Capitol Hill, the core of power in Washington, D.C.
Under the leaden sky, soldiers, politicians, and lobbyists moved like a tide between the massive columns, anxiety and ambition etched on every face.
Several black carriages stopped before the steps of the Department of the Army. Felix and Catherine alighted, accompanied by Dr. Thorne, who had been "liberated" from the laboratory.
This time, they were partners, the States's most important military logistics suppliers, here to report on their work.
In Secretary Stanton's office, the atmosphere was serious and efficient. Besides Stanton himself, General Hammond, the Surgeon General, and Chairman Clark and Senator Hans, representing Congress to oversee the matter, were also present.
"Mr. Argyle, Miss O'Brien, Doctor," Secretary Stanton began without preamble, his time measured in minutes. "Chairman Clark has conveyed your determination to me. The Treasury Department has already disbursed the full $300,000 advance. Now, the President and the Department of the Army need to know how our money will be transformed into medicine that can save soldiers' lives."
This was Catherine's first official appearance as Umbrella's President. She stood up, while Felix, like a supporter, sat quietly beside her.
"Mr. Secretary, General, Mr. Chairman, and Senator," Catherine's voice was clear and steady. She opened the folder in front of her and distributed a detailed plan to everyone present.
"This is Umbrella Corporation' production expansion and production plan for the next three months. All plans will revolve around the $300,000 advance provided by the military."
"First, hardware," she said. "We have fully acquired a chemical plant in Brooklyn and are using this fund to comprehensively modernize it. Engineer Smith's team is installing twenty new large distillation kettles and mixers. We expect Umbrella's daily output to reach 5,000 bottles within one month. Within three months, it can reach 20,000 bottles, fully capable of meeting the needs of the entire East Coast theater."
Secretary Stanton nodded, very satisfied with this efficiency.
"Second, process and quality control," Catherine turned to Dr. Thorne.
Dr. Thorne cleared his throat and added with the rigorous tone of a scholar, "Mr. Secretary, every bottle of Iodoglycerol leaving the factory will undergo three independent purity tests. We will establish a standard at the factory, a quality control laboratory more stringent than any pharmaceutical factory in Europe. I personally guarantee that every drop of disinfectant sent to the front lines will be absolutely safe and effective."
"Very good," General Hammond spoke, raising a more practical question. "Miss O'Brien, producing medicine requires a large amount of chemical raw materials, such as iodides and high-purity alcohol. During wartime, the transportation of these materials is a big problem. How do you ensure the stability of the supply chain?"
"A very critical question, General," Catherine responded frankly. "This is also the core reason why I am here today, on behalf of Mr. Argyle, to request your assistance."
"We don't need more money," she looked at Secretary Stanton. "What we need is power."
"We need the Department of the Army to issue a top-priority 'Strategic Material Pass.' This would authorize Umbrella Corporation to prioritize the use of railway and inland waterway systems to transport our raw materials during the war. We need to ensure that factories producing alcohol and chemicals will prioritize supplying their goods to us."
"We don't want to see Umbrella Corporation' factory shut down due to lack of a barrel of alcohol, while a soldier in a frontline hospital dies due to lack of a bottle of disinfectant."
At this point, a discordant voice arose.
It was Senator Hans from Pennsylvania, a member of the oversight committee, who spoke with a frown.
"Secretary Stanton, this is not in accordance with the rules. Granting such great privileges to a private company is unprecedented.
This will disrupt our normal material allocation order, and as far as I know, Argyle & Co. Foods previously issued a certificate for the tinplate issue, and now doing this again, what will the citizens think of us?"
"Senator Hans, the previous tinplate matter has already passed," Chairman Clark's voice rang out. "What we are discussing now is not an ordinary barrel of alcohol, but the lives of tens of thousands of soldiers. Order serves victory. If the old order is causing us to lose the war, then a new order must be established."
Secretary Stanton made the final ruling.
"I agree with Miss O'Brien's request," he looked at Hans. "I will personally sign this pass. From today on, Umbrella Corporation's supply chain is the lifeline of the Federal Army. Any attempt to obstruct it will be considered treason."
Senator Hans's face turned crimson, but he had nothing to say.
After the meeting, Senator Clark kept Felix and Catherine behind.
"Felix, Catherine," his address was very familiar. "Your performance today was excellent. You proved to them that you are not just businessmen, but patriotic entrepreneurs who can solve problems."
He looked at Felix, changing the subject. "However, I hear you've been making new moves in Connecticut recently?"
"Just some small investments, to keep capital active," Felix replied.
"Very good," Clark nodded. "Investing in military industry is indeed good, but you must remember, Felix. You now hold not only money but also the trust of this country. Don't let those dirty speculative games tarnish your reputation."
This was a kind reminder, and also a political warning.
"I understand, Mr. Chairman," Felix responded.
When they walked out of the Department of the Army, the Washington sun was bright.
"We succeeded," Catherine let out a long sigh of relief, her face beaming with the joy of victory.
