The Shot Heard Round the World
- John Constance
- 3 hours ago
- 11 min read
They knew that golf would be the perfect hook.
If there was one thing that Donald Trump loved, almost as much as himself, it was golf. All the many hours that he should have spent behind the Resolute Desk attending to the needs of the American people he spent on the links or in costly motorcades going to or from one of his clubs.
His game had become an item of lore and a comic addition to the long list of dishonest eccentricities of his corrupt national life.
Sports Illustrated columnist Rick Reilly, who wrote the book, Commander in Cheat: How Golf Explains Trump, famously said, “Donald Trump is the worst cheat ever, and he doesn’t care who knows.”
As anyone who plays this ancient sport knows, this is a game of honor with rules that are both strict and self-refereed. If the rules are not followed, and if the player writes down fictitious numbers, he can claim club championships by the score. But of course, only if they are HIS clubs.
Scotland is the birthplace of golf and St. Andrews its ancestral home. The fact that Trump’s mother, Mary Anne MacLeod, was a Scot adds to Donald’s attachment to both the sport and Caledonia. He has developed courses in Ayrshire and Aberdeen leaving a trail of community rejection, lawsuits, and controversy in their wake.
In the first two years of Donald Trump’s second term as President, he did the impossible. He united Europe in a way unseen in modern history. The continent still had its challenges but agreed on one thing above all else. Donald Trump was a menace who had to be stopped.
Even the landslide 2026 election that had flipped both the US House and the Senate could not stop this authoritarian tyrant. There was still uncertainty as to the willingness of Trump to follow the law or his cabinet members to appear for hearings. And the conservative majority in the Supreme Court was there to stay. It would take a new President and some unforeseen departures to change the balance.
So, as the nations of Europe looked across the Atlantic, they could not count on the most self-correcting democracy in the history of the world to get this job done. They would have to do it themselves. But how?
Keir Starmer, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom took the initiative. In a late-night call in early April 2027 he outlined the plot to Emmanuel Macron and offered the resources and manpower to carry it out. They patched in Chancellor Merz of Germany, Mette Frederiksen of Denmark, and Pedro Sánchez of Spain. All agreed that the action could not be state sponsored. It must not be traceable to one of their nations. Starmer said that he had a back channel to the entity that would make the key invitation.
The Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews.
The 2027 Open Championship was to be played at St. Andrews, and the cabal of world leaders now had a plan. Why not invite the President of the United States to hit a ceremonial first drive to start the tournament.
It would be the kind of visibility on the world stage that Donald Trump could not resist. But the wider plot would only work if 10 Downing Street and the White House kept it a secret.
Picture this.
As the world watched on international television, the President’s helicopter, Marine One would make a surprise arrival from Edinburgh, sweep over the North Sea, bank over St. Andrews Bay, hover and touch down at Bruce Embankment, just to the right of the first tee of the Old Course. Trump would emerge from the iconic bird, already dressed in golf attire, with the red MAGA hat perched on his golden hair. He would be greeted by the CEO of the R&A and led to the teeing ground where his driver, glove, tee, and soon to be souvenir ProV1 golf ball would await.
This would be the kind of Hollywood moment that Trump lives for. That is why it was so perfect.
But unbeknownst to the White House, it would not be Donald Trump emerging from Marine One, but a body double. The President of the United States would be in the hands of a renegade band of former MI-5 operatives in Edinburgh. These British cowboys had pulled off some previous missions for Crown and Country and Starmer knew they were right for this job.
All the planning by the R&A and the White House had proceeded without a hitch. The President would be delighted to participate and would be glade to keep it from the national and world press. He attempted to keep everything else from them, so this was not a heavy lift.
In the meantime, Renegade Team Alpha and the Royal Scots Guards were preparing shadow plans and conducting trial runs between Edinburgh Airport and Edinburgh Castle. This mission, to be successful, needed to be a slight of hand and not a direct confrontation. The Scots would be no match for either the US Secret Service or the American military that would be surrounding the President. So, timing and deception would be key.
The best way to avoid a leak would be to have the President sleep on Airforce One and arrive in Scotland on the morning of the event. When the President departed from Joint Base Andrews at 7pm on the evening of July 13, 2027, the public was told that his destination was London for a meeting with the Prime Minister over the ongoing tariff negotiations. Once mid-ocean, the jamming devices were deployed so that even the most adept plane trackers couldn’t see that the actual destination was Edinburgh.
The winds were friendly and the flight took 6 hours and 57 minutes touching down just before 7am local time. Marine One was warming up on the tarmac as Air Force One came to a halt 50 yards away.
