The First Three Chapters of a Novel The Beaufort Scale

Abstract

Sergeant Oliver Thrush cursed the butterflies in his belly and ordered himself to shape up. Anyone, he reasoned, could get a case of new job jitters. If he postponed the trips to the Kiku Bar for a while and cut down on beer until the weekend, he'd be squared away in no time. "No sweat," he muttered as he shoved open the Processing Shed door and stepped into the broiling sun. Heat waves lurched up like guys spoiling for a fight. He tried to brush away the pain that bit savagely inside his head and caused the peculiar appearance of leaping sparks before his eyes. Despite his effort, the pounding didn't let up. He swore under his breath.