"Yes, we succeeded," Felix opened the car door for her. "Now that we have endorsement from the highest level of authority, the Umbrella machine can officially start."
He looked at Catherine with pride in his eyes.
"Well done, Miss President."
----
The train heading north from New York rumbled rhythmically on the tracks, leaving the hustle and bustle of the metropolis far behind.
Mr. Miller sat alone, quietly watching the Connecticut countryside flash by outside the window.
The other members of the Action Department were seated elsewhere.
His identity had changed.
Previously, he was merely the operations commander Felix Argyle had sent here to complete the acquisition task.
But after attending the first meeting of the Argyle Executive Committee, he was officially appointed as the President of Militech. This title brought not only power but also heavy responsibility.
He recalled what his Boss had said at the meeting: "The first task is to make the chimneys of Whitneyville smoke black again within three months."
He placed his hand on the leather briefcase beside him, which contained not only the official authorization documents and the first batch of operating funds drafted by the Argyle Bank lawyers, but also a thick kraft paper tube sealed with wax by Catherine herself.
Inside it was the soul his Boss had prepared for this factory—a few mysterious design sketches.
When Miller arrived in Whitneyville, Frank Cole was already waiting at the station. The Head of Manufacturing had already completed the initial reorganization of the factory during the week Miller was away.
"Mr. Miller," Frank stepped forward to take his luggage, "Welcome back."
Miller nodded, "How is the factory doing?"
"Better than expected," Frank reported, "I gathered all the workers as you instructed and explained the situation. Most of the craftsmen chose to stay. The factory equipment has also been inspected; although old, it is still usable. It's just…"
"Just what?"
"They lack a goal, Mr. Miller," Frank said, "They don't know what the future of this factory is, and morale is a bit low."
"I've returned this time precisely to give them a goal," Miller said.
That afternoon, in the vast central workshop of the arsenal, all seventy-plus remaining craftsmen were gathered. They looked at Miller, who stood on a raised platform, their eyes filled with unease and speculation.
Miller wasted no words; his booming voice echoed through the workshop.
"Gentlemen! I am Miller, the President of Militech. This is Mr. Frank Cole, your new supervisor, responsible for all production and technology."
"I know many of you have worked here your entire lives. You've experienced its glory and witnessed its decline. Now I tell you, the days of decline are over."
"The owner of Militech, Mr. Felix Argyle, has injected enough capital into this factory to bring it back to life. From today on, your salaries will be higher than any other factory in Connecticut. You will have the best tools and the most abundant raw materials."
"But in return," Miller's gaze sharpened, "I need you to demonstrate your best craftsmanship and absolute discipline. I need you to transform this place from a factory producing old-fashioned rifles into an arsenal capable of forging the most lethal weapons for the Federal Army!"
He looked at the craftsmen below, whose hopes had been ignited by his words.
"Now, Supervisor Cole will announce your new positions and responsibilities. Tomorrow morning at six, I hope to hear this factory roar its loudest in twenty years!"
After the workers were led away by Frank to be reassigned tasks, Miller handed the mysterious kraft paper tube to Frank.
"This is a 'gift' that Boss prepared for you."
In the long-sealed design room of the factory, Frank, with a feeling close to pilgrimage, cut the wax seal and opened the paper tube. He had originally thought it would contain flawless engineering blueprints, ready to be taken directly to the workshop for production.
But when he spread the drawings inside onto the large wooden table, he froze.
These were not engineering blueprints at all.
These were several sketches drawn with charcoal pencils.
The lines on the drawings were unrestrained and full of imagination, depicting intricate mechanical structures he had never seen before, as precise as clockwork.
One sketch showed the core components of a repeating rifle that utilized the principle of leverage to achieve rapid ejection and loading.
Another, even bolder, depicted a terrifying metallic storm composed of six barrels, driven to rotate and fire by a hand crank.
"Oh my god…"
Frank looked at these sketches, his breathing quickened, and he gently traced the lines on the drawings with his hand, as if they were not charcoal marks but divine revelations.
"Mr. Miller, look at this… this feeding mechanism… and this locking device… if it can be realized, it could fire hundreds of rounds in a minute! This… this is a genius idea!"
"But…" his tone shifted, filled with the unique perplexity and challenge of an engineer, "These are just concepts. They are genius ideas, but not drawings that can be taken directly to the workshop. They lack the most crucial things—precise dimensions, material strength requirements, and the tolerances between each part."
"We need to transform it from the Boss's imagination into steel that can be held in hand," Frank looked at Miller, "This will require repeated calculations, tests, failures… This will take time and a lot of steel."
"Boss has given us three months and a budget of three hundred thousand dollars," Miller's reply was calm, "I don't care how many times you fail, Frank."
"Light the fires in the forging workshop for me, and turn all the old steel in the warehouse into your test subjects."
Miller walked over to him and placed his hand on that sketch.
"I want to hear this thing roar in three months."
Frank looked at Miller, then at the magical sketch. A burning fire ignited in his eyes; this was a happy challenge an mechanical engineer could encounter.
"No problem, Mr. President!"