My father’s heavy executive desk was still in the center of the room, too heavy for the movers to bother with.

I walked over to the desk and ran my fingers over the dusty wood.

I remembered him sitting here, writing in his leather-bound journals.

I used to think he was writing letters to the president.

Maybe he was.

I knelt down beneath the desk, my knees pressing into the hardwood floor.

The mechanism for the bunker was hidden beneath the floorboards, but it required a trigger.

I remembered the sequence.

There was a brass electrical outlet on the baseboard behind the desk.

I reached behind the mahogany paneling and found the outlet.

I pressed the third screw from the left.

A faint click echoed in the quiet room.

Then, a low rumble started beneath my feet.

A section of the hardwood floor near the bookshelf wall slid back, revealing a dark opening.

A blast of cold, dry air hit my face.

It didn’t smell like mold or rot.

It smelled like ozone, metal, and old grease.

I stood up and shone my flashlight down the opening.