‘Let the search for Amelia continue.’

The sky was gray and damp, not at all what the 15 women assembled at Van Nuys Airport last week were counting on to carry on the search for Amelia Earhart.

“Three miles and 700 feet,” one of them said glumly, repeating what she heard on a walkie-talkie.

The low visibility meant that they might be grounded on the 50th anniversary of the day Earhart disappeared on a flight around the world.

The women belonged to the Valley chapter of the Ninety-Nines Inc., the international association of women pilots that takes its name from the 99 women, including Earhart, who chartered it in 1929.

To commemorate her last flight, members all over the United States planned to take off at 8 a.m. Wednesday, fly over large grids and broadcast the words, “Let the search for Amelia continue.”

But, as the women stood on the Tarmac behind the Airtel Plaza hotel--some in skirts, some in pants and one in a NASA-like jump suit--they were in a quandary.

They needed a ceiling of 1,000 feet for visual takeoff. Although a few were qualified for instruments, the Ninety-Nines’ national office, insistent on safety, had ordered cancellation in bad weather.

The women stalled, hoping the marine layer would burn away.

“There’s a hole,” one chirped, pointing at a spot of blue. “Somebody climb through that hole.”

The hole closed.

While others debated whether it would be proper to fly on instruments, Ninety-Nine Coralee Tucker took the initiative. She invited three others into her four-passenger Cessna and called the tower for clearance.

The rest of the Ninety-Nines cheered when the Cessna lifted off. Then they headed for their planes. I was paired off with Bev Mahoney, an executive secretary at Westlake Hospital and a well-tanned woman in her late 30s who wore a lavender cotton jump suit.

Mahoney prepared her tiny cockpit in a few quick, practiced motions. She consulted her flight book, dialed takeoff coordinates and communications frequencies into an LED display, nestled a petite headset over her hair and ran a stick of lavender lipstick across her lips.

She stowed the lipstick beside her seat.

“The reason I took up flying was that I wanted to be a stewardess and I was too short,” Mahoney said.

She said the plane belonged to a friend in Santa Monica and she had flown it to Van Nuys the night before.

“O-Niner Papa request clearance for IFR to VFR on top,” she said, giving her call letters and request in the crisp yet deliberate talk of the airwaves.

A man’s voice called out takeoff instructions, which Mahoney wrote down in a rapid scrawl. Then the voice from the tower added, “O-Niner Papa, it looks like your passenger has his coattails hanging out the door.”

Coat tails retrieved, O-Niner Papa sprinted down the runway then floated over roofs and swimming pools. In a few seconds, clouds cut off the view. Then blue sky and mountaintops appeared all around.

“O-Niner Papa, head right at 250,” the voice commanded.

“O-Niner Papa, right 250,” Mahoney confirmed.

Later the voice set us free. With the clouds breaking up below us, we crossed the large rectangular industries of Chatsworth and the ragged jetties of the Santa Susanas. Then the sky began to talk.

From Orange County: “Let the search for Amelia continue.”

From Newhall Pass: “Let the search for Amelia continue.”

In truth, the Valley Ninety-Nines accept what the facts suggest, that Amelia died in a crash and didn’t end up on a South Seas island or in a Japanese internment camp, as some believe.

But up there, with voices coming from everywhere, it was clear enough that something Amelia was searching for is still out there to be found. We were after it.

“This is San Fernando 99 Beverly Mahoney and L.A. Times reporter Doug Smith over Simi Valley,” Mahoney declared. “Let the search for Amelia continue.”

Having done her part, Mahoney recalibrated her instruments and brushed the lipstick across her lips again.

“I have to be ready because it will happen fast,” she said.

A woman’s voice directed her north. Then, over Magic Mountain, instructions came rapidly.

“O-Niner Papa, right 040. O-Niner Papa to 5,000. O-Niner Papa, turn left 10 degrees. O-Niner Papa, turn right 140.”

Mahoney turned her attention to two intersecting white needles whisking over a black dial. One needle represented her compass course, the other her angle of descent.

The trick was to steer so they intersected inside a small circle. She was supposed to look only at the needles, not out the window at the white haze into which we had descended.

A minute or two passed. We dropped under 3,000 feet.

“See it?” Mahoney asked.

I saw nothing ahead that looked like a runway. Houses appeared below us.

“See it?” she asked. “It should be right ahead.”

Only haze ahead. The rooftops were getting larger.

One needle strayed out of the circle. Mahoney steered back on target.

“I think I see it,” she said.

She was peeking. But she was right. A faint black swath appeared.

I got off at the Airtel. Mahoney flew back to Santa Monica to pick up her car. She had promised her boss to be at work by noon.