Toledo slid on, steaming down the North Channel between Strathclyde, Scotland, and Northern Ireland, then turning east to enter the Firth of Clyde as they passed the lonely, barren rock of Ailsa Craig. Then they turned northeast to run between the Ayrshire coast and the Isle of Arran. The channel here was wide and deep with plenty of room for the ships traveling to and from the busy port of Glasgow at the head of the firth.

The firth narrowed to a couple of miles across as they passed between Garroch Head on the Isle of Butte to port and the Cumbrae Islands to starboard. Mercifully, the mountainous terrain shielded them from the cold wind blowing in off the North Atlantic. O’Malley and Glass were busy keeping track of all the shipping in these confined waters, making sure none of them got too close to Toledo. Boats of all types scurried about the busy waterway. Huge freighters, small coasters, and fishermen all steamed up and down the firth. Ferries made their scheduled runs back and forth across the stretch of water as well.

“Watch for those guys,” Glass warned O’Malley as a large ferry weighted with cars and trucks and a railing lined with waving passengers steamed across Toledo’s bow. “They don’t give way for anybody.”

“So I see!”

As they made the long sweeping turn around Gourock, Glass pointed over to the opening of a loch on the port side.

“That’s Holy Loch over there. Our FBM subs used to patrol out of there before the Tridents hit the water. I was there once as an ensign. The winds coming down the loch can hit a hundred knots. Real nasty.” He chuckled as he reminisced. “So bad sometimes that the liberty boats couldn’t make it out to the tender. There’s a bar on Hunter’s Quay that serves a selection of Scotch whiskeys you wouldn’t believe.”

O’Malley shivered from the cold. “I got to admit that sounds real good to me right about now.”

“See that red flashing light up ahead, off the port bow? That should be Roseneath Point Light.” Glass pointed at a pinprick of light three miles ahead, barely visible against the brighter illumination of the towns that stretched on beyond the point. “The tugs should be waiting just around the turn.”

They steamed past Strone Point and the broad entrance to Loch Long and started the long, hard turn to the northwest, skirting Roseneath Point to enter Gare Loch. Two Royal Navy tugs joined them there in Roseneath Bay with a friendly greeting. The little fleet steamed in formation as they squeezed through the Roseneath Narrows and transited the length of Gare Loch.

The bright lights of the Royal Navy Submarine Base at Faslane came into view.