The Renegades had conveyed to the White House through 10 Downing Street that a small group of local dignitaries wanted to present a 24-carat gold driver to the President planeside. But to make the presentation weatherproof, they would have a popup tent on the tarmac for that purpose. The Secret Service advance team had inspected the tent and the driver and interviewed three gentlemen planning to make the presentation. What they hadn’t noticed was that William Scott, one of the three presenters was the same height, weight, and build of Donald Trump. Not almost, but exactly. He was wearing a large trench coat over his golf clothes that were identical to the outfit Trump had selected for his appearance at St. Andrews. He was one AI-fabricated rubber mask and a wig away from becoming Donald Trump.
His two partners, Samuel Chase and Ian Williams, were 25-year MI-5 operatives with a long resume of successful kidnap missions.
As the stairs were rolled to the side of Air Force One, the three Renegades emerged from the airport carrying the golden golf club in a custom leather case. They were accompanied by four Secret Service Agents from the President’s advance protection detail.
They arrived at the tent before the President and stepped inside to await the Commander in Chief.
While the detail focused on the entrance flap to the tent, William Scott took one step back and in a practiced motion pulled his mask, wig, and MAGA hat from his coat. When the flap opened and all eyes were trained on the President, Scott transformed himself into a stunning look alike.
Trump was the first to notice a mirror image of himself standing six feet away and with a “what the f...” froze in his tracks. Scott moved between his two partners and stuck his hand out as if to greet the President. When Trump instinctively shook his little hand, Scott shifted his weight toward the ground while Chase and Williams disarmed the Agents. Before the President knew it, he was on the canvas floor of the tent rolling around with William Scott. Scott managed to pull off the President’s hat and shove it in his coat pocket in the tussle. It was at that moment that Chase and Williams grabbed the President and shouted at him, “let’s get outta here Bill.”
A tan military van pulled up to the back of the tent and the renegades with the President in-tow stepped through a back flap, wrapped Trump in Scott's trench coat and shoved him into the side door of the vehicle. Thinking that they had the real President still in the tent, the agents gathered themselves and examined William Scott for injuries. Radios were blaring and the agents were informing the entire detail that the trip to St. Andrews was being aborted. Overhearing this, Scott yelled at the agents, “The hell it’s aborted! Take me to St. Andrews or you’re all fired!”
“But Mr. President, you were just attacked and we need to get you out of here.”
“Goddam it, some Antifa slime tried to stop me from my moment at St. Andrews and I’m not going to let them win. I don’t know how this leaked, but they are expecting me at the Old Course and I am going.”
Properly Trump-shamed, the Agents put out a description of the van to local authorities, MI-5, and their other advance Agents, as they led the impostor William Scott to Marine One. The pilot and an aid saluted Scott as he approached.
“St. Andrews, Jim, and we’re late,” Scott barked as he returned the salute and mounted the stairs.
Meanwhile, the tan van driven by accomplice David Brown had navigated Eastfield Road and was now speeding along the A8 in an easterly direction. The President had been sedated with a shot and was resting comfortably in the company of his babysitters. All had gone according to plan so far, but Chase and Williams knew not to celebrate just yet. The longer the Secret Service thought they had the real President on the way to St. Andrews, the longer they had to complete their plot. But nothing was certain.
Bill Scott had settled into Marine One and with the layout committed to memory and detailed intel on the President’s habits, he felt certain that he could pull this off. His most important ride would be the last one of the day. Timing would be tight. His arrival at the Old Course would closely coincide with the President’s at his destination.
Traffic inevitably slowed the progress of the tan van, but it finally made it to the Westport exit and slowly began to climb Castle Hill.
Edinburgh Castle is one of the oldest fortified places in Europe. With a long rich history as a royal residence, military garrison, prison, and fortress, it was already alive with many tales. But it was about to gain a new distinction; a new story that would bring a new legion of visitors for decades to come.
Word had been spread throughout the bakeries, cafes, pubs, and tea houses of the city that a very special guest would be at the Castle that very morning. The Renegades had recruited unwitting gossips to do their work. Always in full supply.
To the young, it was suggested that the Castle appearance would be by a movie star. To the middle aged, beloved footballers were mentioned. To the old, members of the Royal family were suggested as possible guests. Autographs, selfies, and souvenirs were cast on the water like bait for koi fish. By 7:30 a stream of curiosity seekers excitedly marched up Castle Hill.
