Iron Eagle: The New American Reich

Underground Beginnings

Hamilton's breath came out in uneven gasps as he leaned against the cold brick wall, eyes darting down the dark alley. The distant sound of regime boots thudding against pavement faded, but his pulse still hammered in his ears. A narrow escape—too narrow. He wiped sweat from his brow, his mind racing as the events of the past months played on loop. Less than a year since the regime seized full control, and already the country was unrecognizable—a shell of the freedom he once swore to defend.

"This isn't what we fought for," he muttered under his breath. His voice cracked with frustration, each word dripping with a bitterness that matched the foul taste in his mouth. For years, he'd believed in a system built on justice, but that system had crumbled into something twisted—something unrecognizable. The very institutions he once trusted had been perverted into tools of oppression.

Hamilton clenched his fists, wrestling with the conflicting emotions tearing at him. The streets were dead quiet, but his thoughts were anything but. The country needed leaders—people willing to fight from the shadows because the light was too dangerous now. He had to move underground, there was no other choice. As much as it disgusted him, this was the new battlefield. And for this war, he needed people he could trust—people who knew how to fight in the shadows.

He pulled a worn scrap of paper from his pocket, his eyes lingering on the single name written there: Ward. If anyone could help him start this resistance, it was Captain Jim Ward—a man who had always operated in the gray zones, even before the world went black.

Hamilton's boots echoed against the cracked pavement as he made his way through the deserted backstreets, his mind racing through the implications of his decision. Every corner he turned, every shadow he passed felt like it hid eyes watching, waiting for a slip. Surveillance was everywhere now; the regime's patrols were relentless. But he was a ghost, slipping through the cracks like smoke.

The safehouse was hidden behind layers of decoy entrances—a network of alleys, false doors, and dead ends meant to throw off anyone who wasn't invited. Hamilton finally reached the door he needed and gave a coded knock. A pause, then a faint shuffling inside.

The door creaked open a sliver, and a pair of familiar eyes peered out. "Hamilton?" a voice asked, rough and low. "You made it."

Hamilton pushed inside quickly, the door shutting behind him. "Barely," he said. "They came for me last night. I was lucky to get out."

Ward stepped forward into the dim light. The man was older now, his face weathered by too many years of watching a country fall apart. "They're tightening the net, hunting down anyone who's not playing along," Ward said with a grim nod. "I've been doing what I can—sabotage, hitting their supply lines—but it's not enough. We need more. We need leadership."

"That's why I'm here," Hamilton said, meeting his old comrade's eyes. "We need to organize, hit them where it hurts, and we need people who know how to do it."

Ward let out a sharp laugh, though there was no humor in it. "I've got people. But they're a mess—different backgrounds, different ideas of how to fight back. You think you can get them to work together?"

Hamilton smirked. "I've done it before. Let's get to work."

The safehouse's interior was cramped, a chaotic mix of old maps, cracked radios, and scattered documents. Ward led Hamilton to a back room where a few other figures waited, each one eyeing him with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

"This is Professor Michael Levine," Ward introduced, gesturing toward a wiry man hunched over a table covered in notes. "Used to be a respected academic before the regime turned education into indoctrination. Now he's our brains—knows how to twist information, run counter-propaganda."