He twisted, shotgun in line with his eyes, shouldered, to where Bobby said to swivel and he cut loose with the shotgun; basso boom, hard recoil, and a fast rack, but he kept it smooth. The man in black pajamas crumpled with a cry, though it wasn't as if the buck went right through the man he could see the flesh and blood from the messy wound the shotgun blast created. Army-issue #4 put a lot of pellets out, but it didn't have much penetrating power, which was sometimes frustrating. Some of the country boys could probably get more powerful ammo shipped out, like double ought buck, but what the fuck did his family, back in the Bronx, know about buckshot? Hell, he didn't know anything about shotguns until he got into this bitch. 

"Black power!" It just sounded right, and it let Bobby know the threat was off his ass.

But he'd learned. By God, he'd fuckin' learned. Just like he learned to pop one more shell into the magazine while he had a moment to do that, even as he resumed his watch over the field so he could call the targets to Bobby.