As the tan van arrived at the Castle it was met by a small unit of the Royal Regiment of Scotland and the Royal Scot Dragoon Guards. The blindfolded prisoner was helped from the van and led through the Portcullis Gate to the Redcoat Café.
At the same time, Marine One had made its approach and landed at Bruce Embankment next to the first tee of the Old Course. When the rotors slowed and stopped, the Marine aide opened the door and lowered the steps. William Scott ducked his head as he emerged but paused on the top step to give a convincing Donald Trump wave and thumbs up. He was dressed in a white golf polo shirt, black slacks, and black and white saddle-style golf shoes. Of course, the red MAGA hat sat atop his wigged head.
At the bottom of the stairs, he was greeted by Mark Darbon, CEO of the R&A and Sean McDonough, current Club Captain. Neither had been read into the plot. They were convinced that it was Donald Trump's hand they were shaking.
As they walked past the Clubhouse to the sound of polite applause and a scattering of boos from the town folk on the edges of the crowd, Scott waved to the bank of cameras and still photographers.
Uncharacteristically, he did not make a statement as that was seen as too risky. Although he was adept at Trump shouts and short sentences, the Renegades feared detection in a longer address.
He turned, waived at the galleries and approached the teeing ground.
Meanwhile, at the Castle, Trump had his blindfold removed and stood face to face with The Most Reverend and Right Honourable Dame Sarah Mullally DBE, Archbishop of Canterbury, Primate of All England, and Metropolitan of the Anglican Communion.
“Mr. President, if it will make you feel more at peace, you can just call me Sally.”
To a bewildered Donald Trump, she glanced down at the Book of Common Prayer and began, “Depart, O Christian soul, out of this world...”
If he hadn’t realized it already, there wouldn’t be any candles or cake at this party. Even a fake Christian could surmise that this sounded a lot like the Last Rites.
When finished, the Archbishop stepped aside and the President was led back onto the Argyle Battery balcony.
Ships in the Firth of Forth once set their maritime clocks by the One O’Clock Gun. The firing of the gun dates to 1861, when businessman John Hewat brought the idea to Edinburgh from Paris. The gun is still fired every day at 1:00pm and often frightens tourists on Princes Street below.
Three things would be different today. The firing would be at 8:00am, the cannon would be the original British 64-pounder, and well...
The President shuffled to the ladder at the muzzle of the cannon but refused to climb the rungs until the Toucher came towards him with the fire stick. When he got to the top step, he almost made the last mistake of his life by climbing headfirst into the barrel.
The Cannoneer shouted, “Feet first you bloody fool! That at least will give you a slim chance of survival.”
The President complied and with a final whimper slowly lowered himself out of sight.
If was 7:59 am when Andrew Cotter stepped to the microphone at the Old Course and intoned in his unique style, “Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests, members of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews, welcome to the 155th Open Championship. It is my great pleasure and distinct honor to present to you our eight o'clock tee time, The President of the United States, Donald J. Trump. Mr. President, when you are ready.
William Scott stepped forward and addressed his ball.
The Toucher stepped to the breech of the cannon and hovered the fire stick over the touch hole. At the hand signal of the cannoneer, the stick was dropped, the charge was ignited and the 45th and 47th President of the United States was fired over the rooftops of Old Reekie toward the Firth of Forth. A cheer came up from the crowd.
Meanwhile at St. Andrews the first inkling that this might not be Donald Trump was the classic style of the swing, the sound of the club hitting the ball and the perfect fade coming to rest 295 yards from the tee. If Scott had been an actual competitor, he would have been left with an easy chip to the green.
After the ball stopped rolling, Scott started to walk down the fairway waiving to the now cheering crowd. This was not in the script, and the Secret Service detail started anxiously following him. Then suddenly a red BMW 1600 motorcycle shot from behind the stands on the right and swooped up Scott. He dropped his club and clung to the waist of the Renegade driver who was now laying down over the handlebars and swerving to avoid gunfire. But the gunfire never came. The Agents' only shots would have endangered the crowds lining the fairway. They held their fire and again began shouting into their radios.
The shocked crowd parted to avoid being hit and the motorcycle disappeared enroute to the beach. When last seen, Scott and his getaway driver were skimming over the waves of the North Sea in a high-speed Zodiac inflatable boat.
As for the President, no trace was ever found. Some say he survived the ride and is hiding in a cottage in Greenland. Others say that the Man in the Moon now has swollen ankles.
But no matter which is true, both in St. Andrews and Edinburgh that day, it was the simultaneous Shot Heard Round the World.
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