Rossmiller stares at the computer screen. She reads everything about the Mideast, and she knows from old news reports that the United States sent Stingers to Pakistan in 1987.

"You are an infidel undercover," Rossmiller berates the man, hurling one of the worst insults in radical Islam. "You have no missiles."

The man bites: "I do, I do" - then types the serial numbers.

Rossmiller can't believe it. Excited, she goes on an FBI tip site and writes what just transpired.

Soon, an FBI agent for the Joint Terrorism Task Force in New Jersey calls, demanding to know how Rossmiller got such information. He keeps her on the phone, grilling her, she thinks, as if she's a terrorist.

Hello, it's me

It's 4:30 a.m., and she's awake. She pops open a Diet Coke.

Wearing pink sweats, a sweat shirt and socks, Rossmiller clicks on Todd Rundgren on the computer. Hello, it's me . . .

"You," Rossmiller's best friend, Chris, always tells her, "are the weirdest person I know."

Oh, Rossmiller thinks now, you don't even know.

On top of the computer monitor is a leprechaun that announces Rossmiller's Irish heritage and, she likes to think, her stubborn spirit.

Around the desk are the bric-a-brac of a patriot: World War I and II posters. A Betsy Ross collectible plate. Inspirational quotes. And toilet paper with Osama bin Laden's face on it.

"Wipe here," it says.

Rossmiller takes a run through the Osama bin Laden Crew chat room to see what the jihadists are up to. A posting jumps out at her like a mountain lion. Every e-mail here is in Arabic. This one's in English.

Apparently some Pennsylvanian is sitting in Thailand, of all places, chatting about a "real opportunity falling from the sky."

"If any real member of the OBL crew is reading these," Michael Curtis Reynolds writes, "do something besides ignoring them. E-mail me."

Tomorrow