. Vela's table received personal service.
Grilled pineapple ham, apple-roasted turkey, mandarin-glazed wild duck, American steak, apple salad, fried banana…
The general had already said this was the enlisted men's menu—no Michelin-starred cutlery or fancy touches.
Afghanistan didn't have those conditions anyway. Even if it did, that was a matter for the future.
And as for American troops' food preferences—it was all about big meat, and lots of it.
There was no argument—just a difference of opinion. The discussion between Vela and the general ended naturally.
They hadn't succeeded in getting Militech directly involved, but so be it. Someone else would surely be interested in Afghan land and minerals.
"Then let's look forward to this afternoon's demonstration. I trust Militech won't disappoint."
The general smoothly shifted the topic.
"Of course."
Vela raised a chilled beer can and gently clinked it with the general's. Then she turned to Chris, shaking the cold beer, "One for you too?"
You'll be needed soon.
If her timing was right, the Arasaka Counter-Intelligence Division personnel embedded inside Tricell should now be in position.
...
Afternoon.
In the Paropamisus Mountains of northwestern Afghanistan, under the blistering sun, inside a naturally formed cave expanded by artificial excavation—beyond layers of reinforced concrete barriers—lay a wide, dark space filled with tall incubation tanks.
Before the main console screen glowing with blue light stood a tall man in black clothing and trench coat, wearing sunglasses—Albert Wesker. He silently watched the center screen reporting Vela Adelheid's arrival in Afghanistan.
To the left, another screen.
Still-trending news from the San Francisco Expo.
[2002, Militech Archives.]
[Damn! We will never forget.]
...
[#4 We are the pioneers of human technology. Our goal is the vast sea of stars—a never-ending journey.]
To the right, another screen showed the constant takeoff and landing of Hercules C-130 transport planes at Bagram Air Base.
Footage from embedded journalists captured Militech's CEO standing beside the commander of USA Central Command, reviewing the honor guard rifle demonstration and accepting cheers from frontline troops.
"...Not enough. Still far from enough. Even that Chris—who should've died at Sergei's hands and rose through nothing but sheer luck—has gained such power. William, I'm beginning to understand the pressure you were under…"
One hand pressed to his forehead, the veins on Wesker's brow bulged ominously. Beneath the tinted sunglasses, a pair of unnatural yellow vertical pupils glowed eerily in the dim light.
He felt humiliated.
Once again—just when he had spent a month lulling BSAA into complacency, preparing to lure Chris into a trap and eliminate him—Vela arrived. She flew to Afghanistan.
With billions in Militech armament aid.
Right now, Vela was probably demonstrating Militech's weapons.
On another screen, delayed video footage: a distant, blurry shot of cluster missiles splitting mid-air like a rain of meteors, warheads breaking apart—then in an instant: fire, smoke, earth-shaking explosions, a trembling camera, and the increasingly panicked shouts of the cameraman.
"..."
Stifling silence.
Rationally, Wesker knew that showing himself now was a death wish.
Lay low…
"Retreat…"
Again—retreat!
After a long silence, Wesker let out a quiet sigh. "Power. I need more power. The T-Virus, the Progenitor Virus—they're not enough…"
His hoarse voice echoed faintly.
Looking down, a phone had appeared in his hand without him realizing it.
—Excella Gionne—
A name displayed on the screen.
Just as Wesker was about to dial—beep beep.
"What is it?"
Wesker paused and picked up the headset from the console.
"Sir… emergency! In Charikar—just 11 km from Bagram—a team has gone missing. Possibly defected. According to… according to a peer of the squad leader, he held a grudge against Militech and Vela Adelheid. His family's business went bankrupt due to Militech's forced market entry…"
"So what?!"
Realization dawned on Wesker. His breathing grew heavier.
"...He… he has frequently expressed a desire for revenge. He might suffer from PTSD. We found extreme language and curse-filled graffiti in his personal notes… He… he might be trying to assassinate Vela Adelheid…"
"Damn it! You're just realizing this now? You idiot! How long ago did he leave? Bring him back!"
Even after giving the order, Wesker remained deeply unsettled.
And just as he expected, a few minutes later, the news screen quietly switched.
"This is CNN breaking news. Just moments ago, Militech's Chairwoman and CEO, renowned American scientist and entrepreneur, Vela Adelheid Russell, was attacked in Afghanistan…"