The Narrows, Kobe Federated Commonwealth/Free Rasalhague Republic Border Federated Commonwealth 11 October, 3048 1425 hours How much could one person hate their job? Recon 1198 was finding out on a particularly cold day on the frozen hell that was known as Kobe to the civilized world. The scout deemed the mission to be a complete bullshit and had not failed to let his commander know his feelings. What could they do? Send him on a forty clicks out into the wastes and tell him to look for something that could not be there? Again the scout looked to the sky and yelled curses at the few clouds. It had been fifteen hours since the mercenaries camped near his outpost had asked for a scouting mission into The Narrows. As the only native to the world at the outpost he had drawn the duty. Never mind the fact that the scout had grown up on the other side of the miserable rock. Never mind the fact that the last four patrols into the rat's nest of canyons had all come back to report nothing but men lost to the cold. Again the scouts voice was raised to the sky, only to be lost in the howl of wind. The Narrows had formed during the last two hundred years and were still in a state of constant flux. Formed in the valley between two massive shield volcanoes the canyons and valleys formed a maze of shifting rock that could trap and kill anyone foolish enough to cross into them. The only way to cross the area was to ride the lips of the canyons and hope you could get across fast. Passage though the canyons themselves had led more then a few explorers and patrols chasing their own tale or simply killing them in a rock slide. The last known attempt to cross the valley had been over twenty years before as a full company of troops marched though the valley in search of a downed dropship. When the seven survivors emerged on the far side they had been marching for over three months. The scout stopped along the lip of one of the wider canyons and paused to take in the surroundings. Cold and bleak was as apt for this side of the planet as the one he came from he thought. Below him the canyon knifed though the landscape ending in a path maybe 200 meters wide that forked into four branches leading into the distance. The scout looked to the north and saw the canyon went on for at least 10 kilometers unbroken or blocked. Reaching into his pack the scout jammed a small beacon into the ice to mark the canyon for aerial over flight. The aerofighters would have little problem surveying this canyon, that would make the brass happy for a change. Walking back down the ridge the scout mounted his snowmobile and began moving north following the lip of the canyon, listening to the wind whip past. Snow and ice pelted the scout as he parked again several minutes later, the blizzard having closed in within a few minutes. Walking up the ridge the scout again had a decent view of the canyon, however things were much different. Below running along the center of the canyon was a bubbling pool of molten rock. Steam billowed though the air as the scout pulled out his binoculars and focused on the closest end of the lava lake. Below him, parked in a neat line, was a pair of battlemechs parked next to several tanks and tents. It made for a cozy home the scout judged, the lava probably kept the temperature more pleasant then here at the top of the canyon. From here he could see most of the small camp, it had maybe twenty people if you included the crews for the tanks. He had seen enough, someone needed to know. The scout raced back down the hill and raced to the south.
